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

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An evil mind could not be swayed by pleas alone, and this the boy should have known. Although many of his lessons had revolved around what he could do to feed the desires of the men he’d lay with, he had been taught, too, of more common knowledge. Of how there existed within the world wicked souls, men and woman that were capable of committing such terrible crimes. He had been told to avoid them, yet there he was, laying before the most tainted of beings in existence. Never had anyone told him how to defend himself against them, how to appeal to what little light might still exist within their blackened hearts, and so he could do nothing. No longer was it the blood loss that kept him pinned there, but fear and uncertainty, both in himself and in his teachings. Would he be able to run? Possibly, but there was no way for him to foresee whether or not he’d make it before either being captured or falling down again. The gentle touch of the man had put him at ease, it’d made him consider the possibility of a heart beating within his chest, but his inner worries could not be eliminated. They urged him to run, to stay still, to beg, to shut up—such contradicting demands, he could answer to none of them.

The man pressed himself against the yearling’s neck, and his breath hitched in his throat. What he should expect, he couldn’t even begin to imagine. A part of him began preparing his mind for death, whilst another still wanted to do nothing more than wait and see. For the time being, it seemed as if the calmer half of his conscious had been in the right, for his mouth had been used to speak a name, rather than tear into Mazatl’s flesh—Athansius. Unlike anything he’d ever heard before, both from those residing within the brothel and those that had visited it, he’d started to wonder from what sort of land the beast had been birthed. Surely, somewhere out in the world, there existed far more wolves that were just like him, even if the Tētlauhtilli would rather there not be. This he had not shared aloud, nor anything else. Just as before, his tongue had kept still, forming not a single syllable. It was not his place to speak, it had never been. On rare occasions, back when it had been demanded of him, the boy had spoken, but as of late, he’d found no reason to do so. Should he so much as breathe in a way that resembled speaking, then surely someone would become upset with him, and the punishment for speaking out of turn was not something that he’d ever expose himself to again. The fact that he’d not been asked for his own name had, for that reason, calmed him, but only for a moment.

Blood was drawn once again, but it was not his. Athansius had bit into his own limb, drawing forth the crimson the flowed through his veins. After having received nips and kisses, he knew he should have expected something awful to follow, but hadn’t considered that the man might harm himself. With a whine, he’d relayed his concern, only to take it back the moment the limb was pressed against his mouth. At first, his muzzle had been turned upwards and away from the sticky liquid, but a memory had kept him from remaining that way forever. It’d happened so long ago, but he could recall having once seen a woman of the brothel covered in blood, though it’d not been her own. The man that had chosen her for the night had come from a far away land, and, with him, he'd brought his customs. Not a day had passed for weeks afterwards without him thinking about the sight, and now it seemed as if he would end up as that woman had—well, not exactly, but close enough. Hoping that, by doing so, their meeting would be drawn to a close, Mazatl lowered his muzzle towards the man’s limb and drew his tongue over the wound. Several times he’d done so, peeking up at the peculiar wolf all the while. And when more words were spoken, his mistake had been realized.

To belong to a man was something that he knew nothing about. Always had he served under the leadership of a female, the Cihuāpilli. Even after he’d left home, every single traveling companion that he’d taken to had been a female. It was unimaginable, allowing for himself to be controlled my another male outside of bed, and so he’d done something daring. It’d not been with a nod of acceptance that he’d responded to the claim placed over him, but a shake of his head. No more than a second later and he’d started to push himself off of the ground, legs wobbly still, but he hadn’t cared. Mazatl had not intended to flee—he knew he wouldn’t make it very far—but to make a point: a man could not be his master.

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