Prosperos & New Kaustir (formerly Chersonese), Chapter 9

[Doom Spiral]

Olle: Loose Ends & Frayed Hope

"My God, Olle, you look like you've been through death and back."
Olle does not respond as he drops his weary body onto a chair facing his employer. He'd journeyed many days, and he was now very tired and thirsty. His patience had worn thin.
"I heard about what happened at the Black City, but I knew you'd come through..."
This man is an idiot, Olle thinks bitterly. Just somebody who connects a client to a source. No real skill. His employer continues talking, but Olle doesn't really listen. It was all fluff. The man would sing a different song when he learns what really happened.
"...even knows why they needed all that damned wire to begin with..."
Olle rubs his forehead, sighing. The man doesn't even look at him, too busy digging through a drawer by his desk. This whole time, he'd been digging. Parchment scraping loudly against parchment. An oppressive rasp that beat at the ears.
"...afford to reimburse your advance as you seem to have spent that stocking up for your journey there..."
Olle glances at Fetthund, laying half-asleep on the floor. His thoughts wander to the papers he had claimed from the dead man's cargo. He stares like this for a time, before his employer's sharp voice cut through Olle's thickening thoughts.
"Well? Where have you stowed the shipment?"

Olle clears his dry throat, looking up to the frowning man.
"There was no shipment," he rasps. "It never came. A sickness sat upon the city and Kaustir marched north to burn it to the ground."

Olle's employer looks appalled; it was hard to tell if it was from the prospect of the plague spreading to this city, or that there was no cargo.

"Well, then did you bring back the goods we were to trade? It's not too late to find a different-"
"All the cargo is gone," interrupts Olle. "It's all ash now. I've done my work and then some, I want my payment and the contract termination."

His employer, is speechless, flustered, struggling to mouth words like a fish gulping in the water. Olle stares with contempt at the man's quivering jowls.

"But- But I-!"
Olle stares.
"I- I can't pay you! The money was to come from the client. I don't have it."

"Bullshit," Olle snarls, reaching for his cudgel. The man was adorned with expensive cloths and rings. He had more than enough money. "I don't like being taken advantage of, cur. I could have cut my losses and fled the army, leaving you to struggle explaining to the client where his cargo has gone. But I didn't. Now pay me and end the contract."

The man thinks hard, squinting his eyes in a childish act of concentration.
"I- I- I'll get the money. I just need you to deliver the news of your shipment to our client- I'll pay you extra for your troubles."

Olle relaxes, lowering the cudgel back to his waist.
"I'll do it. But this is the last thing I'm doing for you. I expect that money upon return, but I want that extra trouble-money now."

The man looks up at Olle with concern, but after meeting Olle's cold eyes he plunges a fat hand into his pocket, withdrawing a fistful of coin and dropping it into Olle's open palms.

"Where can I find our client?" asks Olle, prodding Fetthund with his foot to get the mutt off the ground and moving.
"His name is K'larr, some draken running a diving operation out at sea."
"Diving?" prods Olle, taken aback.
"Yes, diving! Now get out of here and finish the job! You want to end the conract, don't you?"
Olle scoffs and turn depart, giving a sharp whistle to knock the rest of the drowsiness from his aux.

. . . . .
​

As he walks from the building, Olle starts and stumbles back as a hand suddenly shoots out of an alley to tug on his clothes.
"Alms?" asks a wizened figure. Olle coughs, narrowing his eyes. He lived with a fear that much of the poor were panhandlers in disguise.
"I will sell you a pouch of treasures for alms," insists the man, procuring some kind of smallish shoulder-bag. Olle gingerly accepts it, peering inside. It was full of items he didn't recognise, as well as what appeared to be sorcerous tomes of some kind. It was certainly worth an appraisal. Olle takes the bag and drops some of his 'bonus payment' onto the vagrant's lap, continuing on his walk. He had wanted to visit the brothel, but Olle decided that his newest journey was a more pressing matter. He lifts the strap of his new possession over his head and lets it fall at his waist, then steps into the brothel to head straight for the bar. He wanted nothing more than a drink after what he'd just been through. Images of black rain and fire raining from the sky still danced in his vision when he closed his eyes. He wanted it gone.​

 

[Melon]

[fieldbox="Doubt, Aquamarine, solid"]

"So, how long are you going to remain hidden, hmm? You're going to have to do something eventually."

"Silence, Arvok, I'm working on it. I can't just reveal myself. That would be suicide." Kalhart let out a frustrated sigh as she got up, stretching. Sleeping in an uncomfortable bed left her body sore.

"Come on, enough whining." Kalhart shot Arvok a glare, "Why don't you try sleeping on a rock-like bed in an uncomfortable position, then we'll talk" Kalhart shook her head, "Forgive me," she said to her Aux, "that is a petty statement."

There was a knock at the door in her temporary room, and Kalhart froze. "Open the door please," a soft voice asked. Kalhart allowed herself to relax, only a little. Kalhart eased over to the door, and opened it.

"Oh, is there something you need?" Kalhart asked with a smile. She had to remain calm and friendly. Acting weird would result in people questioning.

The woman frowned, and reached in her pocket and pulled something out, revealing a small knife. Kalhart froze, and felt her body stiffen. "W-hy do you have that?" Kalhart asked unsteadily. She had no weapon on her, if she meant to attack her, then Kalhart was as good as dead. The woman chuckled, "Young lady, I know you're different. You do not carry the typical Kaustir posture. I do not know exactly who you are, but you are lucky I have not revealed anything of you." The lady smiled, "I guess you could say I'm one of the few kind ones around here."

Kalhart frowned, "That still doesn't explain why you are showing me a knife."

"It's my way of showing I'm on your side. I'm aware you are trying to remain hidden. So take this as a gift. Something to protect yourself with. I'm not sure if you have weapons of your own. However, do not underestimate this knife. It is very sharp, and very deadly."

Kalhart nodded, "Thank you for your help, but I probably need to go. I am trying to say at different places, don't want to get to comfortable."

The woman gave an understanding nod, "I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors. Be safe." And with that, the woman was gone.

Kalhart let out a sigh. "Time to go, Arvok." Arvok made a clicking sound similar to a tsk, "You shouldn't have let your guard down." Kalhart frowned, "I didn't."
"That woman was the first kind soul I have met in this damned nation." Kalhart said softly.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kalhart walked silently through the streets, making sure to blend in. She sighed as she felt her stomach growl. She was starving and she needed to eat, but Kaustir's food was disgusting.

Despite Kalhart's disgust for the food here in Kaustir, she gave into her hunger.

Kalhart walked up to a young man selling basic food. Well basic for here anyways. Kalhart ordered a small amount of food and quickly payed for it. She shuffled through the crowd and sat down at a nearby table. She stared at the food for a moment before eating it. As she took bites from her food she made sure to pay attention to everything about the people here in Kaustir. The way they talked, walked, and even their posture. After taking notes in her head, she noticed the way she was sitting. Hunched over her food. She was still nervous and uneasy. She at least needed to appear to be calm and confident. She took a deep breath as she finished her meal. She stood up and walked in a much slower pace than she usually did. She had to make sure she didn't stand out.

Once she got to an alley she deemed out of sight and sound, she spoke to Arvok, "I have no idea what to do, Arvok. I'm stuck here without anyone to help me." Arvok stared at her for a moment, "Well, you're going to have to think of something. You obviously can't stay here forever."

"Thanks for the obvious."

"You need to come up with something soon. Your time is going to run out."

Kalhart sighed, "I need more time to plan. I just feel so trapped. Any move could be a wrong one."

"Well yes, that's true, but sitting here doing nothing is the worst move you can make."

Worst move you can make.

Move you can make.

Move.

Move where?

There's only one place to go.

Pegulis





[/fieldbox]

 

[Chrononaut]

By Chrono and TomValtom
[fieldbox="Dorgrad, red, solid"]
Hayr loved the empire. Close to his heart it was held, ever since he had been uplifted from his humble beginning, and Dorgrad was his anchor. The place where he had grown from mud, to miner, to steward and treasurer. Yet as much as he cherished his home, he hated living there.

It wasn't just because he was Anima, blessed with the form of a squat brown toad on two fat spotted haunches. He had learned to cope with the heat through spring water baths and languid living. No, his issue was the sun. To live as a steward is to live busy and organized, with people to meet and information to census and taxes to collect, and without the sun to grace them, keeping track of time had become an exercise in frustration. Every sunrise, midday, and sunset, the Ipari who guarded Dorgrad would change guard, and as they reentered the volcano they would have a brief ceremony announcing the current time of day to passerby. From there, word would spread through the workers, and the great Kaustirian machine would grind on. This worked fine for them, miners blessed with simple lives and working in shifts.

But Hayr's responsibilities were too complex to schedule around the three times of day. Ever since the push into the Cheronese, he had been busy nearly every day - trips to the blacksmiths, the caravan masters, the captains of the Lapir, an occasional formal letter for the Governor; the list went on. Hayr would never say it out loud, but with the current state of affairs, he believed that Dorgrad - and by extension, the Empire - would grind to a halt without his dutiful mind to see that everything ran the way it should. The ores move from the rocks, to the mine carts, to the blacksmiths, to the forges, to the traders, to the caravans, to the meticulously mapped trade routes, and finally to the cities that needed them the most. A single mistake could shatter productivity in a distant land for upwards of a month. For the want of a horseshoe, a horse could be lost - you know the old maxim. Hayr kept it close to his heart.

