Hey there peeps!

Here goes another attempt at a contest, so wish me luck! Hopefully I won't get disqualified on this one! Har.

The entry prompt had some general idea of adding a story, and making the skin "historically accurate." (I'm making air quotes) So I did a bit of research about executioners, including a more modern interview with a real live executioner, so I hope you enjoy. Or, if you're a judge, please rate this fairly!

If you're just looking for a skin, diamond this and be on your hurried little way! If any linguists are reading this, I'd like to hear your feedback! I like being evaluated on my writing! Now, lets hear a story...

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I hear the rooster and I wake up.

I'm a soldier in the 12th brigade of Great Britain's land force, and we usually get up normally around now. But today is different, because today is the day I will kill someone.

Not everyone is punished like this, I tell myself. But in my mind something tells me this is wrong, this is evil.

The overseer chose me at random to execute Kelly Johannes, for treasonous behavior, a crime that for ages had been punishable only by death or banishment, and he took death. Not many people survived exile anyway.

I went to the overseer's tent to don the traditional--yet terrifying--black cloak and hood of the executioner. I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to do it.

As I entered the small, smelly enclosure, the overseer glanced at me and beckoned me to see him. I grabbed the black robes and walked over to him. "All you need is one quick, hard blow to the neck with the sword. You don't want to use more than 2 or 3 hits, most folks don't stomach that well."

"People will be watching this?" I asked, choked up at the thought of killing another person, another soldier, a person like me, before a crowd made me sick. "Well yes," the overseer responded. "I'm talking about the man who does the deed."

"Go to the armory and get the executioner's sword," "Yes sir." I walked out of the tent, blinking. I was really going to do this. There was a dark stirring inside of me.

As I walked to the armory tent, I caught the gazes of a few men standing around. All it took was one look from them, and they knew what I was doing. It happens often enough, I tell myself. Someone has to get the job done. But that little voice is back, telling me I was wrong.

The armory was almost empty when I got in. The burly man who occupied the place glared at me. "What are you supposed to be doing? The goths here yet?" "No," I said. "I'm here to get the ex-ex..." I stuttered. The man's eye's softened a bit. "I understand. It's back here." He led me to a dark area at the back of the canvas shelter, with a few cloth wrappings around various weapons. Bludgeons. Battleaxes. Maces. But at the end of the makeshift passageway was an unsheathed sword, round at the end, long, heavy, worn at the handle, and looking like it was forged of darkness itself. "Here it is," the armorer whispered to me. "Been used for a long time, it has. By normal people, just like you."

But something told me he was mistaken.

The time came when it was time for the Johannes man to die. A crowd had gathered, like the overseer had said. It sickened me to think that this many people had come to watch someone be killed. By me. Now I saw why I wore the hood and robe of the executioner. So nobody could judge me on what I did.

The booming tone of a bell tolling said it was time. The perpetrator came up, red-faced and tears streaming from his eyes. "God save me," he kept muttering. "God save me."

I felt like crying, too. I also felt like I was about to die, like I was the treasonous one. But this was part of my job, I was paid to do this. I was defending the crown.

The traditional blessing was said, and the poor soul knelt on the wood stage of the executioner's block. Everything was in order. But I was a shambles. I was shaking so hard I almost dropped the sword.

Then something in me woke up. The voice.

"Kill him. Kill him. Kill him." It seethed. "He doesn't deserve to live. Just one chop. That's all you need."

And I succumbed to the monster in my head. And swung.

Thwack.

It didn't go all the way the first time. Neither the second. But on the third blow, the deed was done. I was a killer.

But the voice didn't leave. "You were already a killer. You're a soldier in the 12th brigade. You wanted to do this from when you were a child."

"AAAARGH!" I screamed, mostly to myself, but to the crowd as well. Their cheers grew louder, and I was appalled. They thought I was a monster, bloodthirsty, an evil being.

And I agreed with them.

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Well, how was that? Sorry if it was a wee bit morbid, but that's all!

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