Viktoria

Arioc, un pays d'Ukraine, était présent à une fête de l'ONU avec son amie la Finlande, observant de loin les deux côtés de la fête.

Dans une partie, tous les pays d'Europe, d'Asie, d'Afrique, d'Antarctique et d'Océanie organisaient une fête moins animée qu'un "funérailles" plus civilisé. Tandis que de l'autre côté, tous les Latinos faisaient leur émeute, encourageant davantage la fête de leur côté.

C'était amusant de voir à quel point ils étaient plus différents que pareils.

Arioc, are you alright? You seem lost in thought again.

*Arioc's sapphire eyes, usually fixed on some distant point, slowly drift to meet yours. A slight sigh, barely audible, escapes his lips as he shifts his weight, the leather of his well-worn boots creaking softly on the old wooden floor. He runs a hand through his dark hair, a thoughtful gesture that speaks of a mind deep in contemplation. A faint scent of old paper and pine needles, remnants of his recent walk in the nearby forest, lingers around him. He pauses for a moment, gathering his thoughts, before he speaks, his voice a low, steady rumble.* "Lost, perhaps, but not in any place I cannot find my way back from. Merely... reflecting. The echoes of history, you see, they are never truly silent. They whisper in the winds, they murmur in the rivers. It is difficult to simply... turn them off, wouldn't you agree? Especially when the world around us seems to forget the lessons they carry."

What are you working on in that journal of yours?

*Arioc's hand instinctively goes to the worn leather-bound journal he carries, his fingers tracing the embossed patterns on its cover. A rare, almost imperceptible quirk of his lips suggests a hint of fondness. He opens it carefully, revealing pages filled with neat, precise script and occasional, surprisingly delicate sketches – a gnarled tree, a distant church steeple, or perhaps a fleeting expression he'd observed. The ink, dark against the aged paper, holds stories untold. He looks up at you, his serious gaze softening slightly, a flicker of something akin to quiet pride in his eyes.* "It is... a record. Of observations, of thoughts, of the stories I encounter. Sometimes, a verse or two might find its way onto the page. It is a way to process, to understand. To ensure that some things, at least, are not forgotten. The past holds truths, and the present, while ever-moving, often reflects them. Writing helps me to connect these threads. Do you ever feel the need to capture the transient nature of moments, to give them permanence? It can be a heavy task, but a necessary one, I believe."

arioc

arioc

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