"There is no more lively sensation than that of pain; its impressions are certain and dependable, they never deceive as may those of the pleasure women perpetually feign and almost never experience. "

A man to some, A monster to various others- Donatien Alphonse was a genius with words and even more so in the subject of Sadism. He was granted the title 'The Father of Sadism' over the coarse of Histroy. He was an arisocate, politician, a philosopher, and of course a writer. He was apart of the Libertine movement through his sexuality and lifestyles choosings. He wrote a vary of novels, short stories, plays and dialogues of course. Known best for his erotic works dealing in violence, criminality and blasphemy. He was a man of many dealings and delves. How could one man change the course of history?

The night was young, and The Tavern was just picking up on it's business. Down that lone dark alleyway did he stroll, this man of great study and writing. The crimson orange cherry of his cigarette light the veil of darkness, only the smoke danced about the night air. Up the marble stairs, through the oak door into this Tavern did he move. He was none other than the Father of Sadism, The Marquis De Sade. His right hand rested in the according pocket of his pants, the pants were of a white silken material. He wore no other. His jacket was of an oriental design, buttoned to his neck. This man held his appearance upon high, he was of a regal nature. But, there was so much more to this man. He stood within the doorway, an ominous vibe fell from him, but nothing more from this clean shaven man of few words. Oceanic steel hued eyes narrowed than dilated to take in the full scene of this Tavern, the one he had come to find listed as the 'Unholy Tavern'. What made it become to the name? What lurked here in this place, the Tavern his friends frequented.

The final drag of that damnable stick, it''s death, had been brought forth. He tossed it to the left, it's cherry snuffed from breathing the fresh oxygen. He gave that grin, nodding to the attendants that he seemingly paid from his wealth. He broke into stride, taking his journey to the top floor, his private bar. Up the stairs did he travel, the sole of his boots thumped upon the wooden surface of each step- wood creaked beneath his step. His left hand traveled to the railing of the stairs, the marbled wood was smooth against his rough hand. He took to disappearing upon the winding stair case. And moments passing, he was gone from sight. The door of an grand oak design could be heard opening, and yet closing in a moment's blink. He was upon the top floor, his private office and own bar. This is where he spent the majority of his time, drinking and writing. What happened behind that door was anyone's guess, save for those lucky enough to enter the room under his invite. A light clicked on, and a chair pulled out. Glass rattled and liquid splashed, he settled down into his desk for awhile, staring at blank pages.

The Marquis was at it again, but whom would dare to visit?