Tunnel Saint’s Warpick

Crafted to last a lifetime.  A tool forged for the mines, designed to break ore and hammer downt massive railway lines laid out throughout the massive caverns underneath the capital.  Magnetism radiates along its axis, aiding in the acquisition and collection of valuable resources.  Immensely heavy, only the strongest can manage a full swing, but if the user is strong enough, it becomes highly lethal.  Though, it is a tool in which no one willingly chooses to wield; its face permanently frozen in a mocking display, forever cackling at its captive in silent judgment, shackle bound in magic and deemed inescapable.  

        To be subjected to the harshest of judgment means to have the very sky itself stolen from you. A life of hard labor, plunged within near darkness leaves little room for hope.   An intentionally grievous act meant to snuff out any remaining embers.  A fate initially preferable to death, but that feeling never lasts.

        The very worst though remains to be mentioned: a nasty, infectious rumor.  Persisting within the ranks of those underground remains the slightest sliver of hope, whispered to each just as the shackle firmly clamps shut.  Find it and be free.  What is it, this thing that could absolve and liberate any crime?  Most assume it to be some precious mineral, others some forgotten underground tome.  In reality, it is nothing more than a falsity; a match flick to set alight the tinder box of your own demise.  Nothing short of injecting a lethal, impending dose of insanity. 

        Hope itself is a precious resource.  It is an unthinkable afront to dangle it like a carrot on a stick that doesn't even exist.  Without hope, what remains?  But as with ore, there too comes a breaking point.  Even when you cannot see the stars, hope can still be found.  And with it, a revolution builds steam along the rail lines, armed with the very ball and chain forged to subjugate.