The door creaked open, and Portugal walked in. Dressed in his fine, luxurious clothes, with a solemn, dark look on his face. Portugal strided, one could almost hear the depression in the air. He took up a chair, and opened with a soft, whispy greeting, "Boa tardes, meus amigos" 

Portugal sat, an overly dramatic expression of byronic internal torment on his face, the old nation oozing with Saudade. "So, what meaningless agreements are we going to come to at this meeting." He spoke, eyes heavy with morose. The nations were speaking, but what did if matter, it was all for this meaningless game they called life