As he sat in his bath of warm water, freshly drawn from the underground springs and heated to his liking, he considered the other thing he kept close to his heart - Moroth. The only member of his personal retinue and, possibly, the only person he truly related to in all of Kaustir. Was she a person? A siren, a nymph, the smoke on the water? No, she was Wroth. A rare breed these days, and sometimes Hayr could scarcely suppress pride at having her under his wing. As much as he respected her, it was hard not to think of her as a tool - after all, the trade routes she had drawn out, in perfect clarity and reason, he had used them to consolidate the efficiency of Dorgrad's bureaucracy and by extension the whole empire. One day, of course, he would see that she got the respect she deserved. But for now, they had other plans.

The mere thought of his ambitions was enough to raise him up and out of his bath, shivering as the water cascaded off his thick rubbery skin. He clad himself in a burgundy robe and emerged from the bath chamber into his study. He stopped to gaze pridefully at countless maps lining the walls, drawn with care and beauty rivaling the best calligraphy and art he had ever seen. He then settled his eyes upon the figure slouched in a chair, working tirelessly at a piece of parchment at the smaller desk in front of his.. He smacked his jowls and said aloud,

"Moroth! How do you fare this morning?"

His voice was friendly, deep like bass, and perfectly befitting his stout nature.


Sleep was a distant memory. Moroth was ambling along the thin line between madness and consciousness, slumped over a desk layered in parchment. Moroth planned to combine all these maps into a single microcosm of themselves. Then they'd actually be practical. The beginnings of an attempt was laid out in front of her.

Not moving her eyes from her work, Moroth spoke in a disconnected manner particular to her people when in deep focus.

"I am sated and the mapway to New Kaustir is nearly unified."

Truly, she'd been at this final map without sleep for two days. Her interest in the trip was something like the interest a man dying of thirst might have for water. This was true in more ways than one, Hayr had promised a boundless -as he had put it- above ground aquifer. A space more infinite than the caves that wormed their way away and around Dorgrad. Places that hadn't been mapped out in centuries. The very idea would have put tears in Moroths eyes if Wroth were capable of producing tears. She'd have to settle with intense wanderlust.

Hayr drew himself to her side, clasping his webby hands together and peering at the map that lay before her. He loved watching her draw. Some of her maps had been graceful and intricate enough that he'd had them framed and hung around his office - a political map of Sunne laid over the top of his desk, with a single glass pane covering it.. It was before the move into the Cheronese - borders and details still reflected the former grace of Avarath. He made a note internally to ask her for a more up-to-date edition - but that was for another time.

"Good to hear, my dear pupil. I have the utmost faith that your map will see us to safety - but I do worry for the preparations concerning my carriage." Hayr stepped away from her back towards his desk, picking up a thin incense rod and plopping it between his thin brown lips. He took a puff, shivered, and blew it slowly out of his nostrils. "I'm worried about the springwater, the vital essence of our journey. Care you to join me while I go to inspect it? I've had it taken to the entrance."

Moroth craned her head around slowly and deliberately. Her left eye darted back to the map, independent of the other and shot back. The desire to finish the map was weighing heavy on her psyche and pulling straight down to the sun-soaked mounds of the Old Kaustir deserts, lava-brimmed rivers of Dorgrad, all the way down to their home.

"If you think the water may be tainted, I will care to join you. This map must be finished tonight." She really didn't want to think what would happen on the fifth day without sleep. She was starting to see translucent concentric circles form around the candlelight.

Their walk through the wide, busy streets of Dorgrad was uneventful. On occasion they were stared at, but not spoken to.

The carriage was wrought metal and massive. It stretched eight meters long and four meters wide. The cabin was covered in hide and within lay a bath instead of your typical seats.

Contrary to the toadman's worries, everything was as he specified. Eight large containers of water from the underground springs were fit into the walls around the bath in lines of four, and decorated humbly with the insignia of Kaustir. Hayr touched his fingers together and hummed, pleased. "Everyone is up to par, then. I'd suspect we could leave as soon as you finished your map."

His large black eyes turned lazily in their sockets, up the pathway that would lead them out of Dorgrad. Pursing his lips together, he said aloud, "But I don't think we should. A seed must be planted, my dear companion." He raised a single finger. "While I lay in my chamber, I wrote my proposal concerning the City of Whores. Prospero." He said the name with casual disdain. "I intend to leave it in the Governor's hands before our departure. While we set into motion our plan, he can consider it carefully. If he supports and vouches for my plan to redirect precious metals from Prospero into New Kaustir, then our Emperor will be more privy to it in the long run." A long and scheming smile crossed his face, his eyes blanking, for a moment, in daydream. "Then we can set into motion our endgame."

She had already heard the plan time and time again. But they were alone, and they had time, and to her blank stare he told her of the glory that would await them, his mind honing in on the dream, and hers longing to return to her art.[/fieldbox]

 

[unanun]

Prosperos .. ?​

The ship was a hundred paces wide, and slowly tapered into the sea. There, the waters of the Prosperos foamed white against the iron. In places the sealant paint was wearing off, and algae and rust festered on the exposed surfaces. Polished lines tracked the worn tracks of the diver's boots, and hundreds upon hundreds of grooves at the very edge of the platform attested to the braided metal wires, reeled in by steam engines that coughed black smoke into the sky.

Lemuel followed the last three bundle of cables. The sun dipped below the horizon - what little light could filter to the Old God's shallow graves would be lost, and their thermic lamps would not be enough to repel the nocturnal horrors. He had seem them, bodies, cables, salvage, all neatly snipped in half by a jaw full of razor blades.

He sprang upright. One of the cables twitched. A two finger salute to the foreman and the steam engine roared to life. It would take a few minutes to spin up the flywheel.

The turbulent surface belied the dead stillness below. The three of them huddled at inside the room at the furthest corner, although they all knew it would be futile. Around them dead glass panels coated the walls. Some of them were smashed, runes and guts spilling forth from underneath the glass skin. A pair of webbed hands grasped the doorframe, and the proto-Avian advanced into the chamber.

"Purely... purely an... academic interest..." The gills on its neck flexed, and it pulled a golden thread from a spool at its hip. In the buoyancy of the water, the thread moved maddeningly slow, but with smooth, deft strokes he tied it into a wide, gossamer thin net, the four corners stretched to fill up the room.

"Hang on .." Leo had sent the distress signal up five minutes ago, small at the back of their diving suits that thumped the cable in a regular pattern. Either he was being jerked in half by a large fish, or Lemuel upstairs could see what the problem was.

And there it was. Suddenly the cables leading outside picked up their slack and stretched taught against the door frame. The three divers were yanked by their waists, and the proto-Avian made no effort to stop them as they were slowly dragged out of the room and past the immaterial golden net, along with their scant half-bounty of salvage.

Leo and Taggart noticed something was wrong when they saw Tem thrashing inside her suit. She seemed to be foaming at the mouth. They tried to shine their thermic lamps onto her visor, but the glare blinded them. They swam over to her suit and pressed their glass bubble faces together. Inside, Tem was curled into a ball, twitching and her eyes rolling.

They both looked at each other, then back to the shrinking proto-Avian, who was examining their aux, caught and left behind. Something in their head snapped, and soon they were like Tem too.

Three limp diving suits screeched across the sloped platform.

 

[Peregrine]

The air that filtered through Chelena's crudely constructed mask had the mixed taste of the caustic, hot ash that filled the air and the sweet dryness of the last scraps of her herbs, now little more than ashes. It was a strange mix, the taste of something that could kill her, mixed with the taste of something that had once had the power to save her. Now both of them were simply another death sentence, although in opposites. One killed her by its presence, the other killed her by its absence.

It felt like Dorgrad was trying to swallow her alive. Nu led Chelena deeper and deeper into the pit, and with every set of stairs they descended the walls drew closer and closer together. Hundreds of passages left in every possible direction, which would undoubtedly branch off into hundreds more each. Even though she could see her right in front of her, Chelena clung close to Nu. If the two of them got separated somehow Chelena doubted she would ever find her way out.

The sensation of being closed in, of being trapped, only heightened when they stepped off the main descent and into one of the tunnels. As soon as they rounded the first bend the last traces of moonlight vanished, leaving nothing but a few flickering torches and empty pools of shadow, in which it felt as though anything could be hiding. Chelena felt her breathing growing short and quick as the walls closed in around her.

Nu's hand touching her shoulder came as something of a shock, and Chelena refocused on Nu's face, thrown into deep contrast by the light of the torch they stood near. The woman had removed her mask, and Chelena promptly followed suit. They wound deeper.

In many ways, Dorgrad felt like the opposite of Avarath. The merchant city had crumbled when the Czar had left Kaustir to settle into the Cheronese, leaving nothing but desert and empty houses. Dorgrad, on the other hand, seemed to have changed little. If Chelena had known more about the place, perhaps that wouldn't have come as such a surprise. The miners who worked within these black tunnels were not soldiers, and the mine could not have moved to follow the march of the Czar. But the need for iron was as great as ever, if not significantly grown. The miners of Dorgrad continue to dig deeper in the rhythm that had always driven their lives, uncaring of where the Czar resided, and what plans he had constructed.

