Le Bibliotheque

was the place of quiet and peace. But yet at the same time, the same rage and turmoil was boiling within each and every one of them. Their angst and withheld temper seething through their faintly-yellowed teeth as they scratched down hard on the paper on which they wrote; some in english, others in french. So engrossed were they in their work that they barely noticed the shadow slipping and weaving in and out of the bookcases, appearing only for a fraction of time before vanishing yet again. It swept on by, sneaking glances at those around, looking for the one who would be foolish enough to speak to any other. Why? It was thirsting. Thirsting to squelch the voices of those who dared to raise it. This was how it was in Le Bibliotheque. So it was indeed.