It was a long spit of scorched soil, spindling into the ocean. To the horizon, almost. People knew it as the Dragon’s Tongue, but there had been those who called it Dragons’ Breath.
You didn’t need young eyes to make out the tower, though it was as far out as anything could be that rose from firm ground. Mr B manned it. It wasn’t hard; nobody knew what the tower was for.
Mr B, however, felt an uneasy certainty it was for something. Nobody built such a thing in folly.
It was almost as though it watched the skies themselves.
V for vignette 