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He was quick to agree to her terms and it caused the Eternian to stare with wary fire eyes. Never before had someone been so eager for pain. What was it that went through the mind of the man-child? What was it that caused him to be so complacent? As he pointed to the place where the mark would be carved, she took a chance to study. This man was, for the most part, the same as the golden shaman creature who stood before him, hands soaked in blood. She was only inches taller, her body more feminine and therefore heavier, similar in age, yet Tlantli carried herself with the maturity of centuries — an old soul in the body of a child. He seemed faulty. His sanity appeared to be failing him.
Of course, she wouldn't turn away a willing participant. "Lay down." The command was quiet, and followed with surprisingly gentle hands to coax the creature onto the ground beneath them; it was the best position to have him in for such an activity. He went without much complaint — it pleased Tlantli greatly that she was not being fought against. Inelegantly, she found a place near his thigh, kneeling so she could better reach the region that would wear the mark of Salsola. Her blade found the flesh easily, cutting in to craft lines; they all came to reality with a simply fluidity. It was as if Tlantli were some sort of artist, and perhaps she was, in her own way. The blood flowed forth about the blade, creating a seam of beautiful crimson that was absorbed back into the fur of the man.