The Executioner, part 1

The Executioner, Chapter 1

He lumbered past once more, his breathing heavy from the ordeal of descending stairs. He plopped himself down in his chair to catch his breath once more. He is positively massive, nearly seven feet tall, and with muscles to match. His legs, however... they're thin. Far too spindly to fit with the rest of his body. He wears braces as to not collapse, and he limps on even ground. You can hear groaning behind his shroud. He keeps his face impossible to view, a common thing among executioners. The rags cover him completely, and only the occasional glint in an eye even reveals he can see past it. His back, covered in a hair shirt right now, is covered in scars. Burn scars along the spine, over his shoulders the tell-tale signs of a whip, and all manner along his sides. The war was hard on many, but few got it as bad as the executioner. He wasn't allowed to serve any more since his legs were crushed and mended wrong. The braces only barely allow him to walk. But what's an old soldier to do when they're still so young?
He scoffed as thought of it. "Young". He felt older than the village elder. Older than the city.
So damned old.
He's not even out of his twenties.

The prisoners don't even bother talking to him any more. They know he won't answer, at best turn his single dark eye in their direction. Nobody was ever able to look at that stare without falling quiet. He never talked, to the point that people thought him mute until the priest came in at one time. The priest was the polar opposite of the executioner. Small and fat, he reminded people of a cheery ball of dough. The prisoners fear him the most. The executioner was intimidating, yes, but he never did any harm. When the priest comes for you, you are only seen by the oldest prisoner in the corner cell. Your head adorning a pike on the wall. Right above a line from the holy book:
"A sinner may be reborn, but his soul is forevermore tainted."
A clear warning. You don't just die here, you're cursed forever. Very few criminals in Brinner, the name of this glorious city.
The executioner shook his head. He keeps doing this whenever he's got nothing to do. He looks at the situation, looks for a way forward. It's what kept him going after the torture. No matter how much that succubus lashed and beat him, he looked for a way out. Every time a guard stopped being wary, he attacked. That's why they broke his legs. They let him crawl to the exit after that, as sport. They didn't expect him to actually manage it. He felt sunlight on his face for the first time in months, before those inhumanly warm hands grabbed him once more, back into that dungeon. Eventually, his battle brothers found him, the last survivor of the dungeon, kept alive through favouritism and sheer grit. But by then it was over. His body was broken, and his mind cracked. The months after that he recovered, and then he was allowed back home. They gave him a mask so others did not have to look at the wound that he once called his face. It chafed and scratched, the herbs they stuffed stung and itched.
He much prefers his cloak.
He touched his most prized possession tenderly, the soft fabric embracing him. The only thing that would ever touch his accursed flesh now, he thought. At least lepers had the good fortune to be dying. At least they felt nothing.

Suddenly, a shrill voice cuts into the executioners dark musings. A woman?
"Lemme GO! God-damn it! I got rights!"
"Silence, you WENCH!"
The sound of flesh against flesh echoes downward as the executioner grabs his walking stick to stand at the ready. The priest is bringing the new prisoner down personally. That never bodes well. The priest comes in first with heavy footfalls, looking red in the face and rubbing his ringed left hand. He was always so richly clothed, even his priestly robes were embroidered with gold wire. The executioner hated the priest, but he never showed it. Hard to do so with your face covered. The priest doesn't say a word, only nodding his head in recognition of the executioner as he looks up at the stairs.
The prisoner is a woman, as the voice implied. She's wearing fairly extravagant clothing, a longcoat with an exagerrated collar. She looks like one of those old vampire drawings, made by people that thought of them as counts and nobility. The coat was open at the front, showing off her buttoned shirt and shorts. She wears thigh-highs, leaving just a bit of skin on her thighs exposed, the fat pushed out ever so little. Her hair was long and white, and that's as far as her features were human. She had blue skin, and black sclera. Haunting green pupils that seemed to give off the tiniest bit of light, a face that would be perfectly symmetrical if it wasn't for her freckles, dark blue over her teal. Hauntingly beautiful is more appropriate than most. An undead monstergirl...

