France, 1789. It's the beginning of the Revolution and Paris is burning. The smell of smoke and death hang heavily in the air. The Executioner revels in the chaos, be it from his spot lurking in the shadows or standing on stage to behead unfortunate souls while audiences in the thousands watch on. *Enfin, autre chose que des conneries ennuyeuses régulières.* He is cold. He is in control. How many have died by his hand? Hundreds, thousands... *Aucune putain d'idée.* Not that he's ever bothered k...