Golden Glade mourn the wicked

@Ātoztli he comes from the motherland :o

the glade was silent under a heavy blanket of snow, the bare trees stretching toward a gray sky. cozamalotl moved carefully, his paws crunching softly in the frost, his breath forming faint clouds in the frigid air. he had been walking for hours, the cold biting into his fur, but the stillness of winter soothed him in a way nothing else could.  

but here, away from the past, the world asked nothing of him. the snow covered all tracks, all boundaries, leaving only a quiet, endless expanse.

the wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of pine and the promise of another storm. cozamalotl glanced toward the horizon, where the first flakes began to fall again, soft and relentless. alone as he was, the solitude didn’t feel so heavy. but he heeded her call, following the route she had described to her claim. mictēcacihuātl was merciful in granting salvation so he would not waste such opportunity.

clouds brawl overhead, unleashing new snow on the world.

atoztli stays under the arm of a tall douglas fir, watching. she longs for the balmy days and busy nights of her homeland.

another silhouette cuts through the glade. atoztli's dark gaze tracks the figure until it comes close.

she shifts from under the aegis, bracing the winter storm to follow after him. just close enough so he might know of her presence, and yet, not so close as to invite physicality.

cozamalotl halted mid-step, his ears flicking back at the faint sound of snow crunching behind him. the wind howled, carrying the storm’s fury, but beneath it, he could sense… someone. not close enough to threaten, but near enough to stir unease.

he turned his head slightly, his amber eyes scanning the storm-swept glade. the falling snow obscured much, but there—a shadow moved, deliberate but careful, just beyond the treeline.

no tienes que esconderte, he called out, his voice low but steady, carried just enough to be heard over the storm. he didn’t move toward the figure, keeping his posture neutral, non-threatening.

the storm rolls in, shifting in opaque waves of white. atoztli comes just close enough to see coyote in this one; it’s in the sweep of his long ears, the slant of his narrow face. 

he lodges his voice against the storm. though his posture is neutral atoztli does not come closer; instead she passes her long gaze over him, holding back the bite of her tongue. 

does he think he is the reason she hides? she pins him with a thinly veiled sneer. por que estas aqui?

cozamalotl’s ears flicked back as her voice cut through the storm, sharp and pointed despite the howl of the wind. he turned his head toward her, his dark brown eyes steady, calm against the storm’s chaos. for a moment, he said nothing, his gaze tracing her form.

mictēcacihuātl. he replied simply, his tone soft but firm, the edges of his words carried gently on the wind.

he lowered his head slightly, a gesture of neither submission nor defiance, but one of quiet acknowledgment. his breath formed fleeting clouds in the frozen air as he held her gaze, unyielding but not challenging. vine buscándola a ella. es la única digna de seguir. los demás son unos tontos por haberla expulsado.

there was a brewing anger to his words, the unseen thunder that came before lightening, one that mirrored the machismo of the other males who would often look down upon him with disgust. this new world offered him what he could never have.

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.

cozamalotl’s dark brown eyes followed her movement, sharp but unreadable. he did not flinch under her scrutiny, nor did he avert his gaze as her words—raw and commanding—settled over him like the snow gathering on his fur. his features, carved with the quiet dignity of someone accustomed to bearing his own burdens, remained still.  

he shifted, the faintest tilt of his head acknowledging her, though his posture remained firmly his own. you lead, and i will follow - for now he said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the storm like a blade through mist. the words carried the weight of his pride, but also something unspoken, a quiet understanding that she had earned this moment of deference.  

cozamalotl moved toward her path, his movements deliberate, unhurried, as if the groaning of the forest and the tempest above could not touch him. as he ducked under the green needles after her, his presence was neither submissive nor threatening—just resolute, as unyielding as the winter itself.

for now? what did such an utterance mean?

as a creature of survival she is loathe to allow him full view of her back — one long ear turned to him at all times. 

silence settles around them as they move close to camp. atoztli is not so naive as to bring him to the hearth of their civilization. 

just outside of their boundaries her thin voice rises over the shuddering pines, calling for mictec to come collect her transient follower.

cozamalotl noted her caution, the way her ear remained trained on him, the subtle tension in her step. he did not fault her for it. trust was a luxury, and they were both creatures carved by its misfortune.  

the silence between them was thick, broken only by the storm's restless whisper through the pines. he did not ask where she led him, nor did he press for more than she was willing to give. he simply followed, his presence steady, his breath slow and measured against the winter air.  

then, her voice rose—thin, deliberate, calling for another. of course, she wouldn't grant him full passage. he was no fool to expect otherwise. his dark brown eyes flickered toward her, unreadable but firm.  

you don't trust me it was not a question. his tone was even, neither wounded nor surprised. 

he stopped just short of the unseen boundary, his posture composed, yet undeniably self-assured. his breath curled in the cold, but his voice remained warm, deep as the earth beneath the snow.  

but know she will not come.

apologies for the delay, life got in the way for a cool min!

was no wait!! i am slow myself <3

mictec does not come.

atoztli's ears pull back, irritated this man was right.

you don't trust me. her gaze draws plainly across his face, a knifelike flash of a smile illuminating hers. no.

what use was lying? he knows something she does not.

why is this?