"You see this, Axe? A damned monster sneaks it's way into our walls,to prey on our children and take away our men! Show her the hospitality she deserves, won't you!?" he says, as the guard throw her on the floor. She falls roughly, and the executioner puts his stick down on her back. The air is knocked out, and she doesn't even try running, coughing on the floor.
He hates it when the priest called him "Axe". He was meant to intimidate the prisoners, of course, which is why his "walking stick" has an axeblade up top. He'd rather have something more balanced and less likely to cut him, but that's the way it is.
The girl looks up, staring into the single visible eye of the executioner. Her feistiness quickly evaporates in the uncompromising stare.
"Hrrf". A single grunt and a nod in the direction of the nearest cell, and the girl goes there. On her knees, as the priest demands, his chins wobbling as he shouts.
"Take a good look out that window, wench! Look to the top of the wall! Look into their dead eyes, and know their fate awaits you! Your tainted soul will bother this world no longer!"
She doesn't answer, still locked on the eye of the executioner. The executioner already wielding that massive axe like a mere walking stick, staring. She's terrified.
The priest soon steps out of the dungeon, after threatening the girl some more and damning her corrupted soul. The executioner sighed and flopped down in his chair, letting his ragged breath come loose once more. He stood up too fast, his knees were still aching and his damaged lungs still recovering from the stairs. He clutched his least favourite wound, by the side. His ribs were shattered there by a carpenter's hammer, taken from the most recent dead in that torture chamber. The succubus let them keep their possessions, grants them something to hold on to as she breaks them.

"Does that hurt?" The woman suddenly says.
The executioner looks up slowly. The woman is standing near the bars, looking concerned...
Odd.
"Hrm." He grunts again, a scoff. He doesn't talk to prisoners.
"Aren't you allowed to talk?"
"I..." The words catch in his throat. It's been months since he last said a word. He coughs a bit.
"I d-don't talk to prison...*hhh* prisoners." he manages to get out, forced to take a moment to take in a shakey breath.
"Breaking your own rules, then?" The girl says, smarm returning to her as the executioner humanized himself.
Can't be having that.
He glared at her behind his cloak, before pulling himself upright with his axe and patrolling the prisoners. It was too soon. He stumbles a bit as he stands up, barely catching himself against the wall. With a rhythmic "toc" of his axe he walked forward. He went over them as he passed. Helps keep track. The prisoners cringe away in fear as he comes by, this hulking scarred monster come to take them to the other side. Hal Durran, bountyhunting without a licence, two months and a fine. Yunikki Madotsu, Banditry, two years and a branding. Eveline
Sucy Manbaveran, illegal potions, two weeks. Meandra Malina; organised crime, murder, torture, thieving and public indecency. Ten years.
Sydney Aestinus, Drider, sentence of death.
To be carried out tomorrow. The drider has gone catatonic in the face of death, she webbed up the cell and is now staring ahead. She looks young, too young to be killed like this.
Can't think about that. She's a monster, she'd kill us all if she could. The executioner shakes his head.
Next prisoner...

It takes him half an hour to finish everything up. His legs are burning by the end, his joints stinging painfully, like pins and needles. He staggers back to his chair by the stairs, and sits back down. He breathes some relief again.
"It really hurts, doesn't it?"
She's talking again.
Ignore it.
"You don't have to talk, I get it. I know the marks... Did that priest do that to you?"
Have to rectify that. No rumours in the prison.
"No. Your k-kind..."
*hhh*
He coughs again, his lungs burning and his wound screaming. Damn damn damn. His braces squeak as the coughing makes him nearly convulse.
"...I'm sorry."
"Hrh?"
"I'm sorry this happened to you. I... I know the type. Some succubi want to go back to the "old ways", and torture men to grow stronger. It's barbaric."
The executioner scoffed. No monster came to save him. His army buddies found him after a long campaign. If monsters were against it, they sure were slow on the draw.
"Why do you wear that cloth?" she asks. Does she not understand he doesn't want to talk?
"I'm the exe-*hhh* Executioner. P-part of it." he says anyway. Maybe a little talk is something they deserve. All prisoners deserve some comfort. He makes sure they don't know it's him smuggling in that extra bit of food or a blanket. He has an image to keep. It's his job.
"Nobody in the city's built like you. They all know it's you, and you're smart enough to know that. I'd see a lot more drool in that cloth if that wasn't the case" She chuckles at her own little joke.

