2 June 2012
"How does it taste, defeat? I have never tasted it myself, at least not in it's finality." The Witchfinder removed the gag from his mouth.
Just a cough, and a splutter, releasing backed up sick. This man felt the weight of his suffering, the chains that bound him where thick.
"What is that?, I cannot hear you! What is the matter? Has a cat got your tongue? Not so fucking brave are you now? It's seems you have come undone."
"Yet still you offer me silence, still you will not break. I have given you pain that has brought others death. How much more can one man take?"
"Even when I snapped your fingers, you still refused to speak. Even when I put nails through each of your toes, Still Not A Fucking Squeak!!!"
The Witchfinder was outraged, for a confession was always obtained. He could not let reputation slip, could not let his faith be stained.
The man before him was a Templar. An old survivor of crusades. He had spent a lifetime devoted, to his god he daily prayed.
His accusation: Necromancy! Conversing with the dead. In truth a night time vigil, to the grave of the woman he had wed.
Beneath, an ulterior motive, as so often was the way. The man lived a life if luxury and land, that the church could take away.
"You will give me a confession! You filthy son of a whore!", With that the Witchfinder struck him, sending him crashing to the floor.
"Bring me this mans daughter!", The Witchfinder barked at a guard. She was comely girl of twenty-four, the apple of her fathers heart.
The man on the floor was sobbing.
"To Hell with You and your god!"- He said."
"That will do quite nicely!", the Witchfinder replied.
After a lifetime of service to god, in the morning the Templar burned dead.
Witchfinder II • Opuss № I