Post by quillborne on Feb 15, 2013 8:24:16 GMT -5
The gods demand more sacrifice.
That is what they say. That is what they always say.
The young warrior looked up with defiance as he witnessed the frenzied priests of Moctezuma Xocoyotzin poisoning the people with their fabrications; they knew all too well the order of strings that they could pull to gain the conviction and reverence of the population. The gods, frankly speaking, constituted a good portion of these strings. Up until he became a full-fledged warrior of the jaguar, the ocelomeh, he had no doubts whatsoever of the existence of beings like Quetzalcoatl, Huitzlopochtli or Tlaloc for it seemed reasonable enough that the heavenly illuminated spheres that constantly traversed the sky were no different than the birds and the beasts of the wilderness, only indefinitely more powerful and godly. There was, for the moment, no explanation other than that.
The warrior’s face twisted in disgust as he looked up to see the prisoners being brought forth to the altar. The king was seated on his icpalli, his head adorned in a graceful arc with the majestic, green plumes of the quetzalli and beside him were his two queens, the noblewoman and the Nahua. The king, now in his late thirties was well built, of good height and with the face of a true king, cheerful or serious as the need arose. He did not stir this time, as he often did when he got bored. The warrior saw, with guilty content, that this was a serious matter indeed; at least the king did not enjoy this either. The priests however, were elated, to say the least. After all, this was what they cherished most- the unnecessary flaunting of rented power.
The shade of the pyramid, on which the stage was set, fell heavily on the masses that had gathered before it. Some wept, some prayed but not a single soul overlooked the spectacle, hard as it was to believe since sacrifices were commonplace in Tenochtitlan, the city of the Aztecs. Sacrifices were one thing, but the capturing of prisoners was, to a warrior, far more honorable than killing twice as many. To become a jaguar warrior, one had to capture twelve prisoners during two consecutive battles, which was no small matter as warriors of the rival tribes were as disciplined and versatile as any.
The ritual went like a scripted play- sacrifice after sacrifice, corpse upon corpse, until the high priest decided for the gods that they were ‘pleased’ and the act came to its close, as always.
The young warrior looked up at the consistent ball of fire in the sky, which seemed oblivious to what had just occurred in its name; he had never doubted the credibility of the gods so much.
***
That is what they say. That is what they always say.
The young warrior looked up with defiance as he witnessed the frenzied priests of Moctezuma Xocoyotzin poisoning the people with their fabrications; they knew all too well the order of strings that they could pull to gain the conviction and reverence of the population. The gods, frankly speaking, constituted a good portion of these strings. Up until he became a full-fledged warrior of the jaguar, the ocelomeh, he had no doubts whatsoever of the existence of beings like Quetzalcoatl, Huitzlopochtli or Tlaloc for it seemed reasonable enough that the heavenly illuminated spheres that constantly traversed the sky were no different than the birds and the beasts of the wilderness, only indefinitely more powerful and godly. There was, for the moment, no explanation other than that.
The warrior’s face twisted in disgust as he looked up to see the prisoners being brought forth to the altar. The king was seated on his icpalli, his head adorned in a graceful arc with the majestic, green plumes of the quetzalli and beside him were his two queens, the noblewoman and the Nahua. The king, now in his late thirties was well built, of good height and with the face of a true king, cheerful or serious as the need arose. He did not stir this time, as he often did when he got bored. The warrior saw, with guilty content, that this was a serious matter indeed; at least the king did not enjoy this either. The priests however, were elated, to say the least. After all, this was what they cherished most- the unnecessary flaunting of rented power.
The shade of the pyramid, on which the stage was set, fell heavily on the masses that had gathered before it. Some wept, some prayed but not a single soul overlooked the spectacle, hard as it was to believe since sacrifices were commonplace in Tenochtitlan, the city of the Aztecs. Sacrifices were one thing, but the capturing of prisoners was, to a warrior, far more honorable than killing twice as many. To become a jaguar warrior, one had to capture twelve prisoners during two consecutive battles, which was no small matter as warriors of the rival tribes were as disciplined and versatile as any.
The ritual went like a scripted play- sacrifice after sacrifice, corpse upon corpse, until the high priest decided for the gods that they were ‘pleased’ and the act came to its close, as always.
The young warrior looked up at the consistent ball of fire in the sky, which seemed oblivious to what had just occurred in its name; he had never doubted the credibility of the gods so much.
***
It's all about artistic licence. 
