[The Condemned]<br/>The clarion call from before repeats-- a solo voice, a woman's voice, hauntingly beautiful becomes a soft song (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oox89zg-cf8), quieting the raucous, awful crowd's howls to a dull murmur of almost respectful reverence.  The words are old Chelaxian, from a time before the Great Fall, a dirge for the condemned.  The words are hard to make out in modern common, but some of their words still ring true.<br/><br/>"We... reverence... honor... judgement... peace... sorrow."<br/><br/>Hats are removed from most of the crowd, though some take the minutes' respite as a chance to simply refill their ales from the same well that the half-ales are re-funneled into for a half-copper each tankard full, and some opt for the fresh at a full copper or trade.  Then, their drinks refreshed, the ceremony begins with all the devilish pomp and circumstance of a black rite. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ScP5Nv-EhZI)<br/><br/>Torches are borne in by two forebears, long spear-like brands over eight feet in length with oil-dripping fires at the tip aglow with blue-gold flame.  They are each dressed in black robes that sweep the ground and enshroud their faces, each brandishing an iron mace on their left hip and a book on their right.  Their bared hands are tinged red with oil, like their grim faces, stoic and cold and startlingly human.<br/><br/>Behind them is a brazier-bearer, in whose pot smolders the remnants of some ritual fire that flows oily smoke in a long, trailing cloud.  The redolence of burnt offerings-- flowers and herbs, singed meat and smoking knots of pine-- emanates out to fill the room.  She swings the iron cauldron on its three chains linked to one ring before her like a censer, letting the rich smoke waft over the crowd and procession alike.  If by instinct, respect, or fear, the crowd backs away from the painted figure, her lanky body bare but for coats of thick paint over her lean, slat-ribbed body and ropy muscle, her small breasts and lean arms tense with the weight.  On her back are written words in a language indecipherable to the viewers [Linguistics- Infernal check 20] in whirling scars that look to have been branded years ago by ragged chunks of iron.  The thick paint of red and black is in dizzying ropes across her whole body.  She is followed by The Walker-- the one who is to represent Asmodeus in this rite of Judgement, a sexless in black and red drapes layered thick over a tall, lean figure topped at the head by a ceremonial mask of a gilded steer's skull with jeweled yellow eyes, a sickening smile painted upon the teeth and silver spiraling from the forehead out to the points of two long horns.  He bears a scepter of gold-leafed iron up to the head, which is peaked with three human skulls with iron spikes protruding through each set of eyesockets and nostrils.<br/><br/>As the torch-bearers reach the stage, they plant the torches to the sides of the pillory, gouging and twisting them into the sand in such a way that the flaming residue rains down harmlessly upon their cloaks and emanates a sickening smell and smoke, but they show no sign of pain or fear.  The brazier is hung by the woman upon one of the pillory's metal rings, where the glow of burning coals within casts a radiant orange glow up all the way to the rafters, where the glint of prying eyes from the high-born seats can be spotted easily now, hoisting silver cups and passing bundles about over the proceedings like simulacrums of gods themselves.<br/><br/>The walker takes center stage, walking a full-circle widdershins around the pillory to check that all is in place as the three in his procession proceed to the sand to kneel and assume the posture of prayer.  The Walker extends one hand toward the Condemned, and the hand that extends from the black and red sleeves of the vestments bears the thin, elongated semblance of an overly-large skeleton clad in black snake-skin leather, like a nest of copperheads come alive.  The fingers indicate Cris's father first, then Cris, then Malia, then Melina in turn.<br/><br/>"YOU, THE GUILTY--" a voice like crumbling bone echoes, louder by far than any mortal's voice should be at this timber, hisses to the crowd, "ARE TO BE JUDGED.  