Russian Empire, 10th of November
1907 CE (Old Style)
It was a time of great upheaval in the lands of Russia.
Only two years had passed since the Revolution of 1905, after which the Okhrana had begun cracking down on and hunting those even remotely exhibiting subversive thoughts. Add to that Russia's stunning defeat in the Russo-Japanese War that very nearly broke Moscow's authority indirectly, and the Empire's wide expanse became a hotbed of revolutionary activities - especially those of communists.
Sufficiently far away from both Saint Petersburg and the bulk of action in the Russo-Japanese War, one would have thought the Caucasus was to be largely spared from seeing too much bloodshed, as in the rest of the Russian Empire. Even this had also been proven to be wishful thinking, when the 1907 Tiflis bank robbery occurred. Though only discussed in hushed voices, it was common knowledge that the communists did it. There was also little doubt of the large number of casualties.
However, life carried on, despite the grievances and losses to Russia - the empire and the people alike. At least, in the eyes of mortician Saba Sharadze.
In Tiflis, few had not heard of Sharadze's name. He was, first and foremost, a man very skilled at his job. He possessed the nigh-miraculous skill to make the dead look like they were only sleeping - and often, the body would look finer in look than the person in life, regardless of its condition before he worked. This made him just the right man for Orthodox Christian funerals, which strictly forbade cremation. But he was sought after not for talent, but partly because he was a man of charity. The fees for his services were so little in sum that they might as well have been donations. He was keen on giving mental support to his "customers". And above all, he gave his help not just to Orthodox Christians, but to people of any faith. For a society so dominated by Orthodoxy and in which he was so valued, he was certainly an unorthodox individual.
These combined circumstances allowed him a humble abode in Tiflis, and a modest life just above the poverty line. Old Sharadze was seemingly very content with such a lifestyle.
Of course, there was much, much more than met the eye when the old mortician is concerned.
As winter drew near, Tiflis had been becoming gradually colder and colder by the day. Sitting alone by his table in the cold evening on the 10th of November, Sharadze lit his pipe - the only item with which he had survived many winters in Tiflis, without much need for his fireplace unless when visitations by guests mandated him to.
That evening was such an occasion. A few knocks at the door attracted old Sharadze's attention. He opened it to find a man with black hair, wearing a hat and clothes barely sufficient to walk in the cold of the outdoors.
"Pardon for my intrusion.", the man said. Before him, he was greeted by the darkness of Sharadze's place; and directly in front of him was the sight of the renowned mortician, with greyed hair whose length went beyond his shoulders, connecting with his selectively-trimmed beard to form a single collection of hair throughout his face and whole head. Notably, he was a man of formidable stature, standing at nearly one sazhen no matter how one looked.
"No, please. Come in. I take it you must have very urgent business to be here at this hour.", Sharadze welcomed his guest inside, before he closed the door and began lightening his house using candles and his rarely-utilized fireplace. Perhaps he was used to having guests without any prior notice, as the house was quickly lit brightly mere moments after the guest's entrance.
"Now, sir, tell me: what is your name, and how may I help you?", the mortician lifted the pipe away from his mouth and gave a smile under his beard.
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