Mictlan is dry dust against his bare feet, the soft hush of sand and the muffled crack of old bones. He is hollow, scraped raw by the cold wind. He feels like a corpse himself.
But this is his lot, and so he opens himself up to it. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the nonsmell of the place; for an instant, he feels as though his skin has sloughed off like a moth’s cocoon. There is no joy here, no satisfaction in a job well done. There is only a deep and final peace for kings and slaves alike.
Acatl walks through ashes and the broken remnants of obsidian knives, wades through rivers of blood and pus, to fall on bruised knees before his lord’s throne.
Obsidian & Blood, Acatl
Mictlan is dry dust against his bare feet, the soft hush of sand and the muffled crack of old bones. He is hollow, scraped raw by the cold wind. He feels like a corpse himself.
But this is his lot, and so he opens himself up to it. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the nonsmell of the place; for an instant, he feels as though his skin has sloughed off like a moth’s cocoon. There is no joy here, no satisfaction in a job well done. There is only a deep and final peace for kings and slaves alike.
Acatl walks through ashes and the broken remnants of obsidian knives, wades through rivers of blood and pus, to fall on bruised knees before his lord’s throne.