Rammapuntag
The drums played a short pattern – tam, tam, tom, tam, tung. A small instrument gave a ticking sound making sure the percussionists would keep time. The flutes joined in – four notes repeated on top of the five beats. The priestess entered. A large white mask with the features of the demon Rammapuntag covered her face, thin strips of paper waved around it looking like the hair of the monster. She had brass jewellery around her ankles and wrists and her body was covered by a transparent, white cloth held in place with a leather belt.
The audience consisted of the royal family and those of the nobility that had opted to stay in the capital for the wet season. A few priest were there too. Nervous, gloomy.
Two gunships lay in the harbour, demanding that the King and Queen open trade. Their answer was Rammapuntag.
The priestess, chosen for her cruelty, began dancing in a slow rhythm not at all synchronised with the music. She wasn’t meant to reach the tempo of the drums until much later – and when she did they would hopefully be able to hear Rammapuntag. Her white body visible through the thin fabric, twisted and writhed in an inhuman way that sent shivers through the onlookers. The blood of the twenty slaves that had been sacrificed to Rammapuntag made the room reek. The priests looked on with worried eyes. Did she dance too fast too early? Would she reach the rhythm before time? Before Rammapuntag?
A loud noise made the youngest and most inexperienced nobles look up in terror. But it was not Rammapuntag. It was the old keep in the harbour that went down in gunfire. The priestess didn’t flinch – she was a good choice in that regard. But was she too fast, too eager for the havoc?
There was more gunfire throughout the afternoon. But just before sunset the priestess reached into the rhythm of the orchestra, and the destruction began.
Lately everything I write seems to be unfunny and depressing. I try to write something light-hearted, but it is only the misantropic things that are any good. You'll have to put up with it. Personally I am as good as I have been in years... so it is probably the world that is to blame. Good thing the world is easily blameable :)
It's easy to get depressed about the state of the world. Terrible things are no longer news, but life must go on
Yea, that's true. My professor at the Royal Academy said that a large painting or symphony called Joy and happiness will be depressing if it is bad art, and a small scribble or song called Life STINKS can be what creates order and beauty inside your head if it is good art. She had a point. Art is not saving the world here and now, but it influences us slowly and endures over millennia. As an artist you don't really know what works - I'll go with the flow.
More likely it's blokes like these in your story that are to blame. They certainly do like to sow terror. I have little doubt they engage in rituals like this one. Your story is engaging. It has piqued my inner priestess, the cruel one.
Well, yes. Power people.