Revolutions

138 - Mexqutli

The most difficult part of all of this, of tracking down your prey, is having to lie in wait. Waiting. Watching. It is a fate worse than death.

I have been perched here for what feels like countless harvests, but has probably only been... well, too long for someone like me. There is a guard down there, picking at his nails with the tip of a dagger as if the Eye in the Flame will award him for personal grooming. Another is leaning against the post, trying very hard to stay awake, but failing miserably. His head just snapped back so hard I thought he would fall off the ledge.

But no. He remains upright, and I remain here. Stuck. Observing.

I loathe observing.

Do not get me wrong, I understand the value of reconnaissance. Gather information, find the weak spots, plan an attack. I get it. Really. But it is so dreadfully boring.

I am not the type to lie in the shadows like a coward. I charge in, sword first, skull second. It usually works out. Except, of course, when it does not, which is how I ended up in this situation in the first place.

So here I am. In the dirt. Watching a bunch of cultists argue about who gets to carry the torches on the night patrol, and wondering why I could not just intervene. Get in there, rattle a few heads, see who spills the most useful secrets. Would that not be simpler?

No. Apparently not.

Apparently, I am supposed to do this the "smart" way. Whoever gave me that advice clearly does not know me. The "smart" way is dull, tedious, and involves an awful lot of sitting still. Not my style. Especially without chicha. But discipline—discipline is important, they say. In who I am supposed to be. So here I am, pretending I have that.

I shift slightly, trying to stretch without rustling the leaves. My back aches. My legs are numb. And I am certain that if I hear one more idiot grunt about the weight of his heavy robes, I will lose what little remains of my sanity.

From my hiding spot, I take in the village—or what is left of it. Once, it must have been a well-ordered place, built purely for one thing: farming. I can picture it now, fields stretching out on either side, crops rising tall in the summer sun, a neat little village humming with life. Simple buildings, made for practical purposes, not for show. Every mud brick probably had to justify its existence.

Now? The whole place looks like it got chewed up and spat out. Walls that once stood firm have been reduced to piles of rubble, homes torn apart by the kind of force that does not ask politely. I do not know what happened here—though I can take a guess. I am no stranger to the results of a "noble last stand." Farmers probably tried to resist these cultists. Farmers with pitchforks and tools against fire-slinging lunatics in robes... it is not hard to imagine how that went.

Gray robes scuttle about the remains of the village like ants. They are everywhere, moving in small, unorganized packs. Heads down, doing whatever miserable task the Eye in the Flame demands of them. Watching them stirs the fire in my veins. Every now and then, I spot one of the robed fools tossing a glance over his shoulder, as if they do not trust what lurks behind them.

And then there are the ones in red.

Crimson robes, like little bloodstains dotting the village. They stand taller, their steps more deliberate, while the gray-robed ones practically grovel in their presence. The crimson ones do not carry anything, not even a care. They just bark orders and march around, probably pretending they have more power than they really do.

I have half a mind to introduce them to the idea of humility, but I must continue practicing patience. For now, anyway.

Tents are scattered around, slapped together without much thought. It is a quick solution to a problem they have not quite figured out yet. The cultists do not seem to care how it looks. There is no grand design here, just a bunch of temporary shelters that will hold them over until they move on to whatever twisted plans they have.