Disclaimer: The ideas are mine, the characters belong to JK.
Character: Walden Mcnair
Prompt: Blood thirst
"I was waiting on the backseat of the car"
Bad Love, by White Lies
Sharpening an axe is a difficult task. It's not quite the same as sharpening a knife; it's more dangerous. One can't actually move the axe over a bench stone, for instance. It is the sharpener that moves around the weapon, which places the hands of whoever is doing that dangerously close to the blade. The axe itself must be held in awkward ways, and the smallest slip of the hand could mean serious injuries, from severed fingers and toes to the loss of enormous quantities of blood.
Sharpening an axe was not something that could be accomplished with the wave of a wand. That may seem strange at first, but the truth is, not many wizards found themselves in need of such instruments. An axe, – or a knife, or a chisel, they would argue – can not do anything a Severing charm can't. Walden disagreed. He was not the only one of course, but most of the others protected their hands with thick dragon hide gloves.
Walden McNair had taught himself to edge his weapons with bare hands. His skin was carved with scars; momentos from that distant learning period.
He had built that particular axe himself. It was a mediocre weapon, with a rough handler, made of unpolished wood. A crude instrument for the unworthy task of slaughtering beasts and animals for the ministry of magic. His noblest weapons – an inheritance from his father's family – should be spared the indignity of that job. Lucius Malfoy had gotten him that position. Malfoy. If the pure-blood community knew half the things written in the journals of Walden's ancestors about the activities conducted by the Malfoys in the past, their name would be dragged in the gutter. But that was distant time, before the McNairs and their close cousins, the Gaunts, fell in disrepute. Now, Malfoy was a wealthy lord and Walden was an executioner.
Not that he didn't enjoy it. The resistance given by muscles and bones to the blade traveled through the handler till his arms, giving him the chills. Shivers of excitement ran down his spine, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as he watched the blood pouring out, splashing his face. The colours. The smells. The taste. It made him feel so alive! But he missed his human victims.
Hippogriffs and Trolls did not have fear in their eyes as the axe went down. Some of them became agitated, but it was nothing compared to the panic spurred by the awareness of one's own death. Beasts and animals can not speak. They did not ask to be let go. They did not promise him money, as if that was what it was all about. They didn't threaten him with revenge, shouting all sorts of insults. They did not tell him about their kids, as if he would take pity and spare them. They did not beg for their lives.
And they did not cry. Tears were were particular to men.
AN: Please, review. if you have the time... When I wrote this, I was thinking of that discussion between William of Baskerville and Jorge in The Name of the Rose. About how, laughter is particular to man. Well, the same goes for tears, right?