Jugaret

         The dancing light of the lone candle broke the emptiness of the small stone cottage from its perch on a small table. Its flame barely put a dent in the stale darkness that shrouded the brawny man in its remaining wooden chair. He reached into a leather pouch slung over the backrest and came back with a scroll of papers. His large calloused hands unfurled the long parchment in the frail candlelight. The soiled and blood-stained refugee dipped a quill into the inkwell to the right of his light source and etched his thoughts onto the page’s stained surface.

         My name is Jugaret. That’s what I’ve been called all of my life, at least. I have no idea what my real mother called me. There’s no recollection in my mind of her existence. Having been rescued from the arms of a beggar at a very young age, I know very little of my true origins. The man who raised me, and whom I call my father, told me tales of how he found me huddled next to a grimy street urchin inebriated and intoxicated beyond my own facilities. He surmised that she had fed me opium and liquor to sedate me into submission. Apparently, I was the product of the dregs of our society -- fodder for the empire’s meat grinder.
The once prosperous domain of Her Highness, L’Andriel Koroleva IV, now lays in ruin. The people’s revolt has succeeded in toppling her vile regime. Until recently, our realm stretched from the far-flung kingdoms of Seven Isles in the northeast all the way down into the fertile steppes of Adquöbe. L’Andriel’s lust for land and flesh knew no bounds, and turned her subjects against her.

         The tall, muscular man dipped the end of his feather back into the well’s liquid void.

         The revolutionaries will surely write their versions of this portion of our history and feed it to the future generations of lethargy. I shall take what time that I have remaining in this sanctuary to journal my version of the truth as best as an Imperial Executioner’s feeble mind can recall.

         Jugaret gingerly blew onto the paper, checking to ensure that his heavy penmanship remained legible. A chill breeze funneled in through the chimney and fireplace bending the lone flame to its will.

         A person doesn’t fall into the vocation of executioner by accident. It takes a special type of individual to deliver the punishment of death in its many torturous and grotesque forms. My father, Andre, held the post prior to my appointment. That’s been over twenty years ago. All that I have learned in this craft, I absorbed from him. I shall now recount my life’s tale from as far back as my memories and collected anecdotes will allow, so as to give you the most complete account of these occurrences as possible.