Golden Glade first dawn

@Aitana @Qvasir @Ātoztli

The world was still cloaked in twilight as Mictec stirred in the quiet embrace of her den. Her obsidian coat shimmered faintly in the soft glow of the moon’s waning light, and her marigold eyes blinked open, piercing the dimness. Her muscles ached from the ordeal of the Moonlit Trial, a rite of passage that bound every young wolf to the traditions of her ancestors.  

Mictec had entered the trial as a lost soul, one burden with the trauma caused by others who shared her blood. She emerged now as something different, someone who now carried the burden with a head held high.

The cool scent of the earth surrounded her, mingling with all the others scents that still clung from the Trial. But off in one corner was the faintest scent, one she vowed to bring back, and small collection of marigold seeds. Come spring, she decided, she would plant the seeds.

Mictec’s ears twitched at the memory of her abuela's whispered words: La prueba no es para poner a prueba tu fuerza, Mictec, sino para despertar tu espíritu. Solo bajo la luz de la luna un lobo puede descubrir lo que lleva dentro.

The young wolf stretched, her claws raking the earth, and stepped hesitantly toward the den’s mouth. The forest beyond was bathed in silver, shadows pooling between the bare trees, making the fresh powder of snow seem to glow. Soon, dawn would arise.

As she emerged, the forest seemed to greet her. The rustle of the wind was like a whispered welcome, and the soft calls of nocturnal creatures spoke of life unseen but always present. Mictec paused to drink in the air. It smelled of damp soil, distant water, and something else—something unfamiliar, like the edge of a storm.  

The Moonlit Trial demanded more than survival; it required discovery. So she took her first step into the glade, marigold eyes glinting with a mixture of apprehension and determination.

twilight stretches its luxuriantly dark touch through the glade, resting content between the eaves of black boughs and cold winter air.

around them life abounds. atoztli senses what moves mictec, and it moves her too.

a commandment, writ in the soft thrum of the earth. the hidden sigh of the trees.

she follows, steps light as mictec leads her deep within the glade.

sorry on the wait!

Qvasir emerged from the shadows like a wraith, his massive frame moving with the fluidity of a seasoned warrior, each step deliberate and soundless upon the snow-dusted earth. The silvered moonlight caught the sharp angles of his features, his jaded eyes cold and steady as they settled on Mictec.

He did not speak immediately, offering a shallow bow instead, the gesture steeped in reverence. The scent of the trial still clung to her, a sharp contrast to the clean bite of the winter air. He observed her closely, noting the way she carried herself now—changed, tempered by the fire of her ordeal.

Mictec, his voice was low, even, carrying the weight of approval without flourish. He inclined his head slightly toward the marigold seeds she carried. A faint exhale escaped him, a whisper of relief or perhaps pride.

Without another word, Qvasir fell into step behind her, his presence a silent promise of protection and support, an unspoken acknowledgment of her transformation. The stoic guardian did not need to say more—his actions were testament enough.

Mictec felt Qvasir’s presence before she saw him, the air thickening with a weight that had come to not just offer her peace but a sense of place. As his form emerged into the moonlight, she met his cold, steady gaze without flinching, her marigold eyes burning like embers in the frost. How she must have looked to him now compared to their first meeting and how much she could see her own change reflected in his eyes. She couldn't help the soft smile that rested on her lips.

Mictec then caught Atozli scent, one that still carried soft remnants of a land from a time long ago. Their own conflict had come to settle as she now saw the other's potential to revive traditions both previous packs had carried.

So with each step she took, Mictec was able to gaze upon their growing claim, dens to combat the winter chill and a small but steady supply of game to endure until the coming spring. 

Her steps guided her to the knarled exposed roots where the obsidian stone of her abuela rested. It was there that Mictec then placed her new stone, a peculiar mixture of bands of golden to reddish-brown hues, arranged in a wavy pattern that resembled flowing sunlight or molten gold contrasted by darker streaks of brown and black.

two becomes three and the procession moves under the spare moonlight, their shadows dancing among the rows of thin trees.

they come to a rustic shrine. atoztli senses a powerful peace here and it comes from the obsidian stone nestled like a black heart among the bones of the shrine. as mictec extracts a second stone, atoztli watches with a divine invocation pressing through her teeth.

this stone gleamed like a jaguar's proud eye. molten bands of fire moved within its dark surface, captivating the priestess' eye.

she produces her own small offering. a racoon's crooked left claw, its nails turned inward towards its palm. this totem of tezcatlipoca she leaves among the stone, her head bowing deep as she steps back.

He offered no greeting, only a slight dip of his head as acknowledgment before his attention returned to the shrine.

