The crowd's enthusiasm lulls down to a general murmur as the execution rite draws to a close, an ignoble aftermath that leaves a few ravenous, slack faces staring at the last details-- those few true aficionados agape at the last glimpses of the corpse, as it is lifted down by the torch-bearers in tandem, slack and hollow like a butchered pig.  The executioner gives a few final twists of the wire in expert fashion by looping and crisscrossing the handles, expediting the removal of the top half of the skull, which the waiting brazier-bearer handles like an over-large gourd and carries to the smoking cauldron to join the innards it once controlled.  While the executioner begins the arduous task of untwining the wire implement, the braincase and teeth are left at the fire-pot's edge to smoke, the hair beginning to smolder immediately.  The Walker, however, simply paces the stage, its amber eyes tilted down as it draws up the heavy vestments like the sides of a loose hood, leans over the cauldron, and seems to absorb the reeking smoke... then resumes its downcast-faced shuffling, small circles paced around the stage like a pander meandering the streets at night.<br/><br/>From the stage's right, a clear table can be found.  The front row is, of course, taken by the Condemned and their guards, and no one dares press upon their space for fear of sharing their fate, or their contaminated aura... if such a thing is possible.  Crow waves once more his fluttering hand toward Ox, beckoning him closer to where he is eagerly steering Nephele, far from the door, and closer to the armed guards, as if under their watchful eyes the doorman's wagging tongue will be silenced, and perhaps Ox's suspicions will be assuaged.  "Yes yes," he mutters, eager for the distraction of Nephele's question.  "It counts as a church service so the gambling and drinking are not taxed."  He shrugs.  "Attendees are not allowed to leave before the ceremony completes," he says, his voice seems to sneer.Perhaps this is his attempt at charm, an attempt at duplicity that can't help melting into sewer-rat virulence.<br/><br/>"As for them, the boy and the whor--er, unclad women there.  Boy's a thief, dead.  One of the women's a murd'rer, dead.  Other's an accomplice, dead.  As for the same fate, it's not ever quite the same, as far as I know.  I seen a few such displays, but never the same fate twice.  Some are spared.  They get the brand, the Prince o'Devils himself is said to have hold of them then."  His eyes narrow, and he stares on... the charm seems to persist, but is, perhaps, fading-- perhaps raising questions in the man's mind.  They say he comes to them, and they serve their lives out, no questions.  Then they die, you see-- poison, disease, over-work in the fields, drowning, what have you-- but then the God-Fiend has his prize.  The contract is sealed."  He gives a little shiver, almost imperceptibly, glancing over at Ox.<br/><br/>"Look, old friend," he begins, his teeth working and voice croaking much like his namesake in the midst of a crow-court... a beast on its back, wings splayed, feet up and chattering in a plea to appease its peers who are tearing at its tufted barding.  "Look, see, I have a network of contacts who have looked into the business with your... your<i>area of interest</i>.  Am I speaking plainly enough?  Considering our-- er-- Company, I don't wish to violate your..trust." He grins, the expression like a grimace on his angular, harrowed face.<br/><br/>His pattering, clumsy start is interrupted as the Walker raises its hands, bringing a silence to the crowd's murmuring appreciation and reliving of the display, their retellings and comparisons, a silence settling over them that is reverence and rapt curiosity tinged with restrained, primitive fear.  It hovers its vestments hanging disheveled around its neck, the bare skull once again revealed in its gilded, stark hideousness.  To its side, the skull of Cris' father emits a constant plume of noxious smoke as the short, dirty hair singes and ripples up with heat.  A faint sizzling noise emits from spatters of heat-loosed fluids that seep and scorch on the outside of the iron kettle, into the coals, and inside the flesh and bone chamber itself.<br/><br/>The yellow, gemstone eyes gaze, inanimate and longing, over the remaining Condemned as the beast finally stills itself from its rapturous trance.  One black, sleek appendage extends an oily finger toward Cris, and the eyes swivel from the two captive slaves to the young features, fixing like a bodkin over a birthmark.  "CHILD.  YOU.  ARE.  GUILTY," the voice echoes again, spilling across the floor and vibrating in the breastbones of the onlookers.<br/>"GUILTY BY YOUR CHARGE, GUILTY BY ADMISSION OF YOUR FATHER.  GUILTY OF THEFT, OF ROBBERY.  PERHAPS, AS MANY... <I>CORRUPTIBLE</I>... CHILDREN ARE WONT TO BE... YOU ARE GUILTY OF <I>OTHER</I> SINS AS WELL."  The black root of a finger curls, too slender and long to be flesh, and beckons.<br/><br/>Iron bites at Chris' neck again, tugging toward the stage as a second guard prepares to physically wrangle her, should the need arise.  "SHOW YOUR HUMILITY, CHILD.  KNEEL AND BOW."<br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">CHRIS, required tests</div><div class="spoiler_body">1 - WILL SAVE, DC 16 vs COMMAND<br/>2 - Passive effect: WILL SAVE, DC 12 vs CAUSE FEAR. If successful, condition SHAKEN.  If fail:  condition FRIGHTENED.  Note, if Frightened, Cris must try to flee, but that's not really possible right now, but she can make a -4 Escape Artist check vs. DC 15 to try to escape binds.<br/>Regardless of the outcome--if she kneels, stands, arms herself, or breaks free, she'll be in front of the stage for this bit, so you can work it in to your next post<br/></div></div><br/>"HOW MUCH DOES A CHILD SUFFER... FOR THE SINS OF THE FATHER, HM? HIS SOUL BELONGS TO THE FIRST NOW.  AND AS HIS PROPERTY..."   Trailing off, the creature seems to study her for a moment more, tilting the broad horns as it sees something it did not expect.  Then, a low, amused laugh like the drumming of distant skins echoes from somewhere in its dark shape.  It is a sound whose mirth cannot signify love.  "HA, HA HA-- THIS...<i>CHILD</i>? WEARS THE ADMISSION OF DECEIT UNDER THOSE RAGS.  STRIP THE RAGS FROM THE PARASITE!"<br/><br/>Though the guards' briefest hesitation is a sign of their bewilderment, the three acolytes are quick to spring into action, closing in on Cris-- without even raising their maces-- to rip at the worn rags with bare hands.  The brazier-fire seems to hiss of its own accord, a gout of heat spiraling up as if stirred by a smith's bellows, and the now-emptying sockets of her father's eyes begin to boil as they stare on.