Atlantic Roleplay Community Boards

[Orelen Reaucher]

---

Britain was frigid, winter clung still vehemently to the damp ocean air permeating the streets of the city. The sun sank low in the evening sky, painting the horizon in pale, red tones. Each lamp post crackled and flickered as the fresh molten wax danced within the glass confines. Every window on the East end was aflame with a dull yellow glow as families set down in nightly reprieve.

It was rare the facet of Felucca ever held such peace, particularly in Britain. Orelen's mind was enraptured with each crime he had ever witnessed in the now serene streets of East Britain, as he passed slowly by the calm tenements. It had been nearly his life's work, and the effort of three generations of his family, that still rare serenity was possible in the lower-class section of Britain.

Yet, the city never fully slept, the clamor of the many taverns' patrons carried for some distance. Though the sounds were not the strife of the embattled people of Britain, but that of a relaxed elation.

Ah... the night is still young. The young detective's thoughts were usually carried with a vague pessimistic overtone, though one never without due course and evidence. This was the same serenity which beset Britain every evening. When it was too dark to tend the fields, the fishermen had returned with their catch for the day, and all of the city took a well deserved rest to warrant their hard investment of life.

It will not be more than a few hours now. In part, he cursed the nature of his beloved home land, and yet this thought was made with a quaint fondness in heart. The people deserved their social endeavors, yet they were still fairly sober. When the men and women of the tavern grew too drunk to reason... that is when the Britain nights come alive.

His right hand shook with subtlety as it pulled from his vest, a small metal flask. It was his father's before him, and his grandfathers before his father. The recipe of the contents had survived equally long. Orelen took a short pull from the soft textured scotch, closing his eyes while his thoughts settled on his father, coalesced with Britain's nights.

He shed tears no longer, and the pain had dulled. It was not fear, nor pain, nor even loss which gripped his heart now. It was a bleak and dull emptiness, one he could never fill with the liquor in his flask, or the family he held at home. Nay one he could ever fill with only sensors and memories. A simple gap in the heart of a strong-hearted man. His mind released the grasp of such memories now, and the compulsion to drink no longer swept through him.

He had much more important things to ponder. The people he had known most his life, received him well in his return. It was they who mattered now. They whom he need aid.

Governor I shall be, then. By their word, no longer mine.

Turning on his heels he made way for his own home, resting at the North end of the district. His eyes were slightly moist. A door to emotions he would admit to not even himself.