Tezcatlipoca wasn't in a mood to be all caring-and-sharing about who he was, the way Quetzalcoatl had. "I'm a giant flying snake"? Honestly? Sometimes he thought Quetzalcoatl had rather a flare for the dramatic.
He was lounging on one of the chairs towards the back, his bad leg propped up on a chair -- the cold weather always aggravated the bite, however long ago it had healed; one never really "recovered" from the loss of a foot -- absently gnawing on a strip of thick, dried meat.
Well.
"Meat". Muscle, technically, but either way, it was satisfying the bloodlust, marginally.