The Sanguinarian

Christoph:
[VO] A condemned man is entitled to three requests: a meal, a priest, and a moment to speak. I received none of these. And I died all the same.

Colonel Payton:
And what, my dear Christoph, are you about this night?

Christoph:
I wait. Endlessly. The persistent expectation of a tilt to the world's axis surpasses even my own logic

Colonel Payton:
It tilts every day.

Christoph:
And yet, each passing day is the same as the one before.

Colonel Payton:
A new night, always, from the birth of the moon and the death of the sun.

Christoph:
The same night. Endlessly.

Christoph:
[VO] There is, inside me, an odd sensation. Hard to describe. Like the whisper of the falling cutter's blade. Or the hollow click of a pistol hammer laying back. Or the chaffing rustle of the rope against my throat.

Yalel Thomas:
Forget all that contemporary mindless gnashing, self-serving chanting by self-important and deluded fools. Those cries of "count my blessings and smile as the sun rises" clap and trap.

Christoph:
I am a cold man, Yale Thomas.

Yalel Thomas:
Then be cold. Be the epitome of a deep frost. Be the long blown wind across the frozen crusts of bitten snow. Be the ice water in my veins.

The Count:
There I, peering out of stone turret at hillside swarming. Thrice dozen loyal guards stood behind, not a man among them undisposed to imminent death. Rightly so, for without were a full thousand clawing earth and crawling towards.

Jean:
Clean I your boots? My tongue stands at the ready.

Yalel Thomas:
A little help, Christoph. Lest your hands are broken.

Christoph:
As good as, crippled in my misery.

Colonel Payton:
It is an unhappy bedfellow. Leave it.

Christoph:
I am wedded to it. I have, at gunpoint, ceremoniously betrothed my every breath to it. I lay down at night with it. It holds me there, as my skin crawls, with its iron nails and stone shoulders and its incessant and cutting whine.

Colonel Payton:
Credible rumor doth persist that she will outright kill craven, such as us.

Christoph:
My friend, I am already dead.

Christoph:
CHRISTOPH Infection rampant rages, in such as you and yours, and I take due precaution in my ways. What one of uncounted, even unnumbered,unwholesome acts brought about the possible contamination of your blood?

Christoph:
Fatigue a heavy burden on the ensuing breath, heavier still when it lays on the soul itself. I am tired. How seductive the vitality of a possible Utopia. Thought I to bring about grace, departing disease and grime and scrubbing off pervasive filth. And now, how sought after the lack of weariness, how desirous the absence of exhaustion.