He just shrugs his massive shoulders. Of course he knew that.
"I don't think you care about what others think of you in that respect. You're a soldier, you were already known as a killer."
How the hells did she know that!?
"How do you..."
"The way you carry yourself. You walk that patrol with a proper step, and you don't get that body pulling vegetables. They trained you for power. If you were a farmer, you'd be more lean."
"Hm. Astute."
"Look at you with the obscure words! Can you read?"
The executioner picks up the book he was going to read and shakes it.
"Ahhh, The White Tree. A classic."
"Found it to be...*hhh* a little slow."
"It wouldn't be a classic if it was fun to read, would it?"
He couldn't stop himself from laughing at that. It was a foreign sound to him, it hurt a little. He was still glad for it, though.
"Ah! You CAN laugh!" She looks smug, a blueish blush appearing on her teal skin as her eyes shined, even in the darkness of the dungeon.
"M'not made of stone."
"What's your name?"
"...Axe."
"I said your name, not your title. Come on, I'll give you mine if you give me yours!"
"Don't. Please."
He made that mistake the first few times. Getting to know those he has to kill. Always reminded him of that poor girl that got corrupted in camp. The executioner killed her in time, before she drained the commander dry in her frenzy. He knew the girl, he had nightmares for weeks. But, as he said before, they deserve their comforts. If she wants to know his name...
"Lothair Morani.*hhh*"
He coughs. He had to force himself to say, getting second thoughts halfway.
"It's a nice name. With that revelation done, want to do another?"

The executioner looked at her, behind that cloak.
"Why do you wear that shroud? It's not for your benefit, your breathing's crap. It's not to keep your identity a secret, everybody recognizes you."
"It's..."
He couldn't finish.
"...Is it because you hated flinching at every mirror and window?"



*CLANG!"
The sound of clanking metal echoes through the dungeon, and the executioner roared in fury. He felt a fire inside him, a true smoldering pain of shame and exertion awakened all at once.
"SHUT. UP." He said slowly. "NO MORE TALK." The girl flinched back, falling on the floor in fear as this stumbling hulk was in her face in what felt like an instant. Even with his body broken, he was terrifying if he needed to be.
He walked back to his chair, nearly falling over. He forgot to take his axe as support.
"No more talk." He repeated, softly. His body hurt.
"I'm sorry." she whispered.
"Shut up."
"...Can I see it?"
The executioner stood up, and willingly began climbing the stairs. Anybody who has ever seen or heard him climb stairs must know that he wouldn't do this unless it was something dire. The guards step out of his way, they couldn't be faster.
He stormed home, knocking over anybody too slow to get out of his way.He towered over them, and everybody feared him, it took no time at all. Once he was home, he sat down on another chair.
Damn that girl.
Damn her words.
Damn this shroud.

Back in the dungeon, the dullahan sat in the back of her cell. She cursed herself for pushing him away like that. Lothair Morani, with that haunting, beautiful eye. She should be cursing her luck for getting caught, and yet she can't help but feel happy.
She found somebody to cherish. Somebody to protect and be protected by in this world. Somebody for which she would happily become a wife.
Tomorrow's another day. If this is her last week, it's a week she can spend with somebody she can truly love.
She wouldn't trade it for the world.