Ireland – 1789
The sky was cloudy and it was raining again.
A young man was standing by the window looking at the storm, a cigarrete in his left hand, looking at the storm with nostalgy and tired eyes.
An old man in a renassaince suit entered the room, had a letter in both of his hands and looked taciturn.
-Mr. Larrikin, a letter from your friend of France.
The young man Larrikin nodded and threw the cigarrete out of the window.´
-Thank you Land.
The old man vowed and walked out of the room.
Larrikin opened the letter.
"My dear friend,
I write you this letter to let you know how things are going here in France.
The Sanctuary of Merseilhe is still in the hands of Mevolent, we stroke last week, we lost 200 man, I was one of the few survivers, the things I did to survive however, are things im not proud of, but well, im alive anyway.
People in my circle are talking about setting a new Sanctuary in Paris, or , Trebuchet will be our leader of course, but we can't do this without your help, please convince Meritorious to send reinforcements, the Prussian regiments are weak, the English Sanctuary doesn't care anymore about us, they're more worried about the sanctuaries in the American colonies and the people they sent us were weak and perished.
People of Ireland are our last hope, I know things aren't better to your side, but I promise if we can get rid of the fanatics here in France we will help you with all the strength we have left, until the last drop of blood.
Im now in Paris, in a campaign hospital recovering from the injuries, please reply fast to this letter, I need to know the answer from your people before elaborating another plan of strike.
Send the letter to this address: Rue Saint-Jacques, número 79, Paris, France.
PS: I really doubt we will stay here for long, mortals are going crazy, I think a revolution is starting and the doctors want to move the hospital to a safer place away of the center of Paris, once again, please reply fast.
God be w ith ye."
