[m] [ro] the sun shines behind us
#1
[html]
WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.


Tlantli is by Nat!

The tawny-hued hybrid stood before the crowd. Though they had been close to a roar, they had quieted now. Most faces were near reverent; still others were neutral, and some few were positively sullen. Though the crimson-eyed woman noted the sullen -- and that they were primarily of the former royal blood and its close affiliations -- she also noted some of the neutral and some of the most reverent. There were still enemies; her work was far from over. The yellow-haired woman regarded the crowd with a slightly tilted head for a long before she spoke.

My family gathers, she said, naturally speaking in Spanish. There was a rousing of sound after she spoke these words, primarily from the formerly lowborn canines. Some few of the highborn called their support, too, but there were some faces still contorted with barely concealed rage. Tlantli was unconcerned. The most apparent enemies were the ones to concern her the least: Salsola had taught her these lessons well. The flaxen canine gave a brilliant snake's smile to the gathered presence, and dipped her head. Today I wed Momotzli, she said. And seal my reign and dynasty.

Her children, arrayed behind her, parted. Rahovath drew Baphomet, bound and tied, up and onto the rock platform where his mother stood. He stood behind the bound coyote, keeping him upright. From the wavering way he stood, his poor condition was apparent. Though he'd been washed and bathed for the ceremony, and garbed in appropriately fitting clothes, they could not hide his ears. They looked to have been chewed off, though it was merely the messy, dull blade used to cut them off that had begotten such condition on him.

Tlantli paid it no mind, and rustled her own gown instead, smoothing over a wrinkle here and adjusting a piece of fabric there. It was an ill-fitting affair, intended for a woman with a larger frame and wider hips and more generous breasts. Still, as a token of power, she needed it, at least for the ceremony. Baphomet eyed her with hazy cinnamon eyes, and even through his broken teeth, he was sneering. His half-sister smiled sweetly at him, and turned back toward the crowd.

I will have no pretty words and prayers in languages none can pronounce, the woman declared. No cryptic priests and priestesses. No exalted inner circle and untouchable woman, slaughtered for her failure to bring a god to life and wed him. The tawny coyote was sneering herself now, glancing toward Baphomet with triumph in her eyes. It was not the conquering of her uncle-brother she treasured, though -- it was the larger conquest, the more meaningful one. Baphomet was but a drop in the numbers of Eterne, which were hers and hers alone now.

Not that Tlantli intended abuse of her rule -- on the contrary, she would bring this city and her family to greatness. And, by family, she truly did include all the peoples of Eterne. None were excluded, as it had been within Salsola -- so long as they accepted her and their fellow Eternian as true family. There were those standing in the crowds who did not, but Tlantli and her truest would root them out, sooner or later. The most bold of the resistance had been destroyed and burned, and the straggling remnants left behind might well decide it was in their best interest to remain loyal.

All will find god accessible, the woman continued. For I will give him to you. But I will be greater than god, she reminded them. For I am mother. Mother raises and comforts and feeds -- who finds god sitting alone in cold temples? Her voice became low, almost a scoff, and she gestured upward to the sun. Look there for god, if you'll have him. He has no magic and does not interfere, but he brings light and even lights his wife-moon with light when all else is dark and cold.

All good is done under the sun's light, and this light does not penetrate to the depths of those caves. So -- live there, work there if you'd like, but do not worship there. She paused, shrugged, and smiled almost girlishly, her sharpened fangs displayed for all close enough to make out their razor's edge. I will have my husband now, she said. She turned with something almost akin to a gleeful flourish toward the wheaten-hued coyote with scabs for ears, and slitted her eyes as she listened to the cries of the gathered Eternians as they cheered this union.

Tlantli watched as the former priests, chained as slaves, shuffled out amongst the crowd. Rahovath slit the ropes binding Baphomet's arms, but grasped one behind the man still. Beaten and half-dead, even, he was not to be trusted. Tlantli reached for his other hand and held it in her own. Maecherath, ever the most pious of her children, slid forward. Between them, he raised the sacred copy of the Quauhtli between them. The book, oldest of all copies, had been kept in the underground caves, never viewed by most. There was an audible moan from one of the priests, but a slash from his guardian's knife quieted him.

