The girl took her offered hand, the physical contact giving Cris a brief rush of comfort, before the severity of their grim situation crushed it again. Cris wasn't sure the pretty woman understood things too well. If she did, she was very happy in the face of death. Perhaps she truly was, the ten-day lessons in the church, the priest reading from the Infernal Book, Cris remembered him explaining the meaning behind the teachings. Her eyes caught the slim, feminine figure, wielding the heavy brazier whose sickly comforting scent didn't quite reach her. Her mind still on the lessons of the ten-days, Cris noticed the grusome writing on her back. She could translate them, roughly, the scrip was similar to some of the prayer she had been forced to memorize by heart.<em>Heavy stalks, the scythe, selfless consideration of a higher need</em>. Yes. To die meant to join the Dark Prince, and be able to serve Him more fully, with mind and soul, than one ever could in life. And the girl's buying comment, devils did like to buy things. Perhaps this girl was simply more faithful than Cris could ever hope to be.<br/><br/>Cris's mind was pulled back sharply to the present by a brutal jerk. She stagger off the bench, caught herself, then squealed as she realized the heavy collar was digging deep into her chaffed skin, as she and her father were dragged up onto the stage. The mutilation script on the enigmatic female's back, the other two, all slipped away, far from consideration. She was limp in the guard's tight grip, sobbing and muttering incoherently, her only movement a slight effort to extend her arms towards her father. The crowd knew what they wanted, the words drumming on her skull, penetrating inwards. She was going to join the First, she need not be scared, but she was, very much so. Her soul would surely suffer for this cowardice...<br/><br/>She was so obsessed with accepting her own demise that she missed the chance for life, denied to her father, that may yet be offered to her.<br/><br/>The ceremony of the trial continued, her father stripped for all to see.<span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;">“No,”</span>she finally managed a fully formed word, short as it was. It wasn't true, she had stolen all these, she was responsible, not her father. She tried to make them understand, but she was cut off, hoisted by the chain and collar. A wave of pain afresh, gradually dulled as her air was cut off, and spots swam before her eyes. The ritual of the execution proceeded, the predetermined judgement announced, the executioner stepped into his role. The crowd chanted as he produced his implement of execution, a strange one, a wire. How would he...no, NO! Swift! The crowd had said swift!<br/><br/>Now Cris struggled earnestly against the guard that held her, the movements frantic and useless, as her father's mouth was tortiously lacerated. He spat up blood, his cries of pain like slashes across her body. She could not hope to escape, all she could could do was lift herself up, enough to ease the choking grip of the collar. She tried to speak but all she could do was gasp for breath. Her vision sharpened, and then, after another quick breath, she was able to speak,<span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;"><strong>“No! Please, stop thi-,”</strong></span>was all she could manage. She was cut off, and the guard adjusted his grip to prevent further words from her. Unable to do anything but watch as the executioner performed his gruesome craft on her father's eyes now, she dug her nails into the fingers, the sensitive, fragile skin at the edge, scratching manically until they drew slight, painful blood. Were she able to reach her hair she would have likely torn bloody clumps of it free. As it was the meagre pain in her fingers was all she had to distract her as the execution entered its third phase.<em>Please God-Fiend, end my father's suffering, Accept his soul, let him die, and please end his suffering!</em>