Plot Drop: The Sigil Dream

Last night, the residents of Ridge Harbor all dreamt the same thing.

It began in silence -- deep and black as a cave beneath the world. Then came the sound of footsteps crunching through frostbitten earth. The air grew heavy with cold. And there, at the edge of a dead forest, she stood.

The Cailleach.

Her veil blew in wind that did not move the trees. Her eyes, frosted and grey, looked through them. Around her, winter hung thick and breathless. Beneath her, the ground was stone.

And then — slowly — Spring began to rise. Not all at once. Just the press of something new beneath the frost: roots pushing upward, soft moss spreading, buds daring to unfurl. Life returned in trembling pulses. The earth remembered itself.

And at the center of it all: a sigil, carved where the Cailleach had stood. None of them could see it clearly, but they felt it. Knew it. Knew it mattered.

And then they woke.

They tried to recall it, but the image slipped like melting snow through their fingers. All that remained was one line, one curve, one mark — a single fragment seared into the backs of their eyes.

That morning, they did not speak. They simply…moved. As if pulled.

Every one of them found their way to the old church.

Someone — something — had already begun the work.

The first lines had been spread in blood upon the side of the church, dark red staining the chipping white paint.

Not a soul could remember carving it.

OOC Information: Each member will receive a private message containing one fragment of the sigil. What you do with it -- and whom you trust -- is up to you. Will your muse add to the mark within the church? Will they resist, certain this is merely a mass delusion? Paranoia? However, remember: only together can the full sigil be revealed.

The body, a young man, pale and cold, with a strange symbol, carved deep into his back - lay where it had been discovered: the central square, just steps away from the market. Blood had soaked into the cobblestones, leaving an almost ceremonial ring of crimson beneath him. No one recognized the symbol, not even the Twelve or anyone devout enough to follow The Veiled One’s teachings. It wasn’t the typical symbol that lay on the wrist of those who had passed their coming of age within the religion, it wasn't one anyone had seen.

The Twelve convened immediately, cloistered in the High Priestess’ house. For hours, the rest of the village waited, going about their daily life or murmuring amongst themselves. Some speculated that the murder was an outsider’s doing, while others whispered about punishment from The Veiled One, or worse, that the followers of the Veiled One were directly responsible.

By mid-morning, the Twelve emerged, their expressions grim. The High Priestess, whose eyes had taken on a glassy, distant sheen in recent weeks, stood at the forefront. “This is no random act,” she announced, her voice unsteady. “The Veiled One has spoken. We must respond.”