A murmur of shock emanating from one of the doors from whence the priests had emerged turned many heads, and Tlantli murmured for Rahovath to pause a moment. Nantli herself, the Mamexi, shuffled amongst the priests. Her chains clinked most sweetly to the tawny coyote, who herself was drawn to the sight of the pretty young girl. She was not yet two years old, but already a grown woman, evidence of her life in the caverns was written across her face. Her eyes, wandering and huge, seemed ill-adjusted to the sun. Tlantli lifted her lip to think of such a creature, denied the warm light of the sun. The paste from the priests was spreading throughout the crowd. Those denied this powerful paste all their lives were tasting it for the first times, and both cries of ecstasy and disgust were audible. The taste was never good, Tlantli thought, watching the Mamexi shuffle through the parting crowd.

Arms reached out to grasp her. Some were gentle, only stroking -- and even those strokes sometimes rudely hovered over breast or other part. Tlantli snarled her repercussion and the guardians began poking at the hands which grew too frisky. Though a symbol of the dead religion's power, the poor Nantli was only a tool, and still a woman. She could die with dignity intact. The yellow-furred woman's eyes followed the former Mamexi as she shuffled around to the platform's stairs. Her guardian hung back, though he remained nearby in case the woman needed prodding.

This was not the case, however, for Nantli and her predecessors had been raised to perfect obedience. Like a cow down the chute, she tottered awkwardly toward Tlantli, Baphomet, and the ghostly Rahovath, who was doing his best not to appear present and failing. Maecherath smiled his approval warmly down at the former Mamexi and stepped around his mother and uncle-brother. The pious child knelt and placed the Quauhtli between the feet of Tlantli and Baphomet. Another moan rose from the same priest, and Tlantli's growl must have been audible to his guardian, for the man was rudely yanked away from the crowds and back to his prison. His bowl was yanked away by the crowds, who passed it amongst themselves.

Nantli quivered and stared down at the book. She had seen it before, surely, and it must have been a great affront for it to be on the ground, for she looked close to speech. Macherath put a kindly hand on her shoulder and took the bowl from her hands. The hand on her shoulder became pressuring, and the woman was obliged to kneel before them. Faster than a snake, the black obsidian blade flashed, and the Mamexi's throat opened wide. Her blood spurted out and even splattered against the garments of both Tlantli and Baphomet. More of it, however, flowed down and soaked into the pages of the sacred book. When the flow had staunched sufficiently and the Mamexi grew limp, Macherath grabbed the back of her head and allowed the blood to flow into the bowl.

The Mamexi's body was rudely dropped -- only to immediately be dragged off to the side by another of Tlantli's children -- and Maecherath knelt, one of his feet and his knee on the sacred book. He held up the bowl in silent offering to her mother and her soon-to-be husband. The yellowed hybrid first dipped her uncle's hand into the paste, scooping out a great chunk of it for herself. The blood swirled red in the otherwise gray-brown stuff, but Tlantli obediently drew his fingers into his mouth. She ate the paste from him, staring deeply into his eyes as she did so. There was still hatred in his gaze, but it was now growing an unmistakable air of horror at the mockery she made of all he held dear.

Drawing her head back, the woman licked her lips and dipped her fingers -- without breaking her gaze from Baphomet -- into the paste. She lifted her hand to his mouth, but her half-brother obstinately refused to open his mouth. It was to Rahovath to employ his other arm and yank the man's head back, far enough to cut off his air supply. When the hybrid gasped for breath, Tlantli smeared the paste across his muzzle and into his mouth, fast enough to avoid the snap of his jaws.

Already, the strong blend of chemicals was speaking, and Tlantli was listening. Rahovath held her uncle-brother still, though now he was even struggling. Rahovath had both if his arms, and Chanath seemed ready to step forward to aid her brother. The yellow-hued hybrid knew, and sadly, she must make an end to her play. He would cooperate no longer. Stepping forward and close enough to wrap an arm around the back of his head, she drew her hair into his hands herself and drew her muzzle to his, sealing their marriage with her mouth. Her hand, at the same time, received the knife from her son. It was only to slide it into his abdomen, just below his sternum, and yank down.

