A duty.

The sound of stone along my blade, a song whose rhythm is kept uneven by nicks and dents often too small to be expected by the eye. I must keep it sharp, it is not for me but instead for those whom it is kept.

I am paid well by noble hands and those whose property becomes mine when my duty is done. The price I pay is to be alone, as often many see a darkness follow me. Mine is the axe which I keep well, but my shadow’s is the sickle.

I place my hood over my face though many know already who I am. My place begins when all else is done, I serve only to make things final. I step out before the crowds with any number restrained before me. The cheers and jeers fill the senses, as terror comes to the restrained. I do what I can and whisper with my promise for the inevitable to be quick.

Mine is not the place of judge, not that of politics, victims, victors or the vanquished. It is certainly not that which can be made light of. I offer all the only affection I can grant. My blade is sharp, my action swift, I seldom need a knife to ensure the execution is complete.