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 Renaurd's quarters, upstairs. (Visit him if you like)

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Renaurd's quarters, upstairs. (Visit him if you like) Empty
PostSubject: Renaurd's quarters, upstairs. (Visit him if you like)   Renaurd's quarters, upstairs. (Visit him if you like) Icon_minitimeWed Mar 25, 2009 5:41 pm

The room was quiet, but for the soft ticking of the clock hanging on the wall. The chamber was small, rotting boards and flaking plaster illuminated by a flickering candle. A chipped infantryman's cutlass and a brace of well-polished pistols sat in the corner, next to a cracked alembic and a battered seaman's chest. A large, old-world writing desk dominated the room, the surface strewn with leaflets, correspondences, scraps of half-finished poems, yellowed maps, and scientific charts. A truly eclectic array. A figure sat at the desk, writing furiously in the dim candlelight.
He was young - that much could be easily discerned. His face held a ruddy, boyish handsomeness, framed by a wild mop of dark hair. The writer bore an expression of mild amusement as he scratched at the parchment, filling the page with an intricate, spidery hand. His face was calm, but his eyes betrayed his true emotions; they burned with a wild, fiery passion, seething with quiet anger. Eyes that belonged to either a thinker, a poet, or a madman.

Perhaps all three.

"....it is my full intention to continue spreading and perpetuating our most valuable weapon - our ideas. In my experience, words outlive gunshots, and the pen proves more potent than the sword. Times are changing, and the people grow uneasy with older schools of thought. Each man, each woman is entitled to life, liberty, and property. Freedoms which are denied by greed, corruption, and an archaic system of government. Our seeds in the New World will soon take root, and the land will be ripe for rebellion..."

Renaurd drew in a long breath and closed his eyes, letting the tip of his quill rest on his chin. Rebellion. In his dreams, he watched the world burn. Paris, Vienna, Longon... one by one, they fell to ash. A world consumed by fire and rebuilt, brick by brick, in blood. The western wind carried seeds of revolution. Whispers of change, hints of unrest. The time was soon, and his work was just beginning.

He felt the ink drip onto his hand, and was jolted from his reverie. Blinking a bit, he shook his head and continued to write.
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Renaurd's quarters, upstairs. (Visit him if you like)
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