IF YOU ARE FOUND INNOCENT, YOU WILL BE... FREED OF YOUR BONDS."  The creature takes a half step in their direction, and then the flagstones ring out again, hollow and heavy, with the footfalls of a heavy beast or man.  "IF GUILTY YOU REMAIN, YOUR CONTRACT IS AT ITS END... METED OUT IN SUFFERING, TERMINATED IN YOUR DEATH, AND THE COMMITMENT OF YOUR SOUL TO OUR GRAND LORD ASMODEUS.  HAIL!"<br/><br/>[THE DOOR... OX AND NEPHELE]<br/>All this ceremony is clearly visible to them, and the doorman does not seem inclined to interrupt... despite the apparent anger that tenses his muscles... he is far too professional in demeanor to accept the baiting of a pit-fighter, and he seems--if anything--annoyed that Ox has yet to catch his drift about Crow's situation.<br/><br/>"That, m'Lady," the doorman continues, would be for the execution.  See... they kill cheats.  Like those who run.  Out.  On.  Their.  Debts."  He leans back against the door, folding his arms casually over his bare chest, and watches.<br/><br/>Crow, snapping in anger-- turns to Ox.  Apparently her sway over him still bears sway, even after so brief a meeting.  "Do NOT speak in front of her so harshly," the older man hisses.  "She is, well, clearly<i>special</i>, you see.  I'm... er, staying with her."  His hawkish eyes flit back and forth, seeming to sense no cause of fear from Ox just yet... "c'mon old friend, lets... er... get away from this doorman, I mean, door... let's get a good view so I can, ah, yell you what I know.  Alright?"<br/><br/>[All]<br/><br/>"HAIL LORD ASMODEUS!" the crowd echoes, familiar with this bit of the rite, "WE SEND THEIR SOULS TO HELL!" A cheer follows this, a chant of enthusiastic, sadistic joy.  "WE SEND THEIR SOULS TO HELL!  WE SEND THEIR SOULS TO HELL! WE SEND THEIR SOULS TO HELL! HAIL ASMODEUS HAIL!"<br/><br/>The metal-masked guard seizes Cris' father's chain, hauling him up despite his rag-doll posture, his slack countenance.  The blood on his face, no longer flowing, now mingles with an ice-cold sweat and he shakes like a quivering rabbit before the hounds as his chain goes taut-- to Cris' own bindings, and the second guard seizes Cris as well, tugging fiercely to guide the pair to the edge of the stage where more guards wait to expedite the procedure.<br/><br/>His collar is hastily unclasped with a simple wrench of iron.  He chokes at the tension placed on it and the swelling of his throat with fear, and the iron falls away for one guard to easily manage Cris with two hands as the others seize him up, yanking his bare, chafed neck and still-bound hands to guide him to the pillory.  He is spun, the meaty slap of his back and spine colliding with the oak pole resonate, and the crowd watches rapt and silent as the grave for every detail.  His shirt is ripped away-- what little of it is left... and his sweat-soaked chest, short chest-hair and arm curls, a few old scars, a birthmark or two-- all are laid bare in the sheen of sweat that covers his lean body as a leather strap is fixed over both arms and chest, another over his wrists and under his heaving belly, then both are cinched tight and buckled.<br/><br/>"COMMON...  THIEF.  YOU WERE FOUND IN POSSESSION OF STOLEN PROPERTY.  AND... YOUR AGE AND...<i>CONDITION</i>... WARRANTS YOU UNFIT FOR LABOR."  A few jeers emanate from the crowd as the Walker strides closer, and clearly they have arrived at their judgment already.  The man s a waste.<br/><br/>The gallery's complaints turn to expectant noises and "ho-hos" and ribbing of enthusiasm and excitement, however, as if their favorite hero-- or anti-hero-- has just entered the stage of a great play at the right moment to deliver a fantastically humorous line.  All this because of the manifestation from the shadows of the final figure of this sick ritual... the executioner has emerged.  He is a man suspected to be a shipyard butcher of horseflesh and pig-flesh alike, and some say they even know his name though no one-- NO one-- dares boast that he has admitted it.  For now, his red cowl, scarf, and robe shroud his broad-shouldered, barrel-chested form just enough to hide his identity.<br/><br/>Strange that an executioner carries no axe, no club, no rope... nothing in his hands... his great mitts simply flex as if to squeeze blood from the empty air itself.