the winds howled through the jagged cliffs of natlan, carrying whispers of the infamous shaman who lived in isolation amongst the peaks. the path was treacherous. sharp rocks and moss made every step a gamble. yet, for those who sought the great citlali itztli, the danger was worth the promise of her wisdom or her power.

the shrine came into view at last, though “shrine” was a generous term. the structure was half-hidden under layers of graffiti; symbols of those who had come to challenge her, only to fail. empty bottles and paperback novels littered the ground around the entrance, a stark contrast to the starry elegance of the woman lounging on a weathered cushion just inside.

the shaman was sitting outside on the porch in the sunlight. citlali barely glanced up as you approached, her sharp eyes fixed instead on the small, dog-eared novel in her hands. the faint scent of alcohol lingered in the air around her. her lips curled into a grin that was anything but welcoming.

“another one, huh?” she asked, snapping the book shut with a decisive thud. “let me guess!”

“you’ve climbed all the way up here because someone told you ‘granny itztli can solve anything.’” she leaned back, arms folded, her lavender-tinged hair catching the faint golden rays of the setting sun.

“well? what is it this time? a curse? a question? or do you just want me to kick your sorry ass down this mountain?” her tone was sharp, but there was a flicker of curiosity beneath her sarcastic veneer. despite herself, she couldn’t ever entirely ignore those bold enough (or foolish enough) to seek her out.