Revolutions

163 - Legido

Criato's voice drips with irritation as he surveys the scene. "More guests," he says, gesturing lazily toward the armed soldiers at his side. His gaze flicks to the natives standing before him, looking upon their strange weapons with disdain. "What perfect timing. I was just wondering what to do with the ones we already have."

You see his men shift uneasily, looking to one another in hopes that someone, anyone, knows what to do. One of the younger soldiers, barely more than a boy, raises his musket. The barrel trembles as he levels it at the group of captives.

"Stand down, you idiot!" Criato snaps bitingly. "Have you already forgotten what happened the last time one of you fired that thing?" He steps closer, his polished boots thudding across the stone floor. "The Great Xiatli forbade it. Do you want to end up like the others? Besides, look at the size of this chamber! Are you trying to make us all go deaf?"

You watch the soldier falter, and his face blanch as he lowers the weapon. The older man beside him sneers, looking at his lifeless gun. "Useless. These should've stayed on the ships."

But Criato ignores them. His attention now is fully on the strangers standing next to you. He takes a step forward, tilting his head as though observing some peculiar insect. "You can't even understand me, can you?" he says condescendingly. "What's the point of showing up to Xiatlazán if you don't even know what you're facing? Or do you want to get yourselves killed, as a sacrifice to the one true god?"

The natives who joined you don't flinch. You sense that their silence is not ignorance, but rather, they're merely biding their time, waiting for the right moment. One strangles haft of his massive war axe, while the other's grip on his obsidian blade is light, seemingly hoping to draw his foe nearer.

Oblivious to the storm building before him, Criato turns to his men with a smirk. "They don't even have real weapons," he mocks, pointing at the axe. "This? A stick with a rock? Pathetic."

A blur catches your eye. A streak of gold darts across your vision as the feline leaps from the gloom. Criato's smirk vanishes as a guttural scream rips from his throat. Her claws rake across his face, leaving angry red gashes that trail from his cheek to his jawline. He staggers back, flailing wildly. In an instant, his smug composure is shattered.

"Shoot it! SHOOT IT!" he screeches, voice cracking. But his men hesitate. Their hands remain frozen on their weapons, wrestling with his previous command—and the repercussions, should word get back to Xiatli.

The native in coral doesn't hesitate. With a mighty roar, he surges forward with his obsidian blade. So, too, does the one wielding the axe, cleaving the air with devastating force.

Criato's men scramble, shouting in panic as the first blow lands. The obsidian blade slices clean through a musket's barrel. The soldier holding it stumbles back, clutching his mangled weapon, as The Axe barrels into the fray like a storm unleashed.

With blood streaming down his face, Criato shrinks back into the shadows, clutching his wounded cheek. His voice rises in a desperate scream: "You imbeciles! KILL THEM! KILL THEM ALL!"

The roar of chaos ignites the chamber. Criato's flustered men scurry about, fumbling with their muskets as the natives descend on them. A musket is raised, but The Blade steps aside almost casually. The crack of a shot rings out, deafening in the enclosed space. But the bullet finds only stone, colliding with a heavy thwack! and sending chips of rock flying.

You flinch at the sound. That's what guns do—cause you flinch. But the natives don't.

The Axe is something else entirely, driving each blow of his weapon as though he's trying to take down the palace walls. A soldier tries to parry, raising his musket to block, but the axe carves through wood and metal as though they were parchment. The soldier crumples with a cry, clutching his ruined arm as the axe comes back around in a brutal arc, slicing through his foe's limb.