you find the judge, bound and gagged

The judge uselessly thrashes about as you sit on the opposite side. His eyes widened at the sight of you, briefly halting his struggling before returning to it with renewed vigor.

"Like a fish on land," you laugh. He muffles out a verbal barrage, likely insults, but you can't nor care to make sense of it. Best to let him get it out of his system.

After several minutes the judge seems to have exhausted himself. He no longer thrashes and curses; only stares. You've seen it before—the intensity in them. It's hate in his eyes. You suppose it makes sense; he does seem the hateful type.

"We're—" you begin, starting the judge in another fit. "Well," you try again, but he refuses to cooperate. "Well I'm just going to wait for you to calm down!"

Blood appears at his wrists as he continues to struggle. You realize the ropes must be digging into his skin. It needs to stop or he'll do serious damage to himself—not entirely against your liking, but certainly your design.

You unsheathe one of your daggers, making sure he is aware of it. The weapon effortlessly sways side to side as you toss it between your hands. The judge's flailing ceases, and the look in his eyes change to another familiar gaze: fear. You display the sharpness of the dagger, poking the tip at your finger to draw a few drops of blood.

"Sharp," you remark. "Doesn't it seem sharp?" As expected, he makes no reply. You feel you can almost see him shivering. "Certainly sharp enough to cut off important pieces," you continue. "How many cripples did you condemn?" Again he is unable to respond. "Is it the gag, or your cowardice that keeps your tongue at bay?"

"Ore!" you hear from his muffling.

"Four?" you tease. "You've condemned four cripples?"

"Ore!" he again manages out.

"Oh! Whore. I thought that's what you said. Well, no, I am not a whore. That's just another false claim from you. What other falsehoods have you laid upon me? Let's see," you begin while trying to remember the original trial.

"If I remember right, you accused me of ****. I've never **** any noblewoman, nor would I want any of your type of man inside me. In truth, I think you'd find it rather hard to deliver a woman in favor of ****. Your claim is not only false, but ridiculous in its nature.

"What else—ah, now I remember. Indecency. That's just rude! I've dressed in clothing no less revealing than that of your highborn women. True I often wear pants, but have you ever tried fighting in a dress? No, I imagine you only gave sentences in a dress. Are you aware how much those robes make you look weak?" After another lack of response you explain to him, "they're just a false shield meant to scare. Let's see the real you."
The judge wriggles desperately as you approach him with the dagger. Placing a knee onto his chest, you pin him down. You carefully shred into the cloth, cutting piece after piece, letting them fall to the floor. His muffled protests fall on unsympathetic ears. You make your final cuts and rip the rest of his robes away, leaving him exposed in only his smallclothes.

"Hmm, not very flattering," you declare. "Did you ever have muscle?" A weakening becomes clear to you as you admire his look of defeat. Stripping him has torn his illusions away; you're sure of it. Now he recognizes how **** and weak he truly is. "Why stop there, huh?"
You cut the sides of his undergarments, then pull them off. Lastly, you remove the gag as you return to your seat on the other side of the carriage.

He looks as if he is holding back tears. "Not much of a man, are you?" you venomously mock.

"Let me go," you hear in a whimper. "Please." There are times to speak and there are times to listen. You feel this time it is best to let him bury his own hopes. "Let me go, and I will tell of this to no one." You look away, showing a mock disinterest. "I'll give you everything I own. I promise!" Still you remain silent, letting him figure out on his own that his pleas are useless. "I'll do whatever you desire. I'll flog myself in the streets. I'll give away my possessions to the peasants. I'll even take the white robe if you want. I'll do anything," he cries.

You look back at him, seeing the tears rolling down his gaunt cheeks. "No," you tell him. "You won't be able to do a thing when I'm done with you."

Having given him your own sentence, you leave the carriage, abandoning him to his own despair. The clear sound of weeping is heard as you close the door and approach your hired companions.