There was much to the Eternian woman that she hid from everyone, including her own family, in an attempt to save herself from their criticism. It wasn't that she was strange — she was similar to all of them, even Baphomet in some lesser extent — but that her ideals seemed skewed to her. Miqui did not trouble himself with beliefs. Miqui did not care about Eterne's inner workings. Miqui was the most wolf of the litter. Xochime was set apart from them — she had been a slave, a fact that Tlantli found disgraceful.
Innocence had been lost on the young woman, who had endured the touch of filth in the streets of Barbados to ensure passage of her family to Freetown, and she often found herself banishing it from others without provocation. It was unfair, to ruin youth for others, but had it not been taken away from her? Spite was a game Tlantli excelled in. Hurt was a medium she utilized well. Change, however, was rarely accepted. There was no need. She was content.
Salvia's sulking went unnoticed, but her words were realized with curiosity. Her siblings weren't right? One was sick? She hadn't been sick. Tlantli laughed. "They cannot ahl be the sayme, Salvia. Aye haft many siblings. Only one, only one, has been right. Besides maysalf. Ahnd Astaroth ess dead now. Metetztli ess not right, but he still lives. Do not judge on rightness. Judge them once they haft grown. See who shows your drive; they ahre the ones who will survive. Liek you. Ahnd those ones will deserve some respect." Adaptability and intelligence was important to survival. The foolish, the unchanging, they died with ease.
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