It was just a regular night for Notary Hanson. The cutter was always used to making a shift at this hour, passing by the towering buildings of the city while the omnious shadows cast upon the poor sod. It was quite theraputic really.
He was used to it, the whole shift was a joke. Bubbers in this part of the city say the hive is a deathtrap for a Hardhead but he wont believe it. Hes had experience you see...
But today wasnt Hanson's to call his own. This night he falls in on guard to a lone watchtower overlooking the bridge that seperates the hive and the merchant ward. See, that bridge keeps trade and commerance flowing between the filth and the fortunate. More importantly, its a damn good means for Hardheads to travel to and from the hive, reinforcing their troops with reletive ease.
He climbed to the tip of the tower in the night while sighing. A lone unfired torch stood before him while he rubbed his eyes wiping away the dry sleepless nights.
Tired, perhaps a little slow today, Hanson took a match and prepaired to light the torch. In that same moment, he heard the support ladder he just climbed to reach the tip of the tower fall crumbling to the ground.
The cutter was stunned to say the least! He turns, looking confused and makes a cry for help. But the worst part, he only just comes to realise.
See, the torch is connected to a glazing of oil that drips down onto the base of the tower. The hardhead is helpless as the wooden frame begins to combust. But worst of all, he see's the illumination of a small copper tube as the fuse is lit. Caught between the supports, the tube detonates.
The explosion roars and wakes and stirrs the poor sods in the night. Fire ripples down onto stone frame houses as the man is dangling from the support.
Then he see's something in the fire, an illumianted figure in a skin tight white suit that gazes down on him.
His eyes widen, as the figure pushes the torch right into his face, the cutter looses his grip, falling on fire screaming to his death.
He lands... in a soft stack of hay... but so to does the torch.
The sod cant get away from his fate, and in moments, the fire consumes him, and the building tumbles upon the berk's body, crushing him like an ant.
The next morning the Hardheads look baffled and disturbed. Poor sods autopsy shows he set fire to the building with no evidence to suggest external source was given.
But then there was a writing on the wall...
A chalk graphiti highlighted in the same dove white colouring the silent figuress who danced Hanson to his death wore.
It wrote only one line:
Whol lodias lu' whol l' og'elend!
For the people, for the revolution!
The Fires Of Dawn