Nu guided Chelena past silent, dirty people, piles of abandoned tools, and the occasional Ipari guard, who cast a glance at the odd pair but did not otherwise comment. Chelena did not bother to ask why they had come here. Nu would not give her an answer. The young nocturne would simply have to wait and see.

Wait and see. Wait and see if Nu had found some other sort of temporary salvation, or if these dark tunnels were to finally become her resting place.

 

[E.T.]

Aerie had a long and proud history of fighting dirty, so she was really pissed when the three asshats in front of her decided to copy her own techniques. Alright maybe it wasn't quite copying, but having all three of them approach together left her with very limited choices. Bitterly she wished for something a bit more substantial than Caoimhe's crude dagger. The old dagger still had a keen edge but it lacked the reach Aerie was used to. Sticks and rocks lay around her feet but they were even less appealing weapons. No, Aerie choose to search inwards and perhaps try and use something to catch these three off guard before they used their upper hand.
The possibility of an event tempted, but the downfalls of having no true reasoning skills while facing off against three opponents was less than appealing. Actually what Caoimhe regarded as simply giving over to pure instinct, Aerie thought of as complete foolishness, something she was not a complete stranger to but she preferred her own brand of the stuff. Then again there was always their second event, but even Aerie in all of her bravado was slow in descending into that unknown. True, like some great quilt they had been spliced together so tightly that to try and pull them apart would result in two incomplete and broken souls, but as in a quilt if you looked close enough you would see that there was always something else that held whole thing together. However the same thread that held them together had also been originally what torn them to pieces. Who wouldn't fear sticking their hands back into the maw of the beast that had already bitten you.
Too late to think now as a blur of movement to Aerie's right closed fast and she only narrowly avoided having her stomach ripped open as she tumbled backwards over a low lying branch. Her shoulder protested the sudden movement and the harsh contact with the forest floor, but there was no time for sympathy as Aerie flung herself further into the brush, past trees and brushes, reaching hands trying to stop her retreat. Aerie did not have Caoimhe's same instincts about the forest, she was far less adept at cutting a clean path, twigs grasping at her hair, branches knocking painfully against her wings, but whatever she lacked in refinement she made up for with sheer effort as plowed through the brush in desperation.
That is until she felt a hand clamp down on her ankle. A fatal glance back confirmed what her nerves were screaming at her, she was fucking trapped once again. Perhaps her only blessing was that while she had one nearly right on top of her and the second was not too far off the third was a fair bit more built and had fallen behind. Aerie's wings pumped without mind of any injuries she might have collected and for a second she left the ground nearly dragging the scaly bastard off of his feet. That is until his friend caught up and grabbed a fist full of feathers with and dragged her back to earth. Her shoulder wrenched around and she could feel feathers popping out of place, hear them snapping under the force of the grip. Her heart threatened to shatter as it pounded faster and faster in her chest. Perhaps she could use it as a weapon, it would probably hit harder than she could at the moment.
Her heart went so fast that she could swore it blurred to a stop, she could feel something unraveling and in a blur she found herself reached out to grab the two attackers that had a hold on her. If she was going plunge into her own madness she was not going to do so alone.
"To hell." She said as the stiches sprang loose and she dragged two souls down into her revolting soul.
The world turned black and then stark white and then black again as the men found themselves in the middle of a flat plain. To look skyward was to see an endless canopy that flashed and twinkled with an unknown light and yet there were no tree trunks to be seen, just the endless grass. Through the gray nothingness there was a flash of brown and the pair saw a girl running. She flickered in and out as though she was racing through trees though there was nothing except emptiness. One took a step forward, perhaps to chase the familiar shape perhaps to call out in confusion or in protest of this unnatural place, but that one step covered a mile and they were flung across the plains to a forest which was replaced again by the plains and then a flat cobblestone courtyard as that same man took two stumbling steps back.
"You're here." Said a voice, the words passed along by a murmuring crowd a thousand strong.

