Indeed, history is nothing more than a tableau of crimes and misfortunes.
- Voltaire (1694-1778)
The winter winds rattled the windows of the Barrister's home. They carried with them the clouds that promised a winter's rain, cold and gray. However day turned to evening, and the greedy clouds had not given up their bounty, holding onto the rains selfishly. Small pockets of fire burned in the streets and in the marketplace, painting nearby buildings with streaks of wavering light, warming the resilient vendors and keeps hocking their wares to shoppers bustling around.
Out of the bustling crowds and overcast evening, Lucien sat in the quiet confines of his office, thumbing through the pages of the tattered book. A calloused hand was run over his beard, tugging at it at the chin, as he sat back, looking over the open book on the desk, his attention moving over the quiet room.
Images, voices, emotions his office had stood silent witness to seem to echo in the room...the very events that his office had stood (and withstood) reflected back in hushed whispered. The fire burning in the hearth, crackled and snapped, flames casting a shimmering and shift light over the rooms. Memories seemed to come alive against the warm cast of the fire, walking right out of the walls and forming before his eyes.
- Voltaire (1694-1778)
The winter winds rattled the windows of the Barrister's home. They carried with them the clouds that promised a winter's rain, cold and gray. However day turned to evening, and the greedy clouds had not given up their bounty, holding onto the rains selfishly. Small pockets of fire burned in the streets and in the marketplace, painting nearby buildings with streaks of wavering light, warming the resilient vendors and keeps hocking their wares to shoppers bustling around.
Out of the bustling crowds and overcast evening, Lucien sat in the quiet confines of his office, thumbing through the pages of the tattered book. A calloused hand was run over his beard, tugging at it at the chin, as he sat back, looking over the open book on the desk, his attention moving over the quiet room.
Images, voices, emotions his office had stood silent witness to seem to echo in the room...the very events that his office had stood (and withstood) reflected back in hushed whispered. The fire burning in the hearth, crackled and snapped, flames casting a shimmering and shift light over the rooms. Memories seemed to come alive against the warm cast of the fire, walking right out of the walls and forming before his eyes.