New Journal; Entry 05
Today, I was awoken by a polite man, as thin as a pencil, in a bespoke black suit. He told me that he was simply checking my room to ensure that I hadn't any contrabands. I asked what he considered contrabands. He told me that anything which was not beautiful was a contraband which must be eliminated. He searched the room rather thoroughly, leaving when he realized I had nothing of the sort. At least, that would be his telling; I woke up much earlier, as I always do, and having seen this inspection of a man's home yesterday, I hid anything of the sort inside the uncomfortable mattress. After the typically unsatisfying breakfast, I stepped into the courtyard to enjoy the crisp air of the coming Winter. In the town square, I heard a great commotion. On a platform, I saw a man yesterday who the inspector had visited, his hands bound together. He appeared to have a red pock-mark on his cheek. I was told that it was the mark of sin; that he must have eaten something disgusting or created something unappealing or walked improperly in some sort or manner. Many of the kind and friendly villagepeople had their personal theories. Some said he committed an atrocity against another, others thought he had simply participated in something ugly. The inspector from earlier soon appeared on-stage with a long, beautiful, slender blade in hand. The way he walked, he appeared to be a remarkable expert in the craft. I have seen swordsmen trained for half-centuries who could not wield a blade so elegantly. With a single stroke, he gouged the blade through the man, leaving a cut so thin it was nearly imperceptible, until the accused began to spray a fountain of blood. It was certainly not the first execution I've witnessed, nor was it the most gruesome. Still, to watch a life end is no simple thing; and to see it so gratuitously celebrated brought a curdle to my stomach. Even still, the death was not the worst part. Despite its utter brutality, there was one thing about the murder I could not deny; it was beautiful. I almost wished that I could see it again, so that I may truly appreciate it. Luckily, that was the only execution scheduled for the day. Returning to my inn after recovering from my stupor, I found the inspector had already arrived. In his hands was an old, rusted trinket I have carried with me for half a decade, a small and ugly and unvarnished piece of metal. Holding his blade in one hand, he informed me that I had broken the village's most sacred rule; for it, I was to be executed. Before he could draw his blade, I pulled the Justiciar from its holster, leaving three clean holes in his chest. The sheets were ruined, which was a shame, because I had begun to appreciate how beautiful they were. Retrieving the trinket from his cold hands, I holstered my weapon, checked out of the hotel, and departed from the village without hesitation. While the village was beautiful, I was glad to be gone. I had an ugly side, after all.
I dub this the Prosperous Village.
Until my next stop.
