No reference for this, just off the top of my head actually. I draw much better with reference but here goes!

Because it's easier than Predator.

Camo at its finest!

Yayy I figured out how to do hair! Too bad it looks better than the rest of the pic

My version of a favourite.

The crowds cheer, a head rolls, the self righteous nobility & judges shrink their noses at the disposed of criminal - very much like how some folks toss out dead poisoned vermin, in fact. Day in and day out, he wields the axe that deals out so called justice. He strolls ominously onto the stage, where his silent demeanor instills fear in the audience, as well as awe in some amongst it. His towering presence a brutal reminder to any would be perpetrators of the law.

His trusty axe, Tina, ever so faithful now for almost 10 years, has accompanied him from the start. He's long since lost count of how many souls they have sent to meet their respective makers together. Oddly enough, he does have a certain fondness for Tina the Axe. As for being an Executioner? Many would love to hold his position, the enigmatic seat of the executioner. Yet many more wonder how he does it. Does he have a clear conscience? Does he have a heart? Perhaps he is a demon-spawn of some sort, unable to pity the plethora of lives he has taken. Or worse yet, he could even be cruelly enjoying what he does with an unsettling passion & glee.

But underneath that mask, there is not a gleeful expression to be found.

No... Day in and day out, he drags Tina out for another thrill for the crowd, another kill for the governing body, or a convenient disposal for the ruling class, but alas; it's just another chore for him. You see, he's not very happy being the executioner. It's not entirely bad, for example he likes the rewards of privacy his job has bestowed upon him. Throw in the fact that none of the locals dare bother him and the situation almost sounds ideal (because he is never seen in public without his mask)! But, at other times, he'd rather be someone in the crowd, watching himself from a distance instead. Sometimes in a flash of rebellious mischief - when he's sure none will take notice - just before he swings his axe, he rolls his eyes with exasperation at the pompous arrogance the authorities display, as if they're doing such a fantastic job, so full of themselves. And when he's feeling really daring? Well, he even makes faces and sticks his tongue out at them.

The thing is, he actually resents this position. Being an executioner is not what he wanted to do, nor what he aspired to be, in the years of his naive youth!
Serving Death, and humoring whatever bastardized version of 'justice' happened to be fashionable at the time, for the approval of a compulsively bloodthirsty & roaring crowd was the farthest thing from any of his ambitions at the time...

All he ever wanted was to be a Pastry maker.

Yes, that's right. A Pastry maker.

A maker of cakes, not death.

In fact, sometimes as the lifeless corpses of his dispatch slump over, spurting their life essence from head and neck stump - he envisions a bun or a pie, filled with a sweet cherry filling or maybe even a tart strawberry preserve. Even as he swings Tina the Axe, as she sings, there is a moment where he dreams that she's being used to chop fruits & confections, for the pastries of the day. When he could almost smell the irresistible smells of a delicious baked treat!

The illusion is shattered however, each & every time Tina makes her crimson spattering thud, and an unseen scornful grimace soon washes over his face.
And once the deed of death is done, he sulks off, muttering and cursing under his breath, often times near tempted to drive Tina's sharp edge into an onlooker's face. But no... off he goes, back to his hidden den, where he reads up on the latest baking & dessert trends... you know, just in case.

This is the story of Edmund the Executioner.

Painted Face

Grin
they said,
demanding
I hide feelings,
and show the false me.
Put on that happy face.
Repress the sadness and hurt,
for no one likes the lonely child;
or so they told me and I believed.
Swallow all that you know about yourself,
and lose your precious identity too.
So I painted my lips big and bright,
for all to see the cheerful me;
my soul sinister with time.
Now grown and on my own,
I fear being lost.
I am consumed,
but the paint
does come
off.

by Kim Schilling