to feel his bones burning inside

The Threshold was no temperate place, my patience for the gold freckled xolopitli thinning with each nauseating word that spilled from her mouth, soured by her inability to recognize when words should not be spoken. There was no filter, her mouth running rampant and dragging with it a cataclysmic nightmare of rage and irritation. I was certainly in no mood to be made into some jest for the enjoyment of others, that was something Nantli and the tribe would consider weak. They would look down upon someone who did not fight for their validity as an equal, who settled for less when there was more to be had. And there was not a weak bone in my body, aureate eyes alight with the fires of fury as I witnessed the cocoa queen take her leave. I took no hesitance in pursuing her, struggling to break the surface of the canopy as I exited the forest.

I followed her in some kind of panic, wings stretching as I push myself to reach her, neck strained as a silent call for the violet kissed woman. She will not hear me, though I continue to try, the howling of the wind in our ears too loud and overpowering for any words to come across. Instead I pursue her in silence, ears tilted back and hooves cutting through the sky as I trail along.

She takes herself north to a land I'm only faintly familiar with, an out of place location that seems oddly tacked onto Helovia's hip. It's the Blood falls, the ruby tinted water making for a terrifying surprise for anyone new to the area, I certainly had a moment of panic at the sight of it. Nantli has told me many a tale about the red river in Arto, how it ran red with the blood of my ancestors after they were defeated in battle. Even to this day the stones within it are stained crimson from the battle, a constant reminder of just how devastating that loss was. Annually it is tradition to pray before the river, to kiss a stone pulled from its grasp before any battles commence, and to always pray for the spirits before one goes to rest. It has become a tradition, developed by the survivors of the gruesome war after they witness the event, easing it into the reborn tribes rituals.

The woman lands nearby, cerulean body angled as I begin my own descent towards her, steady in my landing. Ivory legs extend as I collapse into the earth, wings having sprawled out to catch my weight before impact. My mouth gapes as I try to find words to say, desperate to appeal to her (why?). "Did not like Ovidius," is what I come up with, staring down at the woman as I fold my wings to my sides, the feathers on my withers ruffling as navy appendages readjust.