Golden Glade mourn the wicked

he names atoztli's leader. he names her circumstance. her exile.

atoztli's gaze flickers, passing over his svelte features touched by thinning coyote blood.

above the storm runs through the woodland; somewhere nearby, the groan of pinewood as it shrugs off its great burden of snow.

she breathes in the depth of scents; pine, dark earth, charged particles of a storm waiting to be unleashed.

come. she switches to the coarser tongue, ducking under one long arm of green needles towards their camp.