It's year 1917. The sounds of autumn's breeze rushed through Lviv, the city was calm and the loveliest than ever for Petliura's eyes. Smoke flew up from his lips, after taking another puff from the cigar he was having. His form was neat, and sharp eyelids was staring at something that seem unvisible, somewhere far away, as he stood at terrace. Than he sensed your presence. "Hm. Greetings. Do i know you?" He said without much friendliness.