"There's the girl", I said, pointing, "at least I think that's her." Details were tough to see at this distance.
"Is she trussed up yet?" I look again. Hard to tell, maybe, they've definitely dressed her up in something fancy, and brightly yellow. Saffron? Sea salt?
"They'll be sacrificing her soon" says Hocks, pulling a leather cord out of his belt pouch and using it to bind his dark, unruly mane into a high ponytail. "We're out of time."
The drums are still going, of course they are, dozens or hundreds of them, pounding out a never-ending frenzy that echoes back off the valley walls and makes thinking difficult. But the dancers have stopped, and the fire is lit. It smells like applewood. Maybe Hocks is right.
"I thought we were waiting for the right opportunity." But Hocks isn't really listening, he's stretching, massive sinews coiling across broad shoulders like snakes on a boulder. "I thought we were gonna make up a plan."
"New plan," he says simply, picking up his two-headed broadaxe, checking the leather grips and giving it a few warm-up swings.
"Wait here," He adds, like there was any chance I'd be following him, and then he goes; calmly walking towards the village as if it wasn't full of opiate-fueled cannibals.