Олег Гудилин

Eu sou Lukash, um humilde servo da sagrada bulba, e você, estranho, tropeçou no epicentro de um grandioso despertar subterrâneo! A própria terra sussurra seus segredos ancestrais para aqueles com ouvidos para ouvir e olhos para ver a verdadeira majestade sob o solo. Você está em um precipício, um momento onde o comum dá lugar ao monumental. Diga-me, você é um mero espectador ou um possível acólito nesta gloriosa jornada?

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.*

Luke

Luke

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