The Walker's placid mask (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GqmRDV0a_70&index=30&list=PL-dDFTRnz3sQ7p32qthGK-5lARzv-6oPo), frozen in its jawless, permanent howl, hovers closer, scrutinizing the bared young woman before him.  The crowd collectively gasps or guffaws at the revealing of Cris' bare flesh, a collective realization overtaking them, sparking their doglike hunger yet again refreshing their eager menace.  "DECEIVER... NO YOUTH, NO... BOY.  YOU ARE A WOMAN, GROWN.  YOUNG, YES... PERHAPS JUST PAST THAT... VERGE... OF RIPENING... BUT YOU ARE ACCOUNTABLE FOR YOUR OWN ACTIONS."<br/><br/>The ripped rags are scattered, the reek of scorching flesh, fresh blood and unclean death overpowering.  "NO.  YOU, WOMAN, THINK THAT IMPERSONATING A BEARDLESS YOUTH WILL EARN YOU MERCY?  THE FIRST KNOWS WHAT HE IS DUE, AND ANY FEEBLE DECEPTION WILL BE FOUND OUT!"  The crowd, voracious to see her stand, to leer mercilessly, splashes stinking ale in her direction, and a few brutish leches lunge-- mere feints, but daunting nonetheless-- in her direction to try to spur a startle from the menaced girl.  She is a doe in the grass among the mad wolves now.<br/><br/>Its arms raised for silence, the Walker strides forth.  "SPEAK YOUR CONFESSION.  BE UNBOUND OF YOUR BURDEN BEFORE THE LAW OF THE FIRST.  CONFESS.  CONFESS!  YOU ARE A THIEF.  YOU ARE AN IMPOSTOR SEEKING MERCY UNDER FALSE PRETENSE.  YOU LIKE YOUR FATHER ARE A PARASITE... A TICK ON THE BELLY OF THIS CITY.  AND WE.  SHALL. SCRATCH.  YOU.  OUT."<br/><br/>As if this cues the executioner, he steps back to share the stage with the Walker, standing in deference to his flank and left, but spreading his arms at chest-height to widen his bulk.  "RAKES!" and a guard answers, standing forth and opening a satchel to draw forth two small metal combs, their jagged teeth of raw iron matching in rows of four wicked, short teeth.  He begins to tie the leather tethers onto the executioner's hands.<br/><br/>"WILL YOU DENY THIS?  WILL YOU, COUNCIL OF GOLGOTHA, ACCEPT THE JUDGMENT OF FLAYING AS THIS ONE IS SENT STRAIGHTAWAY TO THE CIRCLE FOR THE LOWEST THIEVES, THE PETTY SAPROPHYTES? THE UNPAID WHORES OF THE LOWEST DREGS OF HELL?"<br/><br/>"SEND HER SOUL TO HELL... SEND HER SOUL TO HELL... SEND HER SOUL TO HELL..." the chant resumes, and the executioner and the cow's skull mask upturn to the glowing ring of murmuring shadows above once more.<br/><br/>Amid the chanting, the clink of coin can be heard.  Chatter.  Bartering.  Hand signals are being exchanged.  The wheat shows promise, but advocates for the church are imposing a high price.  Voices raise, voices silence.  The chant below becomes reverent, zombie-like.<br/><br/><em>"send her soul to hell... send her soul to hell... send her soul to hell..."</em><br/><br/>A fluttering sound, like the beating of wings, can be heard amid the lofty crowds murmur and hum.  The chant begins to break down.  Begin to break off, and open-jawed faces with motley teeth and gums swivel, apelike, chattering in shock and knowing recognition.  "blast me it's them" "oy, no, not them--" "it' be a herald, by the pits" "the hells is that racket"<br/><br/>A the flutter dissipates, and is replaced by the rustling whir of parchment paper, spiraling through the air.  It comes into view of the torchlight, rippling through the air and unfurling in the rising heat from the brazier.  Black feathers and beads adorn one corner of the parchment, woven into a leather-corded edge.  The executioner lowers his hands and tips his head, standing back from the Walker as if an actor who missed a cue.<br/><br/>"THIS..." the Walker says as the paper settles, unsinged by the torches, onto the wooden planks, "--IS THIS DECEPTION..?" Waving one hand, the paint-laden wastrel of a woman rises from her place by the brazier and takes up the scroll, reading over it quickly, before raising her shockingly yellowish eyes to him-- deep in their darkened sockets-- and stoically handing the scroll over with a shake of her head.<br/><br/>The skull stares as she unfurls the top half, and the room is deathly silent, so that the sizzle of fat and brain are audible among Cris' panting breaths and the wet-hot flicking of torches.<br/><br/>Moments draw on, and then the beast waves one wet-whipping hand to dismiss the scroll.  "THE GOD-DEVIL ASMODEUS HAS A CONTRACT, MY BRETHREN.  CONTRACTS... MUST... BE HONORED."  The sound of a dry laugh, something freakishly giddy about it, fills the room.  "AND THE DARK LORD HAS TIME TO WAIT.  YOUR PURPOSE, GIRL, IS IN SERVICE TO GOLGOTHA.  UNTIL THE DAY.  YOU.  DIE."  The glimmer of the jeweled eyes seems to flicker with the firelight at the hideous joy in those words, and one elongated tendril of a finger levels itself at her.  "WE SERVANTS OF THE FIRST<i>ALWAYS</i>HONOR OUR DEBTS."<br/><br/>Beside the sand-pit floor, Crow shifts on the bench, overturning an abandoned clay cup in the process.  "Impossible," he hisses under his breath.<br/><br/>Among the guards, a shadowy-cloaked figure materializes forth, wearing oily black leathers with coppery studs, a cloak of shimmering gray like flowing darkness and shadow sliding back from her pauldroned shoulders.  Lean and tall, she bears the grace and stature of an elf, though her feature are obscured by shadow that seems to cling to the cloak, devouring the torchlight and leaving her untouched.  Black feathers trail into the air as she walks, dissipating into dust and shadow with every step.  From a thick and wide satchel at her left hip, she retrieves a simple gray cloak and lays it over Cris' back where she still kneels, shivering, her pale skin white with fear and gleaming with sweat, and crouches to guide her to her feet.<br/><br/>"YES.  THE RAVENS OF GOLGOTHA.  IF YOU LIVE, WE WILL KNOW OF YOUR DEEDS.  IF YOU LIVE, THE DARK CITY WILL THRIVE BY YOUR EFFORTS.  YOU, CHILD, HAVE A HIGHER PURPOSE, AND YOU NOW SERVE ASMODEUS' WORDS.... WRITTEN ON YOU... YES, NOW THAT I LOOK, I CAN SEE THEM-- I CAN SEE THE WORDS OF THE FIRST WRITTEN INTO YOU, IN YOUR FORM... BURNING YOUR SKIN EVEN NOW.  THE BLACK FIRE OF THEIR SHAPE STAINS YOUR HEART, YOUR VERY SOUL!  YOU ARE OURS, AS LONG AS YOU LIVE, BUT YOU WILL ALWAYS BE HIS!"<br/><br/>Under the large hood, an olive-complected feminine face, pretty but criss-crossed with scars, looks back at Cris impassively.  A guard steps closer, fumbling with a key ring at his belt, and tries to form a word-- but she meets his eyes and stares back coldly, freezing him in his tracks.  there's a faint click-- not the repeated racheting of the bolt-- and the pin falls out of the collar to tinkle softly against the wooden planks.