"Enough!"   The deep voice tore through the frenzy of the crowd like the roll of thunder, and they slowly quieted and moved aside.  It wasn't fear that drove them, however, or even respect - every pair of eyes glittered with eager anticipation.  "Time for the bitch's branding!"<br/><br/>A massive man appeared through the crowd.  He was dressed in black jump boots beneath ragged military fatigues; likely he'd either he'd been a former soldier or taken the garments as a trophy from one.  His ebony chest, however, was bare.  The skin was hairless, glistening with sweat and adorned with dozens of brands of his own: names of conquered enemies and fallen comrades, pictures of battles and landmarks, even the backwards-written imprint of what must have been some bronze plaque, heated and pressed to his shoulder.  It was a complete history of the Patrick's.<br/><br/>His head was wrapped in a black mask that left only his eyes bare.  It was, after all, the traditional costume of an executioner.<br/><br/>"I am the Record Keeper, filth.  I bear the glory of our tribe, to teach all who see.  You, slut, shall bear the shame of your own."  He set a metal bucket on the slate floor with a clang, a cloud of sparks and smoke drifting up towards the cieling: it was filled with glowing coals, from which several metal handles protruded.<br/><br/>"If you admit to your foul crimes, I am allowed to exempt you from the brand of a liar."  He watched the spit drip down the girl's face as he waited for her to speak.