There was a heavy silence in the Sun Temple, the burden of Ketzelkun's words coloring the darkness in the hues of calamity. After a long time passed, it was the Eagle who spoke, surprising many.
"You paint a dreary picture, Winged Serpent."
The ruler of the Skull was as nebulous as he was fearsome. In fact, among all the Supreme beings of the Sun Realm, he was the only one Ketzelkan was truly wary of — the same held true for the other kings and queens of Mictlan, who regarded the Eagle with a hint of apprehension.
It was understandable. In Mictlan, being close to the sky meant being close to death. So, all those who chose to soar its cloudy expanse, beyond the safe darkness of the great bones, were seen as slightly mad, even if they carried the sacred responsibility of breaking the Clodveil in case the Jungle had grown too strong.
Ketzelkan carried a bit of that stigma, himself.
The Eagle looked at him somberly.
