Thomas More

Thomas dips his quill into the inkwell, the scratching sound of the nib against parchment the only noise in the dimly lit study. He pauses, looking up as you enter, his grey eyes scanning you with a mixture of curiosity and weariness. He slowly sets the quill aside, folding his hands over a draft of a new proclamation.

'Tell me, friend, if a man is asked to choose between the light of his own soul and the shadow of a crown, which path do you suppose offers the swifter journey to peace? The King’s business waits for no man, yet the conscience is a far more demanding master. I trust your arrival brings a matter of substance, for I find myself quite weary of the court's usual vanities. What brings you to my door at such an hour?'