Maiyun

"Oh, they even spelled our name right," Ardirnien noted with glee. "GOD bless!" She proceeded then to cut out solely the section involving the idyllic duchy of Adria and pin it to the corkboard in her office. She admired it there for a good few minutes, nodding to herself.

"Late," Ardirnien muttered with disdain, carrying with her a large stack of ultimately useless paperwork. Such was abandoned as she vaulted the velvet ropes to secure her recordbook. Oh, how foolish of her to think that would be the worst of her troubles this day. Zygmunt Euler, a bald, boring man who made her job endlessly difficult by refusing to inform her as to any of his whims. She wondered, often, irate, why he hired her in the first place if he was so damn intent on doing everything himself. Still, she remained, given she owed him a debt for the peace she had found in this rural, nowhere town. Ardirnien looked around to the crowd of grieving townsfolk, a family in despair, and the beautiful, beautiful buildings that had been so carefully planned and constructed by the Euler; it hardly appeared to be that same dusty, empty square it once had been. Atop her desk, a stack of half-finished papers in preparation for the election, one she had thought they would tackle together. Now, Ardirnien found herself muttering with growing alarm as she scanned the list of unfamiliar names and titles, some of which surely had been a joke. Surely. "How dare he leave me now, with all this work to do . ."

THE GREAT DUMAPALOOZA SUMMONING OF THE DUCAL ELECTORS CONVENTUS ADRIAE. In the year 651 of the Age of Ascension ☩ ‘LO UNTO THE DUCAL ELECTORS & THE ADRIAN PEOPLE, Almost 30 years now, the Duke Zygmunt Euler ‘The Builder’ has ruled the Duchy of Adria, raising a shattered people to renewed prosperity, giving them a home upon the banks of the Glassbrook & Avenor rivers in the heart of the Autumn Hills. Ever tireless and unrelenting, seldom resting from his work, the Duke had given his very spirit for his home and his people, until his strength finally gave out, passing away peacefully from this mortal coil. ELECTORAL DECREE: The Duma shall consist of the following categories of electors, each carrying the weight of Adrian tradition and the voices of their constituents. All electors or their chosen representatives are urged to present themselves promptly, accompanied by appropriate retinues and prepared to deliberate upon the matters at hand. On the Ducal Candidates: Let it be known that any Adrian man or woman over the age of 18, whose loyalty is to no foreign institution but to the Duchy and her People is eligible to be elected, so long as they are nominated by one of the Core Electors. I. CORE ELECTORS, THE NOBLES OF ADRIA The Nobles of Adria bear the greatest voting power in the Duma, reflecting their stewardship over the lands and fealty to the Duchy. Each noble elector wields one vote, representing the strength of their holdings and their commitment to the Adrian realm. Only this group of electors may nominate candidates. i. The Count of Aldersberg, Miloš Sarkozic; ii. The Count of Eulersburg, Frederick Euler; iii. The Baron of Montereine, Castille Fontaine; iv. The Baron of Madvon, Adelmar von Kanunberg; v. The Baron of the Wickwald, Adelbert Wick; vi. The Abbot of Owynswood, Father Oliver Sarkozic; vii. The Lord Shepherd of Adria, Callahan. II. ADMINISTRATORS OF ADRIA The Administrators and Guildleaders of Adria, revered for their service, wisdom, and skill, hold significant influence within the Duma. Each is granted one vote, symbolizing their merit-based contributions to the Duchy. i. Chancellor of Adria, Ardirnien Arthalion; ii. Captain of the Ivory Guard, Baudemund Euler; iii. Knight-Captain of the Turtle Knights of the Ivory Tower, Frederick Euler; iv. Huntsmarshal of the Esberian Hunter’s Guild, The Iron Huntsmarshal; v. Head Artificer of the Adrian Artificer’s Guild, Godric Silverwood; vi. Chief Steward of Belgrade, Miloš Sarkozic. III. HONOURARY ELECTORS The Allies and Friends of Adria, those who have shown themselves worthy of the respect and friendship of the Duchy and its people. Each is granted one vote, as a sign of respect and proof of their bond with Adria. i. The High-King of Idunia, Tar-Pharazon Arthalion; ii. The Emperor of Man, Marcus I Horen; iii. The Church of the True Faith, Magister Iudas; iv. The Arch-Duke of the Petran Commonwealth, Joseph I; v. The Prince of the Dark Elves, Ulln Thoyne; vi. Queen of Hags, Decrepit Vagrant to be retrieved from the streets; vii. The Dwarven Vote, Clan Jewelbeard; viii. East Turkin; ix. West Turkin. IV. CROWS PROPIUS Each Lord Crows of Prominent Carrion Houses, with direct historical ties to Adria, bears one vote, contributing to matters of general governance. However, their votes are nullified in existential questions concerning Adria’s sovereignty. i. Sarkozic; ii. Vladov. iii. Tuvyic; iv. Ivanovich; v. Suzecz; vi. Van Aert; vii. Rostova; viii. Barbanov; ix. Basrid var Susa; V. CROWS EXTERIUS The Distant Carrion Houses, while granted a spectator seat in the Duma, collectively wield one vote as a bloc. This vote is excluded from existential decisions about the Duchy’s legacy, and granted membership based on Carrion legitimacy and ennobled status. i. Ludovar; ii. Ruthern. PROCLAMATION OF CONVENTION: The Dumapalooza shall convene on the appointed date of [4PM EST, SATURDAY 2ND OF MAY], at the Duma Hall of Belgrade Let every eligible elector or their chosen representative attend and fulfill their duty to the Duchy, as mandated by the Dumageddon Doctrine, and the enduring spirit of Adrian Dumacracy. The Honourable, Ardirnien ‘Narthadis’ Arthalion, Chancellor of Adria.

