The fog hung thick this morning, a shroud as if nature herself sought to veil what I was about to do. My boots struck the cobblestones, slick and glistening with damp, each step deliberate, echoing through the stillness. There was no rush—there never is. Only the occasional caw of distant crows interrupted the silence.
On my back rested my axe, heavy and unyielding, its weight as familiar as my own breath. Its cold steel reminded me of my station. Some call me an executioner, others, the Master Grimkind. The latter feels more apt; after all, there is a kind of craft in what I do. The blade is always honed to perfection, each swing calculated, each cut final.
I saw the townsfolk before they saw me. Curtains twitched shut, and figures slipped into the shadows of their doorways as I passed. None dared to meet my gaze. I hold no grudge for their fear; were I in their place, I would avert my eyes as well.
The fog seeped into my cloak, clinging to its coarse fabric and my leather gloves. Its chill crept into my bones, though I hardly noticed. I am a part of this mist, a phantom striding through a grim theater. Ahead, the execution square loomed, with its gallows and freshly prepared block, the wood still reeking of resin.
I paused, letting my breath linger in the air like a ghost. My hand brushed against the axe’s shaft. The blade itself was bare of ornament—no runes, no etchings, nothing to soften its utilitarian purpose. It was a tool, plain and brutal, gleaming faintly in the pale light of dawn. It had seen much, too much.
I approached the block. Its presence was stoic and unyielding, like me. Soon, the resin’s scent would mingle with something else—something metallic and warm.
I do not think of the face of the one who will kneel before me today. It is not mine to consider. I am but the hand that acts, the instrument of another’s will. Regret? Sometimes. Pride? Never. But someone must perform this duty, and I do it well.
The fog began to thin as the first rays of the sun pierced through the clouds, their feeble light casting long, shifting shadows. The guards stood waiting at the edge of the square, their faces set in stone. They said nothing. No one ever does. I have grown accustomed to the silence.
Reaching the block, I rested my hand on the axe’s worn haft. Another day’s work awaited me.
RPG Ambient Sounds
The fog hung thick this morning, a shroud as if nature herself sought to veil what I was about to do. My boots struck the cobblestones, slick and glistening with damp, each step deliberate, echoing through the stillness. There was no rush—there never is. Only the occasional caw of distant crows interrupted the silence.
On my back rested my axe, heavy and unyielding, its weight as familiar as my own breath. Its cold steel reminded me of my station. Some call me an executioner, others, the Master Grimkind. The latter feels more apt; after all, there is a kind of craft in what I do. The blade is always honed to perfection, each swing calculated, each cut final.
I saw the townsfolk before they saw me. Curtains twitched shut, and figures slipped into the shadows of their doorways as I passed. None dared to meet my gaze. I hold no grudge for their fear; were I in their place, I would avert my eyes as well.
The fog seeped into my cloak, clinging to its coarse fabric and my leather gloves. Its chill crept into my bones, though I hardly noticed. I am a part of this mist, a phantom striding through a grim theater. Ahead, the execution square loomed, with its gallows and freshly prepared block, the wood still reeking of resin.
I paused, letting my breath linger in the air like a ghost. My hand brushed against the axe’s shaft. The blade itself was bare of ornament—no runes, no etchings, nothing to soften its utilitarian purpose. It was a tool, plain and brutal, gleaming faintly in the pale light of dawn. It had seen much, too much.
I approached the block. Its presence was stoic and unyielding, like me. Soon, the resin’s scent would mingle with something else—something metallic and warm.
I do not think of the face of the one who will kneel before me today. It is not mine to consider. I am but the hand that acts, the instrument of another’s will. Regret? Sometimes. Pride? Never. But someone must perform this duty, and I do it well.
The fog began to thin as the first rays of the sun pierced through the clouds, their feeble light casting long, shifting shadows. The guards stood waiting at the edge of the square, their faces set in stone. They said nothing. No one ever does. I have grown accustomed to the silence.
Reaching the block, I rested my hand on the axe’s worn haft. Another day’s work awaited me.
#Storytelling #RPGStory
8 months ago (edited) | [YT] | 132