His belly split and she was covered in a wash of red. The discolored pink and purple ropes of his organs spilled out into the sunlight, and even tongueless Baphomet allowed a garbled moan of pain. Rahovath drew him back from his mother as he died, and the yellow-hued hybrid stripped and tore the pompous gown from her body, stepping out of it. She shook her body loose as if it had been straightjacket-constricting, and lifted her arms to the sun, grinning with her triumph. The crowd, already reeling with the drugs, shouted and screamed. They were shouts and cries of pleasure, Tlantli knew, for even to herself she looked to be all aflame. The sun's fire danced on her yellow coat and made the bloody red patches on her glisten and sparkle.

By the time the drugs were in full effect and Tlantli herself was gazing in wonderment about the raucous crowd. Most were dancing or simply moving their bodies; some stared in abject wonder at the simplest of objects. Still other bodies wriggled and writhed together, and Tlantli gazed on them in longing. Who was fit for a queen, though? The loneliness of her body must not undo the work she'd done. Her children, untouched by the drug madness, moved about to set up the pyre. Baphomet, symbolic embodiment of Momotzli, and the Mamexi both were piled there, along with the bible-book and Tlantli's own gown.

Rahovath hovered nearby, a protective hand on his mother's shoulders as he watched the crowd closely, seeking any signs of danger. By the time the fire was blazing, Tlantli was tired enough to be accompanied back to her home by her children, despite the haze of the drugs. She was uninterested in the revelry of Eterne's newly elevated lowest classes. Though she had accepted them as family of necessity, she hoped time would refine them into respectability, however much she doubted the likelihood of such occurring.

Stretched out on her bed, the hybrid gazed toward the setting sun and watched its color pulse and radiate. There was a noise at the door. Tlantli's yellowed ear cocked to the sound of her uncle-brother's voice, and the man slipped into the room. His head was bowed respectfully, but the tawny hybrid tsked at him and rudely reached out to tilt his chin up. Metetzili smiled almost sadly and spoke his relief at Baphomet's death, though there was faint sadness in his voice, too. Tlantli listened to her brother's voice and saw the images of the words he spoke dance before her eyes.

He is with the burning dead now, Tlantli murmured, reaching out to touch the soft cheek of her worried father. She feared no ghosts, least of all ghosts she herself had slain. Baphomet's power was all her own now, along with more than he'd ever possessed. Metetzili gazed at her intently, studying her eyes.

You've eaten of the priestly bowls, too, he said. The observation was dry and without reproach, for Tlantli had ceased to Mete many long months ago, when her children were still truly children. The tawny hybrid smiled slyly and shrugged thin shoulders, leaning back on her bed. It was more comfortable than the mats her uncle-father had slept upon in the Kimaris home -- continued to sleep on, if she knew her uncle right. I should go and let you enjoy your ecstasy, he added, glancing back at her almost nervously.

Tlantli rolled onto her side and gazed at Metetzili herself, trying to look as intent as he had a moment ago. The razor-toothed smile that broke out denied her face its wanted seriousness, however, and the woman pulled at his arm, drawing him stiffly down beside her. No, she said, simply. She did not want him to go at all. He would have her if she asked it of him, and if only his seed would finally quicken, their Kimaris children would be more beautiful than even those she had begotten of Miqui. It was a foolish dream, however, and not one Tlantli was even likely to hope for -- she would not ask such of her uncle, itching as she was for affection and a toussle. He would do so only out of duty to her as head of his family -- and queen, if such was her title (she hadn't quite decided yet), of his homeland. But he would not truly want to do these things, she sensed, and she loathed the thought of putting her unfailingly loyal uncle to such a position.

She could hold him, though, and she did, wrapping an arm around his chest and leaning her head against his shoulder. His body was stiff with discomfort at first, but as Tlantli dozed off into sleep, Metetzili relaxed and soon slept himself, though he awakened soon after and drew himself out of his sister's bed. Her whim might differ, given some hours to fester, and he'd sooner avoid bearing the brunt of it.

<style>
@import url('http://sleepyglow.net/rp/post.css');
</style>[/html]


Forum Jump: