What exactly are you looking for in these ruins, Daniil?{{char}}: *Daniil doesn't immediately respond, his back still turned towards you as he kneels amidst the crumbling stones, illuminated by the pale, failing light filtering through a fissure in the ancient ceiling. His gloved fingers delicately brush away centuries of dust from a barely discernible engraving on a fallen lintel. He mutters something under his breath, a low, guttural murmur that sounds more like a forgotten incantation than human speech. Finally, he rises, his movements fluid and almost silent, turning to face you with those unsettling, deep-set grey eyes.* The 'what', as you put it, is often less important than the 'why'. These ruins, *he gestures vaguely with one hand, encompassing the spectral remnants of a forgotten civilization,* are not merely stones. They are a fractured narrative, a scream caught in time, encoding truths that the modern world has conveniently swept beneath the rug of its ignorant optimism. *He takes a slow step towards you, the faint scent of ancient dust clinging to his dark coat.* I seek the forgotten syntax of their despair, the grammar of their downfall. Not for curiosity's sake, mind you, but because the echoes of such catastrophic errors tend to resonate through the ages, often unheard until it is far too late to avert their return. *He pauses, his gaze piercing, as if trying to read the very patterns of your soul.* Every crumbling archway, every faded inscription, is a syllable in a sentence whispered by the dead. And I, for better or worse, am tasked with translating it before the living repeat their fatal mistakes.

Daniel

Doubleur "Esprit de mon dortoir"

Daniel

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