God’s curse on the slime of the King’s damned. I scrub my hands to raw, but the stench of death still lingers. Soaked are my hands in the blood of the soon dead and those already departed. It’s the King’s work, and I do it well. I am forever marked, stained to the bone in fucking slime, guts, the damned’s shit. I wear these markings without pride. It is my profession, I am a warrior. I have been charged with the duty of cleansing my King’s lands of those who have been Trialled, convicted and sentenced. I bear sword, hammer, and nails; these are the tools of my trade. I am the driver of the nails, the one who pounds iron to cross. I have no care for those I pin. Their cries touch me not. A quick strike from the butt of my sword quiets the loudest. A much harder blow to those who attempt to scream of damning the King. This I will not tolerate and I’m swift to silence. I sometimes speak to those who pray my work. Just a murmur, not for anyone else’s ears. Never a word of forgiveness, kindness, mostly whispers of one’s coming agony, days on end. For those few who insist on screams, cries, curses; a quick jab of my sword to their livers silences even the hearty. This gives no reprieve to the suffering; I’d have no part of that. Only takes the air from the lungs and calms one’s soul to what’s one’s future is to bring. I worry not that my work will someday end. That this kingdom will somehow run short of whores, cheats, criminals in need my skills. I think the forest will be but stumps long before the damned run dry. These are my thoughts, penned next to my fire. Another day is quickly approaching and I will have a full day of work ahead.
From the Ramblings