The blood of Cecohuatl runs thick.
What remains still stains the dark fur of his paws, mixing with the mud and filth that clings to his undercarriage in such a way that he cannot tell what is his and what is not. But it is fading, and Itzcoatl wishes to renew it.
A vixen's den nestled in the crook of an old oak. The snake crouches nearby, concealed, as ears swivel to catch the mewls of newborn kits. Their lives hang in the balance of Xochiquetzal and Mictlantecuhtli, reliant on the return of their mother - but suppose she does not come?
Itzcoatl had found what they could not; a body nearby, torn, broken from teeth and claws that are not his, and he knows with vile humour that the kits would not survive the night. Silently, he slithers into the fox's domain. This is his mercy, his design.
@Ātoztli!
What remains still stains the dark fur of his paws, mixing with the mud and filth that clings to his undercarriage in such a way that he cannot tell what is his and what is not. But it is fading, and Itzcoatl wishes to renew it.
A vixen's den nestled in the crook of an old oak. The snake crouches nearby, concealed, as ears swivel to catch the mewls of newborn kits. Their lives hang in the balance of Xochiquetzal and Mictlantecuhtli, reliant on the return of their mother - but suppose she does not come?
Itzcoatl had found what they could not; a body nearby, torn, broken from teeth and claws that are not his, and he knows with vile humour that the kits would not survive the night. Silently, he slithers into the fox's domain. This is his mercy, his design.
@Ātoztli!
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