The Warrior of the Pen

The writing came hard and fast, dripping of the point of a pen that was struggling hard to keep up with her thoughts and she cursed the inability of her physical self.

There were too many words, too many thoughts, and she felt burdened by the responsibility to pen them down and shout them off rooftops, her thoughts of revolution and change, of morality and vice, and it had been eons since this passion had overtaken her, but it had awakened with the ferocity of a slumbering beast who had awakened hungry and wanting, and with it was the crushing need to feed.

To feed on the minds of others, but with it, to cry their messages across the lands, to the ends of the earth and back.

Her pen was her sword, and she would be the Mistress of Salvation.

She would enlighten those who cowered in their ignorance, who turned their backs on the advancement of the ages, who feigned their lack of knowledge, and she would not rest, not willfully, while she still held her pen in her hand.