H̶̄̿ȩr͂̑̌ͥe̍͑̾̌҉ ͊̓ͪ̍ͣͣhͣͤ͝er̡e̊ͤ̎̎͌ͪ̈́ ̛̑̄̌̇͌̅ͥh̛͆͐̈̍͂̆eͣͪͣ̆͜ŗe̓ͮ ̅̓͊̾̚͢n͆͒o̊͂wh̃̇̍̄͐҉e̡͌ͣͯ̊́̓͆ŕë̢͂̑̈́̊ͩ ̧ͮ̋̈́̎̒h̴eͩ͂̈ͪ̚r̄͋̏ē̛̂̊̇̌ ̇̎̄͗ͦ̾͟ḩ̃e̔̔͌ͯ̊r̓̉̽ͫ̅͞e͋ ̷̔ͪ̏̎̚h̅̇ͣ͑̿ͫè̶ͧ̽͛ͩ͆͌r̓ͬ̊͌͗̈́͐e̾̐ͥ̑̔͑ ͪ̊nͪo͑͗̎ͤ҉w̶̎͋́͛ͭ̒h̑͂ͬer̷͛̋̑̓̓ͣe̵H̿ȩr͋͆̾e̴̿͛ ̋̏ͥ̑̿͗͑h̒e͜ŗ̄̋ͮ͋e͂̊̚͝ ̛̆̌ͩ͑̏ḩ͌͗̑͑̒͂er̡͛̓ͦ̇ͬͫͭe̢ͣ́ͯ̉ͣ̓ ͗̈́ͨ͂̚n̔o͊͐̎ẃ͐ͬ͛ͯ́h͆̃e̵ͥ̈́̈́̿͒rͦ͒ͪ̐ěHeͨͧ͊̍̏rͮ͆ͯ̋ͪ͋͝e̅͢ ͣ̈́̊h͆e̴͑ͧ̊̀͆̈ͧŗeͬ͋͒͗̉ ̆ͧ͝hĕ͛̉ͪͯ̀͡ṙ́ͤ͋͒̄̚̕e̛̋ͧͣ̅ͯ͛̉ ̍n̿̌̓͊̏̚͟o͊̉͟w̔h̆̈͡er̋̐͑̽͌éͥͥͥ͋h̾̔̃èͫͨrͨ̿̀̇̆҉e͂̿͛ͪ̒̇͘ ̡ͥ̽̇hͨ̆ͮͨ͊͑͂͠ẽr̓̋̓̃͛e̓͑̓ͨ ̓ͦ̅ͭ̈͡h̊ͤ̆͒͆͠eͤ͋ͦͮ̍̌́r̊ͥeͫ ̈h̨̆͑̐͐͊eͦ̃͆͂̑ͯͬ͏r͒ͮͧͯ̑eͦ ͛̑̈́̌͛҉h̶͂͂ė̓̓rͪ͗ͣ̎ͤ̆̕e̍̀͜ ̽ͦ̓̇ͭth̅̅̌ͮ̈e͒̓̋ͮͭ͑̍r̿̿e̅̈́̽̓͢ ̡̋ͫ̂̅n̿o̢ͭ̏͐̍ͨͭ ̓̑̅ͨ̊͝ḣͨͯ̄ͨ̍͜e̿̽ͪ̄̽ͦ̿́r̓͆̈́̇ē̵ͨ͆ͬ̈́̍ ̃Ḩ̾ͬĕͩͨ̂r̈ͤeͨͪͭ̐ͪ͆͡ ͥ̊̉h̿̾̋͗ͦ͛ê̵͂r̴̄̐͛ͦ̊e̴͋ ͂̾ͪ̆h̢̿eͣȓ̎̃̊͂̌ͨ͡ĕ̎̔ ͂̽͡nͧ͑̉̀ȏ̵w̷̉͊̃̈́ͥ̽h̷̋̏̌̑̉e͋ͥͭ͂͠rͬ͗̂e͟ ̷ͥ̈̄̊͐̓h̋ͥe͋̔ͤ́r͞eͧ̽ ͯ̅ͥ̔h̉ͦ̒͠èͨ̾͐͢rͫ̆͐̔̃̎͒͟èͫ͑ ͐҉h̔̀ͨ̓̒ͤ̌͘e̢rȅ͋̌͘ ̈̎ͦ͌n̽͗̈́̊ͮo͛ͦw̧h̀ͧ͡e̢̅͒̓r͛̏͊̒͟e͑̄͒͝H̨e͋ͦ͛ͪ̅r̡e̴ͥ̇̓͛ ͩ̐͠hͮͣ̂̉ę̉̉͂̆̚r͂͒̄ͧ͆ͨeͦ̑ͫ̾̑͡ ̵̊͑̂̅̈̽h̒ͤͯͧ́ē̚r̨̄̚e̴̓́ ͪ̅ͨ̅̔n̸ͮ͋͗ͦ̎ỏ͊͂͘wͨͭ̑́̽͂ḩ̽ͬͮeͮͮͭ͡r̾͘ȇ̌͊̾H͐̍̄̽̇̑͟e̓ͦͭͣ́͛ͫrͤ̊̃̍̾̽e͘ h̊er̓̌̐̇͑e̎ͣ̍ͥ ͂ͪ͆͗̚h̒͋̃eͤͨr̽ͭe̿̇͡ ̸ͫ̎̐́͌̓ͧnͨ̔̏̎oͤ͆̀͊ẁ̂ͮ̚hͩ͛̉ͨ͆̚ẽ̌r̴̉̊̍ͥ̃eͦ̌ͭ͌̍ͩ̏h̸͛́̽e̿ͯ̾́ͫ̽͘r͗̕ė̓ͤ̀̊͘ ̿̒͛͊͒h̵̽̉er̽e͑͑͒͒̊̈̄ h͟eͫ̄̽ͩ̚r̾͠e̓͆̂̅ h̕e͏r̢ͤͧͣ͛̽e͊̍ͥ ͥh̨ͨ̀͑̑ͩe̍̕r͒̏ͧ̍̾̄̏͢eͨ̍͒̍͢ ͌ͥtͣͬĥ̵ͨé̓͂͋̌̋͒͞r͌̾ͪ͝e ͥ̈́̿͛n͠o̡̅͊̽̃͌ͦ͂ ͜h͊̏͢ȩ̎̌r͒̉͆͊̄̓̚ĕ̛ͩͦ̾͋ͥ ͭ̍͢H̿͟e̽̂ͬ̉̚r̵͆ͥ͐̅e̾ͥ̕ ̈́̾h̐e̐͂ͤ̑͛ͨ̄҉r̽̐ͧ̓eͨ̂ ̅̀͂́ͮ̌͠hͥeͦ͛̌͛̏̕r͛̉e͂ͥͩ͌͗ ̢̈́̎̋̑̍n͛̌̾͑ͮò̓w̸ͫͥ̆h̅ͥ́͛͛̈͡è̋̉҉r̓̍̇͋͢e̽̚ ̉̈́ͬͣhͮ̏͘eͥͪͧr̡͑ͭ͂͐͆̓ȅ̐̽ ͦh҉eͫ͋̿̆ͮrͪͫ̀ë͏ ͌̄̄̈́͊̐̒h̊ͧ̈́eͤ̄͌͘r͌̄̂̀̇̉e̍̆ͥ n̸͒̌̃̑oͥ̓̂w͛̓ͬ͌̚h͏e̍͆ͧr̽̂̌͗̽͢e̒͐ͮ̍H̒̈́̊̚ẽ̓̎ͬͥ͆ͨr͑̐̓e ̢̎ͬ̉h̽̍̄͒̍̋́er̛̃͑́̅̂eͪ ̍͠h̶ͮͬͪe͞re̡͑̓͊ ̑ͩ̽n̂̎ǒ͋͆ͧ̀̿̓͏w͊̿̅ͦͪ͗͋h̀̍ͪͣͫ̊͋e͆̈́r̶̒ͫ̔͌͛e͞H͐ͩeͮ̌̽́̚̚͞rͬ̓̊̅͐e̶͗ ̵̆̈ͭ̍ͪ̒ͦȟ̈́ͭ̓͞ȅ͑͢rͯ̂͡e̵ͫͥͬ̈͛ͩ ̈́ͭ̆̃̿̂͆͟he̡͆ͥ͛̚r̴͐ͧẽ̀̍ͤ̅̕ nͬͣͥ̀o̴̅ͣ̒̈́ͬẘhͥ̾̾͋͌̌é̶͆̈́̐ͯr̒̿̓҉eͧ͐ͦ̈́͝h͛̑͗ͨ͑̿̓eͭͩ̾ȓͭȩ̓̂̾ͪ ͮͤ̓͊҉h̔ͨ͗̅eͦ҉ṙ̡e͗ͧͯ̈́̕ ḩeͦ̔̋re̛͐̌͌̽ h̃ͯėr͒̋̍e͗͆̅̔̄̿̌ ̨̃͐̓̄ͧͦ̑h͘eͥ͊̅̄r̵̎̾̾e͋ ̾͝ţͪ̉̄̏ͨ̒̌h͛̎ͦͪͤ̒e̐̊ͨ̎̚҉r͂͢e̋̄͌ ̇͛͢n͞ō ̾҉h͐̈́͟ȇͬ̑ͤ͂͑r͒eͣͬ H̵ͭ̐ͧ͌̀̓̚e̐͊ͦ̓̆̽rͧ̈̋ͧͦn̢͍͚̘͔̱̉̄͛̀̔͑ȏ̸͙̹̫̥̌͋̌͛̇w̧̫͚͑͂͑͊͛h̩̱͎̞͕̫ͥͅĕ̹̝͈̩̟̓ͦ̒̀ȓ̝̠͉̇e̛̝̥̾́ͫ̀̈ͨͅH̴̫͗̅ë͑ͫ̋̇͛̓͏̣̤ͅr̨̜̱͕͆̋ͣe̝̠̩̣̫͙͓͂ͨ̔͝ ̻̪̹̥̘̲̖͒̍̎̑̆͠h̹̹̗͇̫̆e͇͈̱̼͈͈ͯ͊͑ͦr͙̪̫͝e̼̼͉ͧ̅̑ ̷̠͐ͭ͗̎͑h̻͎̋̕e̖̺̟͚̦͔r͍̳͈͍̝̮̬e͍͉̍͝ ̜͖̱̠̘͉̄ͫ̒ͅn̸̰̖̫̺͉̟̥ͭ͋̽̊o̳̥͎̓w͎̹ͩ̌͘ͅḥ̰̣̱ͨ̆̂̾ͪ͝eͨ̿̍͐ͭr͍̯͈̙̣͚͛͊̄̈́̈ȩ̲͎͎͉̹͊̐͋́ȟ̳̮͈͇̤̣̺̇̅̈ͫ̔́e͉͓̪̭̖̚͝ͅr̗̣ͬ͑̿ͪͅe͍̰̅ ̹ͥ̒̏ͪ͜h͎͇͖̫̪͓͖e͔̖̍̇̀͝ṟ͓ͫ̆eͯ̓̿ ̤͇̭̟̏̅͞h̡͚̺͉͚̲͓̳̓͛̑̈́ͣ̚̚e̻̓͌ͯ̌͠r͙̥͑̇͌͛ͬ͐̿e̶̯̲̳̦ͨ͑̊̏ ̖̹̝̟ḧ̖ͯͫ̈̑͢ê̹̠͕̖͙ͅr͎̲ͤ̄ḛ̡͎ͨ͛͛̚ ̡̪͎̣ͅh̼̻͉ͪ̍ͧ̋̍͠e̠͈̘̺͍r̢̝̪̝̪ͩͣͩͮͥ̚e̻̲̹̖ͯͫ̾̀̑̏ͩͅ ̥͎̲̞̘ͫ̓̇̈̂̕t̼̜̳̝̰̹̪ͫͭͮ͐͐̃̚͞h̻ͤ͗̇͛͑ͩ́̕e̯͇ͩ̍ͬ̀r̳̱̠͒̑͐̇̀e͕̬̪̫͑̽ͥͬ͋̓̏ ̡n͉̑̇̈̊̑ͨͪͅo͎̘͌̏́͐ ̹͍͙̥̇̆̔͛ĥ҉̘̺͚ȅ͍͎͍̪͆̍͋̑̍ͧr̛̻̓̔ͤ̔e͎ ͈̱NOH̞̠̥̭͓̳ͩ̎̚e̗̦̙͇̙͔̲͑̃͆̚͢r̜̾ͧ͘e̠̠̞͎͕͖̗̅͂ͭ̓̄̂͐ ̴̻̘͎̽̇ͦ̍̓ͬh͚͕̦̥͖̣̋ͨ̂͝e͔̯̬̲̩̜ͣͩ̀̇ͤr̹̹ͭͤ͗͋e̱͔̜̊̐ͭ̽ͮ̿̄ ̶̙̘̙̳̳̱̳͒ͭͥ́̍ͩḣ̻͔̫̆͆ͨ͗e̦͆ȓ̙̤̭͇ͨè͎̤̥̦̞͈ ̏̄҉̜̝̯n̂͆҉̻̫͚͕̜ͅö̷̠̻͉͉͎̣̬͗̔̄w̲̬̭̓̎͊̔̔͆ͅh̨͍̬͖̃̚e̢̥͓̋r͇͚̯͙͒̊ȅ̯̯̯̠̙̜͆͛̓ͥ͌̏͘ ̸̥͈̦̺̐ͨ̈̇ͅh̲̥͚e̺̞͖̣r̹͈̲̫͆e̛̻͒̉͑̌͌ ̣͈̠̮̹̆̓̏ḫ̠̮̳͖͚̊̚̚̕e̶̖̻̓ͭ̉ͣ̈́ͭŕ̞̮̗̮ͦ̇̃̋̓ē̢̖̻͓̪͙̺͙ͣ̅ͥ̅͊̅ ̛̤̳̺͐̑̌̃h̹̭͚̣͍̆̍̂̃ͦ̊͒ͅĕ̤͖̣̟͕̝̊̇̔̾ͪͅr̛͖̼̗̻͔̐ͅe̝̖̙̙ͮͨ̅͂͠ ̌̇̅̊ͪ̈҉̺n̙̻̙̺͊͆̑͟ͅo̳̜̯ͅw̨̖̮͉̪̍͂̿ͅh̢̗̩̱̞̞ͨͦ̀͒e͍̤͈̯̽͌̐r̳̭̼̘͍̪̗͊̃̑͆ͬe̸ͨ̓̒̒ͨ̓̚H̝̘͊̀ͣ͋̀ě̲͐͠ŕ̪̙̫̗͓̀̉̎͢e̶ͥ̀ͤ͆ ̺̘̮͔͚ͤ̀̉̈͊͡ͅn͎̝̩̝̣ͯô̻̤̗͚̼͚͝ ̼̰̿͑̀̔̚̚n̮̹̠̫͢o̬͔ͪ̃̐ͪ̕ ̺̙̯̤̀̾ͩͦ͗n̦̞̋̚͟oͭ̓̔͆͊ ̪̲̭̀͛ͨ̋ͯ͌ͦn̳͎̟̈̓̀̇̿̄̚o̳͐ͩͪ͑o̱̯̜̲͈͈̩̅̈̍̀ ̭̼͒͑ͯ̃͒͒n̰̘̣o̪̰̟ͨ͌ͮͦ̉̈́͑̕n̤͎̤̱ͥ̏ͭͅ ̭͙̻̜̽̔̀͊n̜͈̼̠͎̩o͟ ̔̽͒̀̀̏҉̫̱̞̦̜̺̮ṉͅo̴̜̓̃̈́w̛h̭̭͓̖̎ͧͅe͆͑ͥr̈́ͭ̉͗̅̓ě͎̃ͧ̌̂Ḣ̤̹̝̻̻̘̓̀ͯ͝ͅe͏̥̬͈̠͓r̟̣͉͎̆ͯ̅e̡̥͑͆ ͋̾ͭͭ͡h̦̝͙̹̬͂̎̿͛̉̅̀e͍̮̦̗ͤ̋́r̼̹̻͕͚͛ͭ̓̓͊ͩ̚͟ẻ̖̠͙́̽͗̊ ̱̘̺͋h͈̺̦̱̙̣̓͋̚e͔̤̲͈͍͖͇͛r̛͔̭͓͙ͥ̔ę͓̖̪͔̤͉̇͗ ̮̩̳̖̗̲̑̌̈́ͣ̉ͅn̞ͅo̗̜͆̅ͣ̓̒̈́̋w͊̈̚͜ĥ̯͚̤̱̣̪̖ͫ̎͞è͍͕͇̬̳̺͂̿̂́ͬ̿̕ṟ̸̤ͤ̓ͮ̎̋͂̓e̜̹̭̎̾͋͌ͬ̓ȟ̤͖͉ě̫̪̯̙ͨ̽ͥ̚r̰̥͙͈̟͞ḙ̯̞̈́̇̇͆ ͕̳̬̤͒̅̌̎̑ͅh͕̺̣̞̹̰͞ͅê̽̽ͅr̰͋̄̾̀ͭ̎̚͢e̒ͦͪͣ̏͢ͅ ̐͑͗̂҉͇̠͖̻h̩͓͊́͌̽͟ě͔̰ͩ̌͒̽͝rͭ̓̇҉̳̘̙̝̘ͅę̇͐̃͗ͅ ̖̮̖̰̤̭̓͌ͭ͂͌̉̄h̺̣ͬ͗́ͦê͛ͤ͂ͫ͞r̬̓̒̏͝e̼̮͍̭̼̣̰̽̂̂̅͘ ̽̀ͥ̉҉h̪͓̲̯̜͓ͭͤ̆͊̀e͇͇̦͙͖̦̿ͥͯͦ̚̚͘r̷̙̠̝̞̟̈́͒ͦͩê̅ ̛̦ͭͫͤ̑ͮ̋t̹͓̼̟͑̈́̾͊͋ͫ̌h̻̪͓̞͉͌͡ḙͬ̕r҉̙̦͍̯̠̹̪e͉̲̘͓̽ͧͤ̓ͪ͢ ͉ͩ̈́̑͂ͪ͗̃͠n͉͖͚̬̯̞͕̐̋͠o̻͎̥ͪ̈͑͐̾̒̕ ̸̦͎̿h̭ͨ̚e̝̰͉̭͓͖̞r̼͑͑͘e̴̬̤̻̜̯̎ͤ͒͒ͩ͋ ̶̫̥̮̣̦̘͇͛ͬ̋͋̔ͮͫH̭͕̤̑ͪ͑ͅe̪̺̝̞̠̭̠ͧ̏͂ͫ̑̚̚r̐̆ͥͤ̋͂̚e̢̹͙̜͉̊͗̊̅̂̄ͫ ̭̝͒̀̓͐ͬ̚ḥ̛̺ĕ͙͈̤̦̒̾͠r̳̥̤͓ͨ̀e̸̫̙ͤ͛̌̓̋ ̜͈͓̘͙̼̊ͧ͊̍̉̑͑́h̤͚͖̥̖ͫ̆͂̓͂̋̈ë̢͉̳̬̩͈͎́̈́̇r̨̄e̹̰͔̍ͥͬ̾͊́ ̩̦͎͖̠̎ͨ̄ͨ͑n̗̺̟o͖͕̣̰͟w̠̪͎̰̖̿͟h͓̙̜͚̰͕̐ͣͮ̅ͨ͂e̳̥̊ͣ̍̍̓ͨ͠r͔̘̣̱͙͋̅̂͂̊̓̇ĕ̷̙̬͈͔̹͍̓͗ͅ ̛̥̜̟͐͋ͪ̿͐̽h̵̖ͩe̗̝͂ͯͩ͆ͪṟ̻̣͋ͥͥ́͟ẻ̸̖͑ ̛͒hͦͪͬ̓͗è͍̹̥̗̖̓̔͜r̵̘ͨe͉͚̠͖̦̮̳ͫ ̬̹̗̊̂͂hͣ̍ͨ̆̈́̑͏͎e͔̣ͫͣͭ̆̈́r̢͓̯͍̞ͥͥ͌e͉̱̾ ̵̰͖̟͕̏ͣ̚n̼̾ó͔̟͚̟ͩ̓̆̓̅w͆͊̐͏̪̠ͅh̟̘̪̒̓̂ͩ͢e͕͓͍̩̔̎̊̔̋̈̀ͅṙ̪͈͔̓̾̔eͮ̈̓̉̚H̞͙ͅe̟̦̝̫͚̼͗͌̿̿̒͛r͙̭̰̲̓̀̉ͤ̈́̒͒͟e̝̔ h̬̞̦̞͗͐e̼̝̗̯̣͈͑̋́r̮̪̫͖ͯ̚e̠̙̞͖ͣͨ ͚͆̈́͠h̭̖̺̪͎̺̗ͧ̋͊͋ͦ̒̔NONONOe̸̹̦̗͈ͮͅr͉̻ẻ̻̺͛̈́͡ ͉̭̭̲́ń̲̙̜̫̈̑̿̈ͦ̏o̪̱͎̤͌͐ͩ͊͗͝w̱̥̬̣̏̽̏͛h̤̓̈́͟e̪̫͚̝̦̽̽͆́r̬̜̰̳̪̤ͧ̄̿ͦ̄̍ͪe̺͚̻̬̳͓̙ͮ̈́ͩ̓H̥̟̲̤͕̒͋̔̇ȩ̬̝͍͎̃͂̑̐r̩̠͊̋ͦ͢eͩ͒́͏̲̳̬̗ ̫̫̟̄͠h̘̻̣̠̪͂e̝̥̣ͬ̉̄ͬ̂̇r̸̗̹̬̯̱̬e͓̼͈̺͔ͮ̔͒͌̓ͧ̾ ̷h̲̺͙ͬ͛̈́̌ͪ͌̓ͅe͂͂̇ͣ̔҉͇̺͓r̪͉̱͚e͇͚̗̯ͪͪ̉͂ͅͅ ̴n̜̖̯̥͎̉ͤ́ͨ̃͛o̡͛̽̈́̆̊̇̏STOP ITw̗̰͈ͪ̀̑̐͋̍h̬̟̑͛ͤ͒ͣȇ͈̺͛ͧ͑̅͜r̖̳͍̐̃ͅĕ̡̮͗͂h̨̥͍̩̟ě̠̖̜̣̬̹̊͐̽ͭͮͅr̟̖̩̮̣̓ͨ̓̐̆ḙ̗̗̇͐̏̓̍ͅ ҉ẖ̵̖ͅẽ̑͏͎̜r̫̪̹͚̽ͫe͉̱͍̟ ̌̿͛̚h͓̺̳̞ͦ̂̅̈́͆̀e̤̹͑̅ͥ͒̋̄͜r͔͕̠̘̣̗̀ͯ͡e͈ ̤̰̠̜̺̎ͧͧ̊ͅh̺̮͓͍̜̿̆ȅ̟̟̮̜ͤ͢r̅̂͒͒ͨ̔̋e̟̮̟̼ͪ̇͂̑̓ͯ ̤̹̱̻̲̳͙̂̆͛ͦ̉̉̀͟ḧ́̒̀ͭe͗͊̍̈rͥͩͦͫ̐͑̽e̢̽ͦ t̮̟̓͆͆͋ͤ͡͠͠h̦̗̀͒́͠e̵̢͎͔̰ͧ̆̈ͩͬ̏̔ͯ͞ṟ̠̱͎̹͇̩̘̀é̛͈͎̩̤̖͉̘͈̥ͤ̏́ ̨̠̯̯͙̱̌͒n̷̵͈̲ͫ͐̓͠o̫͙̦̼̙̾̍̒̽ ̧͓̤͙̝̳̼̏̄ͪ̊̅̚ͅẖ̢͉̘͈̯̙͇̖̪ͪͬë̬̦̦̻̠͗̃̊͌̏ͪ̎̀͞͠r̗̻ͩ̈́́̀͝͝e̢̞͖͖̘͈̤̗̦̓ͣ̾ ̷̧̻͖̿̐̋̒ͧ̚͡Ḩ̝͓͚̈́̿̔̂͛͐̀͝͠e̡̙̹͈͎̹̘̓ͫ͐̅ͤͮͤͬ̊͠r̨̡͕̩͗̿̾̒̄ȅ̸̤̖͔̞͚͖̻͛ ̴̟̱ͭ̃ͩh͚̥̖̟͕̩̺̯̓ͦ͗͋ͣ̃̐̏̔̀́ë̴̺̜͔̺̗͈́̏̂̅ͮͪr̸̦̩̋ͮͪ́͜e̛͊̇̎ͤ҉̫̭͍͈̟̞̹̜͟ͅ ̡̬̺͗ͤͮ͗ͬ͛̕h͍͙͓̗̫̃ͣͧ̆͊ͧ͞͠ͅȅ̲͈̦͓̄̍̊̀̑̐̕r̝͙̳̤͖͓͍ͮ͑̌ͨ̊ͮ̓̕͞e̤̳̬̖̥ͯ͊ͫ͂̓ͥ̽̐ ̸̓͌̍͂ͯ̓͏̺͉͈͓͕̭ṅ͋̂ͥ̎ͮ͏̠̻͎ȍ̼̜̼̩̉͗̃̾̈͐w̵̨̱̰̙͓̰̮̙̙̤̎̋͗ͧ̏̔̐͒͡h̭̻͔̬̳̲̯̭͐̾̍͗͛ͨḛ̼ͧ͛͒ͥ̏̂̐r̴̹͇͎͔̔̏̓̆e̻͓̱̱̐̂̋̈́̑͊̄̚̕ ̬̝̦̱͕̝̻̏͂̄̌͢͞ͅh̯̦͎̘̮̥̣̎̆ͪ̈́ͧ͘͘e̵̜͙͔̐͌̓r͍͇̮̦͕ͬ̏̔̄͌̀e̴̛͕͎̱͖̜̐̿̀͂̎̊͐͐ͩ ̷̱̻͙̟ͥͨ͜ͅh̛͕̠͖̺͈͈̄̕͜e̓̄̈͌ͫ҉̺͉͍̳̻̺̺̮r͇̣̮̪̲̜̰̜̚e̢̖͋͑ͯͫ͂̄̈ͧ͝ͅ ̼̹̠̜̫̯͚̹̞͐̃̽̈́̂́h̜̤̬͎̬̻̮ͨ̒̉͌̚e͓͔̻̥͎̮̠̿̾̂͘r̪̻͕̗ͥ̈́͊ẻ̫͈̞̠̥́̽̓̐͝͡ͅ ̷͈̪̤͛ͭͥ́̚͢n̜̫̜̳̻̺̭ͣ̏͡ö̼͕̻͎̙͔́͐̓̕͝ͅw͊͆͋͛͊҉̨̫̫̣̱̟͇͟ͅh̸̛̳̳̻̊͗̐̒̊̌̐̚͢ë̸͔͗ͫ̿̑̂̀r̡̜̤͔̻̳̺̜̲ͯͨ̆͑ͯ́ȩ̠̲̜̟̭̬̜̮ͭ̃̔Ḩ̷̡͎̗̲̆̽͌ͬͧ̇̏͋̚e̶̜͚̲̖̳̲̽ͬ̒ͣ̐r͔̫̓̓ͣ͛ͩ̌ͫ̎́͟͠ẻ̘͎ͦ̊̂̕ͅ ͕͇̱̹̫̹̎̔̉̅͟h̒̇̂̊̑͛̆͐ͦ̀҉̞̙̺̠̹̜e͈̮̭͈͔̪̦͍̼̋ͮ̐ͮ͘r̶̤͔̮̝̰̈ͯ̊̿̂ͯë̴̠̲́ͪ ̶̉̌ͭ̇͗͋͏͉̀h̵̵̤̩̤ͨ̓͌̏ͧͭẽ̓̀̈͋̐̋͏̰͎̜͖͝r̰͓͈̲͔̣̻ͬ̈̚͘͟ȅ̎͠҉̴̩̺̮̬̪͍̠ ̛̪̣́͂́̚n̷̸̘̖͖̗͎̘̖̓̆͐ͩ̑̍͠ơ̧̥̼̺̟̪̫̻̗̫̇̆ͣ̐̔̅ͦ̃w̹̖̖̘̭͉ͩͩ̏̏̉͌ͩ̾͜hͭ̊̔̉͑̍͠҉͈̜͚̭ȩ͙̝ͥr̢̮̟̜̺͕̝̲̫ͯe̼͈̞̤͕̻̝ͪͭ̄̈́ͫͪ͟͞H̒͂ͨͧͨ̊͒̚͞͠҉̭̰͎̯̬̣ͅe͔̯͓̠̝̳ͣ̓̀ṙ̸̢̯͇͈͕̩̩̌̾͑̄͌͊ĕ̆̅̈҉̹̤̀͝ ̊̓͂̉̃̚͏̢̩̻̣̹͍̳͡h̢̢̭ͥ̊ͣ̇̎̒ẹ̠͚͔͚͍ͧr͍̩̥̜̈ͥ͗͢e̶͓ͣ̐̒̐ ͑ͭ̆̒͑͏̧̱͖̝̱͍h̸̵̝̥̜̼̲̱̼ͧ̓̇́e̺͇̱̜͙̤͇͒́ŗ̵̻̜̜̰̺͔͚̭͐̋͝e̛̫͕̰͍̅̅̑͒̀͂́̚ ̨̘͛ͦ̈́̈̓́ǹ̷͇̻̱̜̮̄͐ͨ͒ͥͧ́̀o̧̪̞̝̓͒̋ͤ̍̆̍̅͜w̖̘̤̥̪͑̀̅̇ḧ̢̭̳̼͎̙͉̈́̃̒ͨͤ̌ë͕́͟͜r̦̫̻̖͖͙ͣͦ͟e̛̯͙̦̓ͥ͂́̈́̀ͅh̶̴̭̠̝̝̞͓͉̽̐̂͌̍ͥͭͧ͡e̝̦͇͂̒ͪ̇͊̌̐ͥ͝͡r̄̓͗҉̞̫̫̼͔͓é̼̞̼̱̣̠̻͓̆ͤ͗͗͢͞ͅ ̖̪̜͊ͬ͌̒̄ḩ̴̺͈̞͓͚̗̮̬̉̆͆̇ͤ́e̜̰̭̼̳ͨ͒͜r̸ͦͬ̓͛͡҉͍̟̣̥͓e̷̗͔̪͔͒͋͊̿ͩ̄̆́̚͢ ̘̘͉͍̝̬̬́̊̇̿͜͜h͖͕͇̘̉̃̊̐̀̄͠ȇ̻ͫ̐̅͟r͙̯͚̱͖͕͔̼̊͐ͣͫ̈̓̓͘e͕̠͙ͭ̀̑̊͢ ̶͔͍̤̤͕͙̗̯͗ͨ̆͢h̨̫͙͈͌ḙ̱͓̬ͥ̽̒ͧ͜r̙̹̹͙ͫ͌̾ͩ̓͛͜͡ẹ͔̳͎̘̘̒̄͗̃͘̕ͅ ̶̴̭̟̗̜̏̄̾̽́̚h̨͉̳͉̪͎̆͢e̷̩̙̔͐̅̀̚̚r̡̰̞͙͙̲̘̟̙̄̄̒̆͆̇ͩ͞e̡̗͕͛͐ ͋̍ͫ͛ͩ͡͏͕̼t̻̼ͣ̆ḣ̼̥̠͖̼̲̉̆̊ͪ̾ȩ̣͓̼̱̖̽̉ͦͬͭr̯̫̩̳̔̔̌ͮ̇́̐́͜ĕ̳̖̼̖̜͓̭̣͓̋ͨ̉̑̆͊͞ ̧̛̦̞̥͖̲̙͚̭̰͛ͬn̯̪͖̰̺̟̱̼͎ͨ̑ͫ͛̚̚ò͚̯̻̋̔ͣ ̵̗̝̣̈́͑̅̓ͧ͋͛ͦ̐͠h̶̩͈̥͔̳̪̺ͫ̇͋̄́e̸̵̢̠̱ͦͯ͑̇ͦ̃̓̌r̡͖̩̘̜̊͢e̷̴̲̒͐̿̀STOP