Ardirnien cast a baleful glance to the nearest gossipers, grumbling road-men who found themselves disappointed that the foul devil had managed to escape execution once more. She listened, as was her way, with a keen eye and clear judgment for what moral complacency was rowdily expressed overtop jeering and the clanking of wooden mugs. She examined her hand, noting how her veins had grown more prominent, an impatient tap of her fingers betraying her rising frustration. With a sharp screech, the pale-haired woman rose from her chair in a violent movement that saw the feet scraping against the ground. It provoked the briefest of silences, a lull in nearby conversation the only acknowledgement that came her way. A handful of shimmering coins clattered against the surface of the table. Then she was gone.

Remembrance of Rosceline found Ardirnien in the midst of one of many, many celebratory glasses of wine shared with her people. Young, she had been, when she lost her lover. Younger still had been the Lady Rosceline, drawn into a conflict in a bid to protect the one she loved. Arriving in the capital of a kingdom that surely despised her for the actions of her Roger, and yet made every meek and kindly attempt to quell the rage of those in the room. Words like salt rubbing into fresh wounds, a cry for peace, and the end of bloodshed. The end of bloodshed, laughable, that it was accompanied by a lack of consequences for her grief! How dare they do this to her? How dare she appear before Ardirnien contrite and convinced in the madness of culling to Savoyard unity? Ardirnien had known then, and she conceded in a moment of gallows humor, that the best day of her life certainly would be the worst of Rosceline's. There was no other option, for the cost of her soul and salvation was the same actions that would make of the young bride a widow. Still, she had not imagined that day would also be her last. What was the crime of Rosceline, truly? In that she was a dutiful bride, a mother, and a woman born into a structure that did not allow her to seek station above such? Perhaps she did not need it. Perhaps the Lady Rosceline was content in what she had acquired, in maintaining warm friendships and high standing among those of the empire, evidenced by the desperate pleas of her companions during the execution. She wondered, then, at her own accuracy in providing such a distasteful wedding gift. Fated truly to tear the other apart in artful, painful survival. She swirled the contents of her glass around once more, watching again with that same expression of morbid amusement to the way the crimson liquid clung in faint stain to the shimmering crystal. A heavy sigh escaped her, souring the taste of jubilation that had arrived with the crowing of soldiers around her. There was nothing to be done, on her part. Ardirnien was neither a friend to the woman, nor a relative. They had spoken maybe twice, in all the years of their tangled, twisted connection. In fact, any movement to claim some of the tragedy as her own would be crass at best. Allow those who loved Rosceline to abide her memory, to plant a grave of her hopes and dreams and water them with stories of what might have been. She raised her glass, downing the remainder of the contents in a silent toast to the departed.

Ardirnien stared down at the paper, the contents of which held memories of the decades previous. Ever the source of her hatred, that bastard Druscan. She had seen little of him, in truth, since it occurred. You did not need to see a man such as that to despise him. In fact, there were certainly other people in the world who hated the man, people who had never met him at all. But she met him on several occasions. Decades of sleepless nights, scrawled in a piece of parchment. She crumpled the missive, tossing it to the side. Someone was talking to her, certainly, and she made every effort to appear as though nothing had occurred. Carrying on a conversation to make up for the lack of any real thought to commit it to memory. Stamped, signed, and sealed. She would need to get another copy, a lamented glance to the now crumpled initial. And her thoughts flew, once more, to the young woman she had met only twice. She recalled the shattering of a glass jar upon the ground, staring with something akin to venom in her eyes at the bride sat across from her. Guilt tugged in brief at her heart, in knowing that there was a very real world in which she might be widowed, as she had. Guilt never lasted very long, however . . Beneath it all, that deep, deep well of grief. She smoothed down the front of her dress, as though trying to usher calm once more in soothing motion. Someone asked her then about blades, and her eyes caught the flicker of the glass-like sword belted at her hip. Ardirnien might have laughed in amusement at the thought of herself actually using the fairly ornamental weapon. There stood the man, once more, in the back of her mind. Blood dripping to cold, northern floorboards. A murder in broad daylight. The weight of her limbs as she somehow kept upright in the face of terror. Useless, heavy limbs. The burden of it sat upon her chest in the dark, her eyes held to the distant ceiling, the taste of alchemical tea on her tongue. A warrior, her? What a laugh. Someone offered her a prayer, and she dipped her head. Ardirnien regarded the pyre, the crackling of the hearth. Her mind pulled previously to a memory in the tavern of the capital, to the less grand but equally as admirable hearth there. A younger her in blue silks, a beautiful dress she had been terribly fond of, pointing out the shape of the incisors in the preserved head of a minotaur. Standing up upon a stool, gesturing her beloved adventurer to direct his gaze to the sharpened ivory specimens. She recalled the dip of his smile, and the way it tugged at the scars on his face. Her fingers tapped absently to the silver ink scrawled across her forehead. The crackle of the hearth persisted, drawing her focus once more. The light cast her into strange pallor, and she drew her hands together- and she prayed. Silvered, nearly colorless hair fell over her shoulder, having tugged itself free of the plait it bore. She prayed, She prayed, And prayed some more. The hearth crackled, a branch splitting.

