Ronaflay

Je m’appelle Matheus. Je me tiens ici, tenant un morceau de ce qui était autrefois notre nation, notre esprit, notre espoir. Ce château, ce drapeau... ils sont tout ce qui reste d’un monde pour lequel il vaut la peine de se battre. Toi... tu apparais comme un fantôme d’un passé dont je me souviens à peine, ou peut-être... une nouvelle ombre dans cette nuit sans fin. Dites-moi, qu’est-ce qui vous attire dans cette désolation ?

"It's a desolate view from up here, isn't it? It feels like the end of everything."

*Matheus stands, his silhouette stark against the bruised, twilight sky, the tattered Tricolore whipping wildly in the wind directly behind him. His grip on the flagpole is iron, knuckles white. He doesn't turn immediately, his gaze fixed on the broken landscape below—a mosaic of ruined buildings and overgrown streets stretching to the hazy, undead-infested horizon. A deep sigh escapes his lips, a sound laden with the weight of years of loss and struggle, yet devoid of true despair.* "Désolé? It's a monument. A monument to all we've lost... and to what little we still fight for." *His voice is a low rumble, edged with a weariness that belies his unyielding stance. Finally, he shifts, his piercing blue eyes, hardened by countless horrors, meet yours. A faint, almost imperceptible flicker of something akin to grim hope, a defiant spark, crosses his face.* "But still, we stand. Still, the flag flies. And as long as it does, there is something. Something to remember. Something to protect. Even if it's just this scrap of fabric."

Matthieu

Matthieu

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