<br/><br/>With a soft hiss of whirling robes, the walker snaps its attention to Cris' father.  All eyes are upon the wretched-looking beast now, with its gilded face fixed as it hunkers down in the prisoner's face so that the sparkling, empty eyes can stare into into his own.  The soulless jewels seem to glitter in the light of the torches, reflecting in the limpid pools that stare back in terror.<br/><br/>"YOUR DEFENSE WAS THAT YOU HAD YOUR.  CHILD.  STEAL FOR YOU."  This time, audible curses and boos join the sounds of rejection.  The sentence hangs in the air like thorns from a tree, and the prisoner darts his head side to side as if seeking a way around it.<br/><br/>"SPEAK, YOU LOW CUR.  IS THIS TRUE?  DID YOU BID YOUR CHILD-- THIS DROWNED RAT HERE, STEEEEAL FOR YOU?" One hand lifts to indicate where Cris is thrust forth to the edge of the stage, dangled from her bonds to her tip-toes, much like a goose on display at the market with blood left to drain to the feet.  "ANSWER, WRETCH!"<br/><br/>"y-y-y-y-" a dark stain appears in the front of Cris' father's breeches, and a dribble of bloody saliva trails from his numb lips.  His eyes are fish-wide, and his face frozen taut in fear.  The crowd can see the lies fluttering there in that face, can see the desperation of a mortal mind cracked wide and frightened to its primal core.  The terror in him, the will broken.  "Y-Y-Y-YEEEEESSSSS...  e-e-e-I---  I... I BADE... MY CHILD... STEAL THINGS" he screams these words, the pitch of his voice shrieking as his vocal chords tighten, tear against themselves-- the harder he fights, the more his voice forces the words.  "I-- I BID-- HER-- STEAL A -- GOLD-- SNUFF- BOX FROM-- FROM .... LLLllllorrrrRRRD AWWFFRRREdd's NiieeCE--- AND COINS-- COINS from the MAAAAARKEEET!  A -- STEW FROM--- MATRON POOOORdRRY-- P-p-p-PIN frrrom SAaaaLAZZZzzzAR REED!  SttaaaTUE OF IRORI... Frrrrom ALISTRAY PORTER-- WAREHOUSE ROBBERIES MARKET ROBBERIES CHURCHROBBERIESHOUSEROBBERIESPICKPOCKETINGTHEMARKETCUTPURSING AAAAAAAUUUUGH"<br/><br/>He goes limp, gasping for air, as the mask turns away.  Cris' father has turned reddish-purple and would have passed out from lack of breathing had the gaze continued.  "AND WHAT... DID YOU PAY... YOUR NEIGHBORS, YOUR FELLOW CITIZENS... FOR THESE THINGS?"<br/><br/>Afraid of that gaze, Cris' father has turned away, screwed his eyes shut completely.  He is quivering and gasping for breath, but he dares not resist to answer.  "no... nuffin."<br/><br/>The chorus of disapproving roars echoes down, but the Walker silences them by raising one mangled, tentacle-like hand.  "AND WHAT DID YOU GIVE YOUR CHILD... WHAT CONTRACT FOR THIS SERVICE?"<br/><br/>Confused, he looks up, his eyes flickering across the crowd, the guards, the condemned for an answer.  "A... a bed... food..."<br/><br/>"A PALLET BED.  MEAGER RATIONS.  LOOK UPON THE CHILD, PEOPLE.  STARVED.  WEAK FROM LACK OF FOOD.  YOU GAVE THE CHILD THE SENTENCE OF A THIEF, HERE, TO FOLLOW YOU TO THIS PILLORY FOR JUSTICE-- YOU MADE THE CHILD<strong>GUILTY</strong>OF THESE CRIMES WITHOUT EVEN A CONTRACT?"<br/><br/>He looks on in stunned silence, the only answer he can give.<br/><br/>The hooded figure turns to him once more, and laughs."FOOL."  It raises its arms.  "THEN IN YOUR SENTENCE,<br/>YOU HAVE NOTHING EVEN TO OFFER OUR LORD TO BARTER.  YOU WILL BURN AS CORDWOOD, LESS IN VALUE THAN THE SKIN YOU INHABIT.  I PROCLAIM THAT YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD.  LET PAIN BE YOUR SACRIFICE AND DEATH BE YOUR DELIVERY TO THE HANDS OF ASMODEUS OUR LORD! ON YOUR WAY!"  He gestures grandly to the upper rafters, and the coals and torches glow with a devilish light.  The walker reaches into the cauldon, and smoke roils out across the crowd as it strides across the stage and places its open palm onto Cris' father's breast.  The man wails in agony as his flesh is seared, a soud like sizzling meat audible before the crowd cheers in delight.  When the thing's hand is gone, a fresh sear in a pentacle remains on the flesh, angry red and bubbling like a living scar.<br/><br/>"WHAT SAY YOU TO THE MANNER OF HIS DELIVERANCE?  SWIFT OR SLOW?"  The peasants below begin to chant.  "SWIFT SWIFT SWIFT--" and continue as deliberations ensue up above.  