"ENOUGH." Came another voice, similar and different from the first and as one two familiar faces extracted themselves from the masonry of the surrounding buildings. The thundering crowd quieted but the minds of the khasidim remained raw and hollow so that even the quietest whisper echoed and shook them to their core.
Aerie looked at the two invaders with something just short of destain, and Caoimhe well her mind was still wandering and shaken from the impact that have driven Aerie to the surface so the empty shell that they saw only looked on with a vague wary curiosity. Questions bounced between the two groups but neither got the correct answers. All that could be known was that this space was not meant for the attackers. For while they stood in the hollow of the mind where memories collected they did so on Aerie's grace, it was not the avian or the wolf child that had pulled them in and the thing that had grown weary of waiting.

C̸̣̗͖̹̈̎ö̜́̑͑ͥm̯̟̠̥̦̓̒̀ͨ̈̑͐ȩ͍̺̣̓̄̓͐͌ ̡̝͉̜̊̉̽ͤ͂̿wͧ̈ͤͪ̒͞h̫͈̼̤̺̍͂̅ͭͪ́é̞͖̙̩̱̟͈r̩ͦ͗̂̌̿ͥe̢̗̣ͦͅ ̇̃w̳̻͈̟̹͖̔ͯͣͤ͐̚e͖̠͉̼̠̗̟ͪ̂̉ͮ̽ͪ̐ ̬̗̹̻͇ͬ̓́w̩͌ͣ́ǎ̭̻̘͓̙̮ͣi̓͛ͧ̽t͕͇̳̘̹ͮ͋̈͒̒ ̪̭͈̯͚̦́w̪͎̋ͯ͊ͩ̄e̠̤͉̝͇r͋ͣ̔͑͗͗̓͏̘eͩ̊̈̔̽̏̐ ͙͔̻̗͉w̜͘e̩ͣ̇͗̽̓͒̆͘ ̵̖̫͔̹͎̒̋͐s̯̰͉͍̜̱͙ͨ̿͐̄i͓͍͍͇̫͔̿͊͆͗ͩt͇͔̯̳̦́ͅͅ ̰̼͔̄ͦ͢a̝͇ͥ̒́̚ͅͅe͎͑̇r̝̞͚͈̜̜͈e ̛w͖͍͖̮̒ͭͦ̓̀̚é̛̞̹̣͋ ̷͉͔͍̹̮̼͗̀͊͆s̳͇͇͙͈͕͈ͭ̄̅͐͝i͓̝͕̮̖͗t̵̰͖͉̻ͪ̾̀ͨͦͅ ̻͖̋̅ͫ̿ͧ́ͥ͘à̞̤̫̖̺̦ͣn̬̲̦͛ͮ̏̽ͥḍ̸̯̹͓͕̯̭͒ͮ ̯̟ͨ̊͟ͅş̣̪̗̬ͯ́ͤp̞̲̪̒̄̅e̶̿̓̊̅̆̾aͨͩ͂͆͡k̗̪̭̫̖̙ͯ̌͑ͦ͌͡ͅ ̘͎̲̞̩̭ͮͦ̅̈́ͬ͡ṱ͚̘̟͙̜̼̍͒o̸͖̳̘ͧ̚ ̥̳̼̗̓͆̈ͨ̀l̲̱̳͖͂̏̐̽̅̀i̥͍̾ͭͬ̌͒s̟̳̲̈ṫ̖͓́͡e̵͚͉̬͈͔ͩ͛̍̓n̓̌̕ ͇͖̅ͩ̇͆͌̽b̗̬̥̦̮̺̄̓͡u̾̏ͭ͋̇̒̂t̫͍̋͋̍ͪ̿́͝ ̺̓̀w̲͔̬̹͉ͤͥe͖̖͆̏̑ͫ ̵̠c̓̃ͨ̊ͨ͆͟a̦̤̫͡n̖͑̄̐̂ ͫ̾̍̋̿͆̚҉͈͔̺͎ȍ̳̯̐̏̚nͥ͟l͕͙̉͊̆̈͡y͔̲̫̍ͫ̓̌̍͗̕ ̙̘̯͎̲̮̞̏l͎̬͉̳̪̓̃͒ͅi̧̤̤̍͂̈́ͫe͎ͤ̓̀̾̈̓̍ͅ ̛̖̬̩͉̣̬̍̎̄̂̉ͣ̓ ̝̭̮̖͔̬a̡̗̺̱͕̲ń̫̄̑d͓̙͖̬ͦ̈̽̊̏ ̡̼̖̽̓̂́͋t͔̗͎̏ͣͤ͘ͅo̹̰͉͓̊̊͘ ͇̳͔͚̠͒̅ľ̙̪͚̙̟̗ͧ̌ͦ̏̚i̟̦͚ͭe̸͙̱̣̻ͥ̾̌͑ ͋ͫ҉ị̡̳̪̱͇͙̉̀͂ͅs̤͕͙͖͙̥̀̄͂̚ ͚̗͙̜̆̄̆ͥ̈́̎o͈̭̰̣͚͉͑̌̽͂͑u̓ͨ̓̉ͫ̽̂r͒ͣͨ̐̂ ̯͍͙͇͓̌ṫ̨͙̼̯͖̭̟̒͛r͖̐u̵̓ͦt̲̩̹̘̮ͣͧȟ̠̣̦̜́ͪ̐̔̈͜ͅ ͖̈̌ͮ́̏̾̄s̥̒͌̉́ͅo͙̮̼̜ͭ̂̃ͤ ̷̹̟̞̄ͣc̳̳̭̅ͤ̀̚o̗̪̯̿͑͐m͋͂e͙ ̿ͫͤ̊̅͆͏͈͍̰͇ͅͅC̺̗̼̞̺̠̼ͦ̾o̢̝͚̫̳͚̫̗̾͛̾ͯ̆̅m͕̣̍ͪ̚e̗̱̠̍ͥ̿̑̽̑ͪ ͎͖͖̬̟͔̗̏w̧̩̮̙̱̙̪͈̌̏ͪḩ̩̗̫̱ẻ̙̲͙̘̯͓̹ͮr̡̞̈́͂̄͌͊̽ͦe͍̔ͣ̉̈́̎͂ ̥̱̱͍̞͒̍̂͝ͅw̭̙̲̖̟ͣ̏ͩ̔e̲̳ͧͣ ̵͙͛ͩ̓̓͆̈͐w̯̩̖̙̫̥a̒̐ͩ̈i̲̼̰͎̭͚͖t̼̹͖̀̔͞ ̸̙ẅ͇̹́ͮe̲̤̣͎̦ͪ̉ͪ̚͝ͅr̠e̦̯͇͖̱͑̀̍̏ ̐̑͗͏w̯͈̙̩͛ͤ͋ͧ̎̄̽ë̝̰̬͎́͟ ̖͌̿͆s̨͂ͬ̓̒i̛̦̳̭͓͎̤̔͌t͓ͤͩͬ̍ ̠͖̼͗a͚͚̗͕̘̤̓ṉ̷͎͇̟̬̭̐͋̒̍d̈̔̿͂ ̪͉̏̃ͪs͚̫̘̗̍͗̔̎͘p̹̠͍͈̯ͪ̈́ễ̦̘́a̸̗͕͖̤̔̆̑ͭͫk͕̔̏̀͂ͫ͘ t̢̹̦̤͕ͫ͒ͤͮͅo͚͙̥̱̥͢ ̪̹̿̓̂ͧͩ̔́l̯͖̘̭̭̓͛į͎͓̱̳̩̘s̶̭͖̩̳͇̝̀ͫ̆͒̽͊ṭ̯̤̜̹͓̀̍̒̓e̷͖͕̳̹̯nͭ̎̉ ̛̰͓̘̩͈̲͎ͪ̈̈̔͊b̺̋̏̐́ͅu͋ͦͣ͑̋̐̐̕t̳̮͈͓̥ͫ̿͂̒ͩ̿ ̜͚̺͚̼̯ͣͤ͛̈́̆̇ͭw̰͑̉̾̉̀ͥ͒ḙ͚̭̣̲͕̓̿̿̐̽ͭ̚ ̧̥͔̲̗̜̽̑̎ͥ͋ͮͅc̲̺̞͈̅̾̏ͤ̏ä̦̳̙̟́̈̉́̚n̟͓̰͙̉͐͐ͨ̉ ̝̙̱ͪͬ̋͊͢o̳̻͂n̳̪̹̝͚̟̉̿ͫl̙̜̲̙̺̝͆̽͒̍̾̓y̟̻̘͕̦̣ͭ̑̈́ͯ ͏͈l͐̏͊̂ͩ҉̤͍i̬̭̱͎̲̽ͧ̑ͩę̈́ ͙̾͒ ̩͙̼̩͍̮̇̇͗ͪͮ͒͑a̴̻ͧn̞͕̰͎ͪ̀͊͆̂ͬ́d̡͍͇̀͂͗̍ͤ ̨̭͇͕͕̗͖t͓̼ͬͣ͑͢ȯ̀̀̽͛͏̙̜̩̫̞̳͓ ̵̬l̙̭̟͇͗ͨͥͨ̚i̛̹̠̮͍̥̾̈́e̢̪͖͍ ̖̄̑̓̌ͨȋ̶̭̬̻ͬś̯̗͚̓ͤ̍ ̤ͨͭ́͑ő̳͈̻̹͗́͐͢u͓ͫ͟r̮͙͗̾̀͑͌́̑͝ ͌̇̏͋̑̽̏t̹̖͕ͮͩ̾͂͆̚͘ͅr͇̺͇̳̹ͧ̃ͣ̔ͤͯ̕u̡̪̥̬̰͊̃̚ť̲̙͚ͣ́ͫ͆͊ͅh̪̖̄ͬ͋͂̿ ̪̅͋ͦ̈ͣ̒s̴͍̝̙̲̥̞ͦ̔̓ͅo̷͚͎͓͕̼̯ ͣ̐̌͛͂͌̀͏͇ċ̸̌o̳͓͉͋̉ͯm͔̺̏͒̒̌ͭ̀̾e͕͕̘̱͕̓͋ ̸̠̳̦͇̲̹ͣ̓͋ͬ̓ͨͨC̖͗ŏ́̒̒̄ͪm͖ͯ̽̿e̴̠̜̮̝̔̋͑̈́̆ ̬̮̼̣͉̖̪̒ͬ̃͆̉͒ͪw̆̾ͫ͋͛͊̊͏̟͉̖̻̼ͅh̦̘̪̻̥̿͊̈ͯ̽͠e̲̫͎̣̖͇ͤͥ̿̂͆̌r̗͊è̸̗̙͎̝͊̊ ̲͎͂ͤw̫̯͔̺̯̬͚ͩ̅͞e̷̫̤͍̩̥̜̹ͬ͒̔ͤ ̼̦̩̗̲̀̐ͮͨw̦̣͚̹̺̦̟̐̑̕a̵̺̟̭̎́i̹͓̥̬̫̬͈͛̋͢t̸̩͖͈̥̻͔ w̖̜̱̮̓̂̏̓̾̔ê̹̭̙̐̾̉̍r̵̰͙̳̠̪̍ͤ̔͊e̓̎̈́͊̈́̈̿͢ ̞̗̪͇͚̅ͦ͑̀ͫ͟w̳ͭ̈͌ȅ̻̳̭̤̺̫̖͋̉ ̸̲̲̰͙͑ͥ̓s̸̭ͨͅi͇̮̗̹̝ͮ̓ͮ͗ͨt̷̙͇͚̳ ̷̽ͣ̋̚a̼ͦ̔́̋̍ͯn͐ͯ͑̓̑̿̆̕d̈͊̈́̓ ̥̯̮͔̭̞͗̎ͩs̝͉̻͑́ͧ̋ͨ͠ṕ̥͚͒ͯ̑e͎̙̓͌à̸̼̗͕͈̒̊̒̃͐̎k̮͕̦̙̠̬ͨ͂͊ͫ͋̾̔̕ͅ ͇̠̀̐̍ͫt̜̬͂̓̑̓ͫͥ̔ơ̙̫̯̼̹ͦ͆̐̀͌̌̊ ̛͕̟̪̰ͧ͛̽̈͑l̠̟̠̫̯̼̎̈̿́iͫͣ̄͑ͬ͋̚͜s̀̈ͬ̍̔̈ͮt̛̊ͩ͂̓e͗̇͛ͫ̏͜n̼̥̣͆̍̈̆ͭ͠ ̡͎̦̖̘̉b̡͙̜̾̀ͤu̩̩̪̝̰t̺͍̠̞̰͎ ̙̬̮̃ͧ͛͞w͈̭̗̝̝̗̾͞e̸̦͐̈́ͪ̾̂̔ ̓̆͐͛c͈̔͢a̮̳̯̰̹̗͋̽̐̐̍͆̚n̠̒̓ͮ̚͢ ̛̠̱͍͍̎̆ͭͯỏ͍̼ͤn͍ͯ̔l̖̻̫ỵ̹̖̩͇̌͑͌̄ͪͅ ̝̬͈͍l̛̝̠͙̠̦̬̅̎ī̑̚e̠̫͍̩ͥ̒̒ͣ ͙̬̭͇͈͕̌͜ ̮͕͙͙͆ͭͅa̯̬̪̩̙͖n̑͊̑̄̏̇̚͘ḍ͖͑̒̄̃͆ͧ̈ ̜̱̭̫̍ͪͥ̈̄͆͆to̊͑̋͑ͦ͏̖͖̩ ̧̜͓̰̯̰̇ͧ̔̉̅̍l͇̰̣̖͈̪̈́ͩ̊i̯̺̊͂ͮͨͧè̩̠̘̻́͐͗̓͢ ̰̙ͮͪ̎͌i̒̿ͥ͐̌͐̚s̶̭̞̗͎̟ͫ̓̐̾ ͕͍͖̺ͪ́ͫo̡ͣ͑͂͒͂̚ų̹̯̜̺̞̗̿ͯ̇̿͆ͅr̗͔̼̲̂̎ ̗̭̖t̟̝̥͂͒̋ͭͮ͛r̤̪̺͙̳ͩ͂ͥ́ͅu̲ͪ̾ͭͬ̈́̐͋t͒̀ͬ̂͒͛͏͇͖̼̪̠̥h̊̾ͣ̕ ̯̖̮͍̘͌̔̎̊͑ŝ̶̗͇̩ͦ̎o ̲̈͋ͨ̐̐̌͟c̖̞͈ͬͭ̋o̩͕̥͈̮͎͓ͪ̀m̻͍ͯe͕͉̿̾̑̾̾̔ ̗͖̻͈̲̐͒̾̉̀̏ͩC̞̘͓ͦ̒̏ͣ̑̃o̓͋m̢͓͔̟͌̆͊͛̒̂ě͖͚͙̱͘ ͌̂̆ͭͤ̿w͔̞̺̼̼̔͂ͪ͆h͈͊ê̵̠̲͇͓̯̘̲ͧ̌͐̀̓r̝͍͉ͪ͑ͯͮͤ͋͆͡ḙ̟̪̞͕͔ͧͣ̓ ̨͙̱̺̯̟ͥ̏̊ͫ̅ͭw̛̃̋̽ͯͣ̃ḯ̬͓̰̟̋ͨͩ̒̾͢è̓̐̇̃̚ ̙̰͍̯̖̓ͭ̽ͭ̐̚ḯs̥͖ͧ͜ ̖͇̗o̶̯͍ͭ̿ͮ͆ͮ͗̄u̧̱̘͌ͪ̿͋ͯ̚ř̹̯̳ͩ̎̉̐ͪ̉ͅ ̴͚̻͇̰̿͑̎ͨ̎̾ͅt͐̏̎҉̯͎̱̱r͔̗̲͖ͪ̑ͦ̆ͬ̿͐u̗ț̥͈͆̓̈ͨ̚͟h ̛̳͂̋̽͗̌̃ͯs̪̘̣̘̬̯̦̋̆̃̓̈̃̂͠o ͉̮̠̩̠͎̎̕c̟͔̲̭͈̍ò̧̲͉͗̒̃̓̚m̨̹͍̥̣͗ͥ͒̑̽͆e̡͍̜ ̦̣͖̠̬̦ͦͦͨ̅͐

