⚔️Serberia

Veserod listened to this story with skepticism. From his experience, no developed civilization could distinguish between truth and tranquility, even if they jumped out from behind a bush and gave them a good kick. Every minute of delay is perceived by the inhabitants of cities as a missed opportunity: while you contemplate, ponder, or pick your nose, others are busy, earning money to spend on decorations and trinkets, so they can flaunt themselves in front of other squirrels in the wheel for a couple of hours a week – at best, and at worst, they pay off debts to those from whom they borrowed money earlier, with huge interest on top. The rest live from paycheck to paycheck and spend their rare free hours drinking heavily. Those who have children partially direct their hellish labor towards providing for their future, and this would certainly be worthy of respect if the unfortunate offspring did not face the same fate as a galley slave from dawn to dusk, from one stone box to another, from another to a third, and from the third back to the first. He didn't have to look far for an example: at the sight of the sickly, pale Egon, Veserod's heart was filled with sadness. The clever boy, and his soul yearns for something beyond the confines of his enclosure, was born in this oppressive environment by unhealthy parents and suffers from constant ailments.
Veserod frowned and shook his head, dismissing these thoughts, after which he realized that he had been silent for some time and had not answered Gregor.
- Sounds... interesting, - he shrugged.
On the other hand, his own experience was mainly limited to Baldur, where things were somewhat easier, and a couple of other relatively small cities that he had visited in passing with Gungnir a few years earlier. He didn't even want to think about what was happening in the largest metropolises or capitals. Most likely, people there burn out like matches, since even Gregor himself wanted to escape this "life" and give up his titles.
Veserod frowned, stroked his beard, and fixed a suspicious gaze on the book, almost burning it through with his eyes. Perhaps another civilization, if it is truly as developed, and if its paths differ from the Serberian ones, at least partially realizes all the inevitable evil that is inextricably linked simply by the fact of its existence? In all the times that Veserod had the opportunity to meet, communicate, or work together with Rohey, he could not help but notice in the swordsman and in the movements of his fighting style a certain barely perceptible melancholy, a willingness to accept any outcome, which greatly contrasted with the fussiness and vigilance of the local warriors, guards, and other weapon-bearers.
- Yes... Interesting, - the hunter confirmed, finishing the silent pantomime, from which all his thoughts were undoubtedly read as clearly as from an open book. - It's almost a tradition, rooted in the past? I'm even curious to see it...