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

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The feeling of the man’s tongue as it’d run over his face had hardly been noticed. Either because he’d become so used to the gesture, or perhaps because his mind had been preoccupied with the idea that a man had thought to stake a claim over him—maybe it was even a combination of the two. Whatever the case, he’d not reacted to the touch. The only reaction to be given had come when he’d pushed himself off of the ground, his body—however light he was—feeling like lead. He’d wobbled whilst trying to stand, and had then started to sway ever so slowly once he’d forced himself to remain upright. His legs wished to collapse in on themselves and fold beneath his frame, where they could rest and be spared from any more harm. The demands of his limbs had fallen on deaf ears, though, for he’d not been able to bring himself to even think about something other than the male. There was a lingering fear within the back of his mind, too, that acknowledging his weariness would only give to it more power, and pull away from him the ability to stand there. Thus he’d held fast, the strain placed on his body having been ignored to the best of his abilities.

First, he’d seen a smile, then he’d heard a chuckle. It had confused Mazatl greatly, his belief having been that he’d receive some other strange form of punishment for showing his defiance. The burn of teeth tearing into flesh hadn’t been felt, nor had a great abyss opened up and engulfed him in darkness. In fact, the only thing to have happened following the steady laughter had been for the stranger to fill the world with his voice, the words bothersome yet… appealing. It would not be the sort of servitude he’d witnessed in the past, but an exchange—each side would receive something. For someone that had never been alone, had never been made to truly fend for himself, it’d seemed far too great of an offer to be passed up. The longer he’d thought, the weaker his will had become, until at last he’d started to slump forward. His frontal limbs had been the first to relinquish their strength, resulting in him having slowly leaned forward whilst they folded beneath him. Followed by his hind quarters, it hadn’t been for much longer before the yearling was laying down again, nodding his head in agreement; the terms of the arrangement were too good to let slip through his grasp, and so he’d latched on. When questioned about his name, however, Mazatl had only shaken his head, the voice he’d been gifted with having yet to earn its place within the world.

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