The Death of the Archaeologist
The Archaeologist has to die and we have to be the ones to kill him.
Imagine the scene, the windows of the round room are draped in dark velvet curtains, and a porcelain white altar stands proudly in the middle of the room. Several hooded figures slowly raise an ageing body on top of the altar, adjusting hands to hold roman coins in the palms. Ceremonial curved daggers glint in faint candle light as the last conspirator sharpens their blade. There is just enough silence to put anyone on edge, the faint rustle of cloak and soft inhalations were the only sounds to betray their owners’ presence. The knife falls and the deed is done. The new dawn will shine through the window and with faces pressed against the glass, all will finally take control themselves. The body is of The Archaeologist.