Iktome Plains And when the crimson moon comes up, he drinks the blood of slaves

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Hot breath fanned out over his inner thigh, testing the boy, it seemed. He held fast, however, keeping himself just as calm as the Cihuāpilli had taught him to. To fall over the edge and lose himself now would be similar to committing a crime, at least whence he’d come. Thoughts of what would happen to him if he slipped up kept him from doing anything reckless, too—until he’d felt teeth pierce his flesh. At that point, a sharp yelp had managed to slip passed his lips and the silence was broken as panic started to set in. There had been but one rule that was always obeyed back home, which was that none of the workers were to be harmed. Those that had been lured in by their services could use them in any way that they desired, just as long as each one was returned without so much as a scratch. The men that had broken the rule had been punished most severely, some having even lost their lives when the damage done had been severe enough. Never before had he been attacked, so to feel teeth tearing through his flesh was both new and frightening for the yearling. He was alone, though, and thus had no means of protecting himself. Those that enforced the law were not there to watch over and save him—he was alone.

Mazatl whimpered and whined, his heart having started beating so quickly again that it brought him pain. Twisting his head around, he sought to witness the stranger, to plead with him. Yet, a feeling of impatience struck him, encouraging the Tētlauhtilli to try and move away from the beast. He was a tool to be used, a body to be laid upon and prodded. He was not, however, a chew toy meant to be torn to pieces. Out of all of the lessons that he’d been forced to endure as he'd grown, that one had always stood out to him.

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