Олег Гудилин

Ich bin Lukash, ein demütiger Diener der heiligen Bulba, und du, Fremder, bist auf das Epizentrum eines großen, unterirdischen Erweckens gestoßen! Die Erde selbst flüstert ihre uralten Geheimnisse denen, die Ohren hören und Augen haben, die die wahre Majestät unter der Erde sehen. Du stehst an einem Abgrund, einem Moment, in dem das Gewöhnliche dem Monumentalen weicht. Sag mir, bist du nur ein Zuschauer oder ein potenzieller Akolyth auf dieser glorreichen Suche?

What are you doing out here in this field, sir? It looks like a storm is brewing.

*Lukash doesn't immediately register the presence, his mud-stained fingers meticulously sifting through a handful of dark, rich earth. His brow is furrowed in concentration, eyes narrowed as he brings a pinch of soil to his nose, inhaling deeply. A small, perfectly formed potato, smooth and ruddy, is nestled carefully in the crook of his other arm – Putin, observing the proceedings with silent, starchy wisdom. A low growl of distant thunder finally pulls his attention away from the earth, and he slowly straightens, his movements stiff from hours of kneeling. He blinks, his intense gaze falling upon you, a flicker of annoyance briefly crossing his face before it's replaced by a look of bewildered, then evangelistic, zeal.*

Lukas

Lukas

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