The Death of a Patriot
Torches lit the night as a mob marched through the streets of Ogden. They were on the hunt for a traitor. The road they were on curved and at the end of the street a little way up the hill lay their target.
A two story brick home, with white painted pillars on the front porch holding up a second story balcony above the entrance. The two large solid wood doors were flanked by a large windows. The garden in front of the home was kept in beautiful condition, with flowers all along it. No candles shown in the windows as the mob approached growing louder - shouting insults and hurling stones towards the home.
“Traitor! Go back to where you belong!”
A candle was lit inside, the glow showing in the window. Moments later the door opened to a man wearing simple pants and shirt. Standing a good head above most of the men in the mob, thick mustache and a skin showing the signs of decades in the field leading his men.
Retired Brigadier General Hickson, whom served in the revolutionary army just over a decade ago, grew angry as their shouts grew more insulting and accusatory.
“Go back to where you belong you damn Qetra!” A man shouted waving a torch menacingly towards Hickson.
“A traitor like you deserves to die!”
A constable was present but he would do nothing, he had the same disgust for Hickson as the mob did. Within minutes of the mob arrive, it had tripled in size. Bricks were being hurled at the house. Hickson knew they wanted blood but he, who had been a prisoner of war; had fought many battles; been wounded by the very enemy they fought against - were now accusing him of being a traitor.
“We’ll tear out your bloody heart and eat it!” A man says standing at the front brandishing a firearm fixed with a bayonet.
“You mean this bloody heart, Draxen?” Hickson replies as he tears his shirt off revealing a jagged scar across his chest. He slams his fist against it and as he does his hands begin to give a warm glow. At the sight of his chest, the once friend of Hickson, charged with his weapon, running his bayonet through his chest.
Hickson in response flashed fire in his hands, and as his old friend fired his musket into his chest; the fire launched from his hands and slammed into the center mob, exploding a moment later in a brilliant balls of fire killing many. The survivors descended on Hickson, stabbing him and shooting him many times over before retreating.
Inside the house, hiding with his mother on the stairs as they watch in horror. The young boy and his sister cry out at the sight before them and their father crawling back inside the home. He would live for three days with his wounds before passing.
His only crime being that he was a Patriot.
A two story brick home, with white painted pillars on the front porch holding up a second story balcony above the entrance. The two large solid wood doors were flanked by a large windows. The garden in front of the home was kept in beautiful condition, with flowers all along it. No candles shown in the windows as the mob approached growing louder - shouting insults and hurling stones towards the home.
“Traitor! Go back to where you belong!”
A candle was lit inside, the glow showing in the window. Moments later the door opened to a man wearing simple pants and shirt. Standing a good head above most of the men in the mob, thick mustache and a skin showing the signs of decades in the field leading his men.
Retired Brigadier General Hickson, whom served in the revolutionary army just over a decade ago, grew angry as their shouts grew more insulting and accusatory.
“Go back to where you belong you damn Qetra!” A man shouted waving a torch menacingly towards Hickson.
“A traitor like you deserves to die!”
A constable was present but he would do nothing, he had the same disgust for Hickson as the mob did. Within minutes of the mob arrive, it had tripled in size. Bricks were being hurled at the house. Hickson knew they wanted blood but he, who had been a prisoner of war; had fought many battles; been wounded by the very enemy they fought against - were now accusing him of being a traitor.
“We’ll tear out your bloody heart and eat it!” A man says standing at the front brandishing a firearm fixed with a bayonet.
“You mean this bloody heart, Draxen?” Hickson replies as he tears his shirt off revealing a jagged scar across his chest. He slams his fist against it and as he does his hands begin to give a warm glow. At the sight of his chest, the once friend of Hickson, charged with his weapon, running his bayonet through his chest.
Hickson in response flashed fire in his hands, and as his old friend fired his musket into his chest; the fire launched from his hands and slammed into the center mob, exploding a moment later in a brilliant balls of fire killing many. The survivors descended on Hickson, stabbing him and shooting him many times over before retreating.
Inside the house, hiding with his mother on the stairs as they watch in horror. The young boy and his sister cry out at the sight before them and their father crawling back inside the home. He would live for three days with his wounds before passing.
His only crime being that he was a Patriot.
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