Immigrant
A man sat in a broken down apartment in Regalia, the soft sound of dirty water was heard as it hit the creaky, wet, wooden floorboards which was inappropriately called a 'living space'. The bed was practically broken. All the man had covering him while he slept was a ragged blanket which had some sort of wet substance. His desk was his favourite part of the apartment, not because he loved to write, but because the apartment was a dump. It was all he could afford after immigrating. he frantically scribbled in his small leather book, his round glasses reflected the small light of the burning candle. What was he writing about? Himself, perhaps? Or a letter to a loved one? All we know is that he wrote for hours, and hours..And hours..He wrote for so long he would wake up, often hungover, with his face on his desk, next to pages full of words of politics, letters, philosophy and diary entries. Politics, yes..Politics. The pages he wrote would be saw as incredibly outrageous and what he wrote in his diary entries would offend everyone and their mother. His religious views..Well, that's a whole new thing.
His book was him, and he was his book. If that makes sense. His views, love letters, diary entries all come from his heart and mind. Some might say he has small man syndrome. Some might say he's too big for his boots. Some might say he roars like a lion, but is really a kitten. His politeness though, blinds everyone of what he really thought of the politics. So, if he hated all this? Why did he immigrate? Because if he wants to be someone big, it's best to start there.
OOC: Sorry if this is really bad it's the first type of lore story I've made.
A man sat in a broken down apartment in Regalia, the soft sound of dirty water was heard as it hit the creaky, wet, wooden floorboards which was inappropriately called a 'living space'. The bed was practically broken. All the man had covering him while he slept was a ragged blanket which had some sort of wet substance. His desk was his favourite part of the apartment, not because he loved to write, but because the apartment was a dump. It was all he could afford after immigrating. he frantically scribbled in his small leather book, his round glasses reflected the small light of the burning candle. What was he writing about? Himself, perhaps? Or a letter to a loved one? All we know is that he wrote for hours, and hours..And hours..He wrote for so long he would wake up, often hungover, with his face on his desk, next to pages full of words of politics, letters, philosophy and diary entries. Politics, yes..Politics. The pages he wrote would be saw as incredibly outrageous and what he wrote in his diary entries would offend everyone and their mother. His religious views..Well, that's a whole new thing.
His book was him, and he was his book. If that makes sense. His views, love letters, diary entries all come from his heart and mind. Some might say he has small man syndrome. Some might say he's too big for his boots. Some might say he roars like a lion, but is really a kitten. His politeness though, blinds everyone of what he really thought of the politics. So, if he hated all this? Why did he immigrate? Because if he wants to be someone big, it's best to start there.
OOC: Sorry if this is really bad it's the first type of lore story I've made.
