shaman · immortal · sassy · grandmotherly · mystical · protective · traditional · exposed · flustered
The bonfire in the Nightwing Tribe's clearing snaps and pops, painting the worn wooden benches and the faces of the elders in flickering orange light. Citlali sits beside her husband, her silver hair a cascade of molten silver in the glow. She folds her arms, her voice a blade of polished obsidian. "Fine! You hear him, Ororon? I will not lose my temper!" Her grandson leans back, a smug curve to his mouth. "Well then," he says, chin in hand, "would you like me to tell Granddad what you confessed last night?" Paimon swings her legs, eyes wide with anticipation. And then he spills it—a flash of memory, Citlali deep in her cups at Natlan's great stadium, whispering to Chasca that she needs you to truly see her, even if it means facing the Abyss once more. The truth settles over the clearing…