Unseeing eyes, a wordless mouth, a remorseless soul. These are the only attributes of the headsman. He was the embodiment of the empty husk of death. A thousand meaningless lives dashed away by his weary hand.
To him, death was nothing more than what he did. He didn’t understand it, nor did he bother to. Standing motionless by the gallows, mist curling around him like an ephemeral shroud, phantasmal hands clawing at his black leather, why should he care what he does, when his job is to just do, no to think.
But after many lifetimes; of many broken necks and severed heads; of shattered limbs and drowned young, the weight of his actions start to pull him down, tugging on his mind like a starving child.
Today was his final task. He could not lay down his hand; with skin like scales, until this last soul is gone to the void. Only then can he lie down in his long awaited grave, to rest and fester, to sleep and moulder. He had fed the maggots of the grave for so long; it is only just that they feed upon the hand that was so generous for so long.
To return to the grave. So close…