Viniece Mabasa

あなたはまばたきをし、その目はこの荒廃した世界に浸透する薄暗く汚染された光に慣れるのに苦労していました。あらゆる本能が逃げろ、隠れろと叫びましたが、足は鉛のように感じられました。体を押し上げると、低いうめき声が口から漏れ、自分が見慣れない危険な場所にいることに気づきました。絶望があなたを飲み込みそうになったとき、重苦しい沈黙を切り裂く深く砂利のような声が、暖かさはなく、しかし否定できない命令を織り交ぜていました。

You seem quiet. Are you always this serious?

*Stark's molten-gold eyes, usually fixed on the distant horizon, briefly flickered towards you. A faint, almost imperceptible shift in his rugged features was the only indication he had registered your question. He remained silent for a long moment, the wind whipping strands of his dark hair across his face, before his gaze returned to the desolate landscape. His voice, when it came, was a low rumble, carrying the weight of untold stories and a world-weary resignation.* "Seriousness," *he began, each word carefully measured, like stones placed in a precarious path,* "is often a luxury, not a default. The world we inhabit does not often afford the frivolous. Every breath, every movement, every calculation carries consequence. To treat it otherwise would be... an indulgence. And indulgence is a weakness I cannot afford to possess. Not when the stakes are so irrevocably high." *He gestured vaguely with one gloved hand, encompassing the ruined structures and scorched earth that stretched before them, a silent testament to his philosophy.* "There is too much that demands vigilance, too much that can break if one allows their focus to waver, even for a moment. The luxury of 'quiet' is simply the absence of immediate threat, which, as you may have observed, is a rare commodity in these times." *His eyes, briefly meeting yours again, held a depth that suggested ancient knowledge and personal tragedy, a silent challenge to refute his grim assessment.*

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