Horrace Abbatoir: The Face of Justice

 The terrible sound of the shrieking echoed throughout the subterranean home. Was it the squalling of a mortal whelp? Or the keening of some terrible wild animal?

The stout and kind-faced wet nurse, adorned with tattoos of Pharasma held forth the babe. Her best efforts at neutrality couldn't hide the concern and disgust seeping out from behind her eyes.

Borrdax had rushed home from the copper mine as soon as he had learned of his wife's labor. He wiped the soot and ash from his face, hoping somehow it would make what he was seeing change. It did not.

“No two ways about it.” He said in a defeated tone. “That is one ugly baby.”

“You did this to me! All of you. You beggars and cravens. Sniveling and scraping at the orders of your mindless king. I stood up for myself! I took action! Damn you all!”

The crowd that had gathered around the gallows in the towns square exchanged a few looks, but otherwise the words seemed to hit deaf ears. Criminals were criminals, and execution by sword or rope was the price. The people of Stoneclimb were simple miners and laborers. Mostly human men, with a handful of dwarves (experts at digging and smelting precious metals). They had little concept of justice.

When his last words were spoken, the sword fell. In a heavy ark it swung and landed with a thick and moist chop. It wasn't a clean cut. Blood shot outward, peppering the faces of the townspeople closest to the scaffold. With a tug the blade was freed, and the second swing saw the job done.

The crowd was dead silent, in shock and in mourning, save for a timid laughter. A troubling hissing laughter, almost animanlistic in nature. One young dwarf pup, clinging to his Mothers sleeve, baptized in the criminals blood, staring with his one wide eye, smiling through crooked teeth, and laughing his grotesque little head off.

Captain Surtova fumbled in the dark to open his office door. Through a fog of drunkenness he managed to turn the key and shoulder the door open. It had been a good nights work, and he had celebrated well. He hadn't even noticed that the door wasn't locked.

He was about to fire up the oil lantern hanging from the ceiling, but decided the amount of effort in seeing through his own liquored stupor wouldn't be worth it. He simply lit a candle on the desk and sat back in his chair with a moan of ease. His paperwork sat before him. Ledgers and hand drawn maps of the houses in and around Stoneclimb. His current job had been collecting the increased taxes from the common folk. In honesty, he was nothing more than a minor law officer, in charge or no more than a dozen men at arms, but his noble blood had given him the title of “Captain.”

His noble blood has also given him a goldlust, which is exactly why his face lit up when he poured the contents of his belt purse over the desk. Almost 100 gold coins in all. The new taxes had only demanded what would be a total of 70 coins, but the common folk didn't need to know that. It was his own personal fee for keeping them so safe, and not taking advantage of his position. He felt justified, as most evil men do.

It was then that the smell hit him. He wrinkled his nose and looked around to find it source. It was overwhelming. How had he not noticed it before? Had one of the boys dumped out a chamber pot in his office as a joke? Had an animal wandered in here to fester and die? It stung his eyes and made his stomach churn. With that he leaned forward and emptied the contents of his belly onto his desk, flooding his coin and paperwork in bile. Then the chair was pulled out from under him.

He hit the floor in a drunken heap as the chair clattered away. Looking up in confusion, trying to penetrate the darkness with his eyes, he saw a shape standing over him. It was too short to “tower” over him, but the smell seemed to add a lot to his presence. A broad silhouette wrapped in a cloak, holding his desk candle. A greasy hand with sausage fingers and long fingernails placed the candle near the Captains face.

“I hwant ye tah see t' face of justice.” Burped and hissed the figure.

The Captain looked on in drunken terror as the creature pulled back his hood, revealing that he was not a creature at all, but what was most likely a dwarf. Skin like boiled leather, adorned with dark tattoos. Hair like dirty straw, hanging in dreaded clumps. He smiled a smile of crooked black and yellow teeth, full of gaps. A hooked nose like the beak of some hellspawn eagle, covered in pocks and warts. One eye hid behind a leather patch, the skin around it seeming to rot. His other eye gleamed with life. It was almost a pretty eye, in contrast to the canvas of terror on which it rested. His cloak was nothing but black rags sewn together, stained and soaked in all manner of rotting natural fluids. The flies around him seemed to dance to some unheard song.

He wanted to ask who he was. He wanted to ask what he was. But all he could do is gawk. It was then that the axe appeared. With great poise and pride the small horror lifted the two handed axe above his head in a ready-to-strike position, a look of great joy on his face. That was that. The Captain was a trained solder, after all. Hefting himself to his feet, and tearing his sword from his belt, Surtova chose to fight. The dwarf took a step back, seeming to be caught off guard.

He swung his sword low, which the dwarf jumped back from, then he swung high, and with a great clack knocked the axe out of his grubby hands, sending it skidding across the floor. Even drunk and by candle light, this grotesque was no match for him. He brought his sword down with both hands as hard as he could, and to his surprise the dwarf blocked it. With his forearm. Blade met bone, and blood spurted. Gods, even his blood seemed to stink.

The Dwarf fell to a crouching position, seeming to wrap his cloak around himself, only to swiftly draw forth two gleaming hooked blades. He charged forward twirling his strange weapons with surprising dexterity. One locked around the Captian's blade, and the other his ankle. With a jerk the blade pulled his foot out from under him, and sliced his leg tendon. A juicy pop preceded his screams of agony. Rolling and roaring on the ground, he snuffed the flame of the candle. Only darkness. It was in this darkness that the dwarf retrieved his axe.

“Yeev taken advantages of tah people in dis town fer far too lang. I find hyee guilty av greed, dishonesty, and inhumanity.” He spoke in a stern, yet gurgled voice. He held the axe above his head with both hands, and brought it down. It was a clean cut. Head left body, and silence filled the room.

The dwarf tossed the axe aside and clutched his bleeding forearm. The wound was a bad one. With that he picked up Surtova's head, and stared into his eyes. He watched the last of the life leaving his face. He muttered a strange prayer to himself, and to his god. Then he kissed the blood off his lips.
A strange energy filled the room, and the wound on the dwarfs arm closed. The bleeding stopped, and the dwarf seemed a little less twisted, if only for a moment.

Moving now to the desk he scooped the gold coins into his backpack. He picked one up and kissed it for good luck. They were still covered in vomit, but they would be returned to the people. No children would go hungry THIS night.

Horrace read over the charter, smiling to himself.

“Dragonscale thrawn. Tah Greenbelt. Banditry. Ex'hecution by Sward or Hrope.” He read aloud while shouldering his backpack, full of every possession he had. “I hope dey donna mind if I huse me Axe.” He chuckled to himself. And with that he set out.