Sorry, people – my modem at home gave out on me. Does anybody know why such things always seem to happen on Saturday mornings, when you have to wait for days until you can get them fixed? Anyhow, on with the show:
Itzcoatl. The square in front of Pac Utal’s townhouse.
Suddenly, the foremost four of the temple guards who charge the palanquin howling for the Servitor’s blood just … fall into the sky. Tumbling, crying out and flailing their limbs like men plummeting do their deaths do, they drop instantly to a height over well maybe twenty meters, where they hang as if weightless, struggling, terrified.
The attack on the palanquin has halted dead in its tracks as everybody is gaping open-mouthed at the distant figures hanging in the sky.
“Foolish mortalsâ€, a lilting voice comes from the palanquin, despite its softness carrying far in the awed and terror-stricken silence of the square. The sliding panel of the palanquin opens…
… and the four men in the sky are suddenly hurled downward again with the force of a giant’s fist – or a God’s.
The men don’t even have time for more than a short yelp before they shatter on the godstone of the square like over-ripe fruits hurled against a wall. Hardened temple warriors of decades of service cannot but cry out at being splattered with blood and guts of their comrades, now no more than smears on the ground.
All around, priests hurl themselves to their knees, wailing, hitting the godstone of the square repeatedly with their foreheads.
The tall figure of the profile-masked Servitor folds himself from the palanquin, and the temple warriors draw back from him as if from a poisonous Nayalli bird. They are overawed, on the verge of breaking down before the power of the divine.
All save Papalotl, an old warrior who has seen too much blood spilt in the Gods’ name. His bronze hatchet is a flash in his hand and a lightning in the air as it flies straight at the chest of the Servitor. The tall being in the his cloak of feathers seems to flinch…
… and the axe imbeds itself in the belly of Papalotl, who crumples, screaing in agony. It has been too quick for the eye to follow and for the brain to grasp, but it appears as if Papalotl’s hatchet has reversed its course in mid-air and found its way back to the thrower.
Itzcoatl’s mouth is dry. He is the only priest who now remains standing.
Somewhere, a spear clatters to the ground, followed by a second. The warriors draw back further from Servitor who straightens to his full height. “Abase yourselfâ€, a voice issues from the mask, firm, calm, irresistable.
The warriors, even Nahuatec, fall to their knees like stalks of rice bent by the wind.
The unsettling profile mask turns towards Itzcoatl. Does it … smile?
“Treacherous priestâ€, the Servitor addresses Itzcoatl. “Now feel—“
A man tackles the Servitor from his blind side, takes him down. A tangle of bronzed and pale limbs, man and angel roll over the ground. “Murdererâ€, the man cries out, struggling to dash the Servitor’s head against the square’s smooth godstone. It is one of the craftsmen taken from Pac Utal’s shop.
Higgins, the situation hangs visibly by a thread. The priests are overawed, and so are the warriors, but they might be spurred into action by a sharp command issued with authority – that would require Willpower/Leadership, with hate-Passion, power-Drive and Destiny as bonus dice, but a full 5 successes (“flawlessâ€) required; if the warriors don’t act immediately, with but a word of Itzcoatl, the Servitor will likely have overcome Pac’s relative.
Alternatively, Itzcoatl might try to interfer in the combat in person – he’s but a dozen paces from the struggling pair and could rush there in time, possibly picking up some warrior’s dropped weapon.
Or he could do something entirely different, or nothing at all, or you could spend more Drama, or, or, or…
In any case, pay the 1 Drama for having Pac Utal’s kin save the day, and don’t forget to award you 1 Insight for it.
_________________ My real name is Michael; use it, if you like.
|