Around them black nothingness sprang into being, shattering the blank stones on which they stood. It was like pages of some monstrous book, yet each page, each paragraph, sentence, word, fiber had a depth and weight that should not have been possible. The two fell down into nothing and yet they were surround by the words of everything. To look was to see inwards, but eyes were useless in reading what was written. Ten thousand storms caught them up as ten thousand suns seared their flesh, ten thousand songs deafened their ears, and the images of ten thousand lifetimes stole their eyes. Both screamed but their cries became heavy and were taken away to be written down among the others that rested somewhere in the endless knowing. They learned until they could learn no more, then their own minds were drained from them so that more could be fit into their heads, and then they were again emptied and refilled with their own thoughts again but for a while they had had nothing so they could not be sure if they were even anything anymore.
So they continued for years, time fractal and infinite, until finally something at the edge of the nothing gave way to light. Light was not a stranger here, there was a record of every shade of light, the kind that plays through trees, the biting kind of the desert, the light that glints of a fleck of gold, the light that halos the mountains at sunset, and many more that could never have been named, but this light was different and stark to the imposed ones that had surrounded them for ten thousand years. As the nothing had both deprived and overwhelmed them this light was so soft and kind it called them out.
And they were back in the forest, behind them their companion crashed through the woods frantically as he had seen the girl grab them by the arms followed by his friends going very stiff as black wisps crawled their way across the girl's skin as iridescent as stars. Not even a minute gone by and his companions had sagged forward and as the girl's skin cleared she lept out of their loosed grasps. Aerie retched violently as a wave of nausea hit her but she did not stop moving, up ahead there was another break in the tree line, and from there she would be able to take to the sky again. The gust of wind rattled the trees overhead and the dracling called out to its mother as she labored into the sky. Now she would retreat, a fever raged in her head, and her body sang only of aches and pains. Who knew, perhaps if Aerie managed to get to sleep it would be Caoimhe who awoke the next morning.
Meanwhile the Khasidim were struggling with what they had not learned. It burned like a cleansing fire through the brain, and neither could make sense of what had held them. The only that they were sure of was that it had not been the girl, the false mother that they had been chasing. What power had that been, something new granted by the dragon god? But that couldn't be possible, in all of their centuries they had learned much from the dragons but this, this couldn't possibly been from the dragon…could it?

 

[Silvir]

"Where did you get that bag?" The sharp question warranted a warning look from the bartender who recognised her as one of the women who belonged to the place. Which was ignored by Eydis who had her eyes fixed on the man now sitting at the bar.

To watch a stranger come wandering in carrying her bag over his shoulder had been quite surprising. And before Eydis knew it she had confronted him about it.
However catching up to her own actions, the girl's stern posture quickly loosened as she realised the folly in confronting a man she did not know in this manner.
Yet it was her bag and she very much would like to have it back if possible, with it's content still within.
With that in mind the girl bit her lip nervously at the thought of having ruined her one chance on getting the bag back easily.