Golden Glade rocky training montage

a rustling. a snap. the quivering end-of-life sound of a soul subdued.

then nothing but the sweeping sound of cold.

atoztli unbound herself, listening as the rush of routine evening sounds filled the silence.

another scent wafted close, familiar as a knife's edge against the press of her veins.

you, she hissed into the gloom, teeth bared into the gloaming. under her breath she lodged a protective spell, invoking the aegis of the very heron-spirit that had been her namesake.