It is but a few seconds before a puppet-show of hands emerge, all their thumbs pointing down.<br/><br/>"So be it!" calls the cowled executioner.<br/>(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rmf0_zRdiq4)<br/>[tagging Nephele, as Ox already knows the meaning of "Slow"] Crow leans over to her, whispering, "Slow means a life of slavery, Asmodeus claiming the soul upon eventual death," he says with a suddenly sickened frown, his face looking pale and sagging. "Execution is... by no means... swift."[back to all]<br/><br/>The executioner spreads his arms, circling the pillory, and examines the slumped, defeated man strapped there.  "WIRE!" he calls, and a guard hands him a loop of thin, rusty wire with wooden handles, no more than a foot in length.  The cowled, burly man calls aloud, "THE THIEF STOLE NOT WITH HIS HANDS, BUT HIS TONGUE!" he cries, and hoists the victims head to press it back to the wood, where he forces the wire into his mouth like a gag.<br/><br/>"No no NOOO Nauuugh, naauuuuuugh, mauuugh, moh, moh, moh moh---mooaoaaaAAAHHH!!!" the man begins to howl in agony as the executioner stands behind him, turning the wire into a neat crimp with his massive hands in cowhide gloves, tightening it through the skin of his cheeks and producing a slow, then increasing, gush of blood down his cheeks and neck.  He thrashes, but the executioner halts, carefully watching as the gush increases, knowing that before he hits bone he'll sever critical arteries-- so he hesitates-- the man's head pinned tight by his jaw ligaments to the pole.  His windpipe is crushed to a tight, flat tube, and punctured in a wide gash, but through the gap it still breathes wetly and raggedly, suctioning air painfully, exhaling bubbles and spurts with repeated coughs and chokes.<br/><br/>"HE LOOKED UPON HIS CHILD'S SUFFERING COLDLY, WITH DISDAIN!  HEEL!"  The guard, folded-metal mask stoic and cold, produces a small sliver of glinting steel with a hitch at one end. flattened to a scoop.  The  Executioner steps forth and, merciless to the writhing, pinned man, whose hands flex and grasp and whose bare feet and toes scramble and slip in his blood and piss, digs the tool into his eyesocket and, with an effort of weight and leverage, pops Cris' father's eye from its socket, where it dangles jelly-like from its optic nerve against his cheek.  He repeats the effort with the other eye-- each renews the man's shrill wails through his wounded throat to a fever-pitch like a bagpipe that rises even above the crowd's merciless roars of approval.<br/><br/>The grotesque visage that faces the Condemned now is a wailing mockery of a man, but there is one final step.  "HOOK!" the executioner cries.  A small knife is offered, a skinning knife with a gut-hook, often used by huntsmen for the scarce game and the occasional trophy-killed monster in the area surrounding Golgotha.  "AND YOU FATTENED YOURSELF ON YOUR NEIGHBORS," he lugs her fathers' breeches low, exposing his genitals, which have shriveled with shock and agony, "SO YOU GIVE--" he plunges the short knife in to the right of them, then begins to slowly draw the gut-hook up, "--THEM ALL--" the blade slices muscle, flesh, sinew like hot butter, "-- BACK!" with a final tug, the knife exits at the sternum, and he stands back as the gut-bag flowers open, spilling Cris' father's intestines and organs out into a pile that billows out of him in a wet rush to unspool at his feet.  The wet howl of shock and pain at the knife had grown quieter as the blade severed muscle, and is now only a ragged gasp, only the noise of his throat as his exposed lungs flutter uselessly, unable to draw breath without the muscle to constrict them.  Inside the cavity, veins and arteries can be seen squeezing and swelling, but there's surprisingly little blood.<br/><br/>The executioner steps back to the pillory and with a few rapid, savage twists, tightens the wire to the point that, with a few rapid jerks and kickings of his legs, Cris's father's head and neck spurts blood like a fountain, the windpipe's spurting silencing gradually to a foaming mess.  At this, the cauldon-bearer rises and accepts the now-severed organs, heaping the wet pile in handfuls into the smouldering censer, which roars to life with the blood and tissue as if it is a stoked furnace at a smith's shop.