At the base of the obsidian stone and the newly placed golden-banded rock, Qvasir knelt, his movements deliberate. From the fur wrapped tightly against his side, he withdrew his offering: a small bundle of woven pine needles bound with sinew, within which nestled a polished fragment of bird's skull. The ivory was carved with meticulous care (as much as a wolf could do), its surface etched markings of teeth and a triangular pattern.

He placed it carefully among the other offerings, the scent of pine mingling faintly with the cool air as the totem settled. His cold gaze lingered on the shrine, his voice low and firm as he spoke, directed at no one yet meant for all.

A cycle unbroken, he murmured, the weight of his words hanging in the still air. The spirits will see this, and they will remember.

Mictec watched Atoztli's movements with quiet reverence, her marigold eyes fixed on the raccoon’s crooked claw now resting among the offerings. The shrine seemed to hum faintly, as though acknowledging the priestess’s devotion.

The shrine, with its obsidian core and golden-banded adornments, seemed to pulse faintly in the moonlight, absorbing the weight of Qvasir's offering and words alike.

She stepped forward, her movements careful, reverent, as though not to disturb the fragile balance of the moment. Her marigold eyes traced the etched markings on the bird’s skull, lingering on the intricate patterns and the distinct curl of claw. These offerings were unlike what tradition dictated but to Mictec, it did not matter. Though she had chosen to retake her trial, the others endured enough to not have to take it themselves, the scars they bore enough to prove their merit.

And so, she bowed her head briefly to the shrine before stepping back, her presence radiating a quiet strength, as though the shrine had reaffirmed her purpose.  

Quetzalcoatl, Feathered Serpent, bringer of wisdom,  guide our steps with clarity and grace.  

Huītzilōpōchtli, Sun and warrior, ignite our courage to face the battles ahead.  

Xōchiquetzal, goddess of beauty and renewal, bless us with compassion and the power to create.  

Tezcatlipoca, lord of shadows and truth,  reveal what lies hidden and strengthen our spirits.  

To you, we offer our hearts and walk this sacred path. May your blessings guide us always.

The etheral quality of her voice took her slightly aback, how it blended so much of what she rejected from la madre and respected from la abuela. The path forward never changed but how it was built was dictated by Mictec. So as she turned to address them, she now carried the hunger to conquer.

Each offering is a story, a thread in the web. Your threads are strong. It will not fray.

as she steps back the man comes forth; drawing from the folds of pelt a small thing atoztli could not see the true nature of until his form receded. 

the skull gleams in the half-light as if whetted by blood. 

her gaze travels to mictec, then back to the man in approval. 

the shrine now housed three great totems of purpose — each one a powerful signal of their own devotion.

her eyes close as mictec’s confident voice rises over them; to her own patron god she offers an additional prayer, remaining perfectly still even as mictec’s invocation concluded.

The moonlight glinted off the polished surface of the bird's skull as he placed it among the other sacred objects, the gesture fluid and reverent.

His head bowed slightly, acknowledging both the power of the shrine and the presence of the two women whose own contributions held equal weight. Mictec’s voice rang clear, weaving an invocation that resonated deeply within the sacred space. He listened in silence, his respect for her and the ceremony evident in the stillness of his form.

Qvasir stepped back, his sharp features unreadable yet calm, embodying steadfast devotion. This was a sacred moment, one that did not require words—only presence, humility, and unwavering faith.

Mictec's gaze turned skyward, the vast expanse of stars stretching endlessly above them. The gods see us now. They see our devotion and our strength. And we, in turn, see each other. Her eyes fell to the shrine once more, and she inclined her head slightly, her skeletal marking catching the moonlight in stark contrast. We leave these teotl in their care, but it is our actions that will speak loudest. Let us walk with purpose.

She stepped back, her marigold eyes blazing in the moonlight. This land will not yield to the few. We will seek others who share this fire, this devotion. Our gods demand not just survival, but legacy.

Her intent was clear, they needed more souls. And with that, she had yet to discuss her revelations with any of the others from her Trial. She could not hold the ranks of Huey Tlatoani and Cihuacoatl herself, the burden too vast which would cause her to burn out to quickly like a dying star. In another lifetime she avoided conversations of finding a mate like it was the plague that took her abuela. But in this lifetime, she saw how crucial it was to have another to carry the mantle.

A small seed of doubt clouded her eyes but her words remained firm. Our calpolli is firm. Go and find others to make it stronger.

fade with next response?

mictec’s voice runs like thunder over the bruised peaks of their homeland. atoztli’s gaze turns to the skies, a silent invocation to tezcatlipoca — her own patron. 

she detects no trace of the doubt in mictec’s expression, for her own face is  earnestly skyward. 

alongside the towering man, they make for a handsome trio; atoztli remains silent as the ritual finishes. 

they walk with purpose now, as mictec foretold. 

later, atoztli will return to the shrine with new offerings; each more costly than the next.