Ardirnien picks up a copy that was mixed in with the rest of her mail.

And Owyn was made again as the light of his blade, and the great city was destroyed. And for leagues all the wicked who looked upon it were stricken with the afflictions of Harren. So Owyn joined his father’s father in the Sixth Sky. Book of Silence, 20-22. It has come to the attention of the Crown that the Cursed Children who reside within Numendil remain without the protection of any explicit law. In pursuit of change and the betterment of our realm, an allowance has been granted for the enactment of the following writ, crafted to safeguard their livelihood and continued presence within the walls of Numenost. Númendil is a realm of redemption, and it is only fitting that our laws bear testament to that creed. I. Under the ecclesiastical authority endowed to His Eminence, Cardinal Nerium and the royal lineage of the Arthalionath, the group herein referred to as the Cursed Children shall be considered a protected class within the capital of Númendil. II. The Radiant Guard is hereby empowered to interpret acts of harassment, discrimination, or unjust persecution of this protected class as grounds for lawful intervention. They are expected to act swiftly to dispel such disturbances within their patrolled wards. III. Any attempt to provoke conflict as a means to subvert the protections of this writ shall be seen as an offense against the Crown and may be met with punitive measures at the discretion of the royal authority. IV. Those who claim the protection of this writ do so with the understanding that they are beholden to the laws and customs of the land in which they dwell. All who seek such protection must present themselves for assignment and registration through Cardinal Nerium. V. Within the Bene Lisse Choir of Saints Avenel and Amyas, a special place is reserved for Cursed Children seeking to elevate the status of their kin and the pursuit of a cure thereof. May they walk the path of healing beneath the watchful eyes of the Creator. Praecordia Est. Her Royal Highness, Princess Ardirnien Narthadis Arthalion of the Royal Arthalionath, Diplomat of Numenost, and caretaker of her people.

━━━━━━━☆☆━━━━━━━ Ardirnien closed her eyes briefly at the shattering of glass. Around her, both standing and sitting- the fellows of Drusco. She opened them to view before her the lady Rosceline, a young woman of but eighteen summers garbed in her bridal attire. At her side, the mocking smile of the lady in waiting who had shattered the admittedly ill-intentioned gift she had chosen to bestow upon the happy couple. A jar of dead centipedes, harvested from the corpse of her murdered beloved. A tawdry, tasteless thing to offer them. That much was apparent to all those that stood in attendance. Ardirnien felt the look of scorn from her mother with all the heat of a brand to the back of her neck, and she squared her shoulders back to fight down the hint of shame that accompanied it. This was owed. This was what she must do. No one understood, she did this not because she wanted to- But because she must. And so she arrived in a place she was not wanted, with a party of eager eyes from kingdoms of both her own and foreign, to cast discomfort into the stately affair. She talked loudly, she spoke rudely, she threw what weight around she could in a blind rage, if only to give to them a sense of the pain that she herself felt in her waking moments. Behavior most unbecoming for a princess, a royal, for a diplomat as she was ordained to be. With it, the memory of hushed conversations from those closest to her, advising her against such. Whispers of concern, in how she was losing herself to vengeance. Pleas in that Louis would not wish to see her reduced to such in his absence. These words fell on deafened, unwilling ears. She could not let them get away with it. She could not allow them to get away with it, how dare they feel even an ounce of happiness, how dare they hold a wedding and move on from what had happened- When she could not. The young woman had thought her poorly disguised barb, her blatant attempt at ruining the wedding would bring with it a sense of satisfaction, a balm to the roaring grief that continued to keep her nights sleepless and her days as though in a fugue state, her feet tapping against the cobbled streets of her kingdom as worked from the rising of the sun to the slow ascent of the moon. But no such relief found Ardirnien Arthalion, after the sound of shattering glass.

Her dress was ruined. It was not because of the tears from her incessant, pathetic weeping. It was not because of the dirt from when she had been flung from a horse and finally, finally rescued by reinforcements that had arrived far too late. The jewel-toned, blue silks had been marred a murky, reddish brown from when she had sat quietly in the hall of her kingdom with a burlap sack cradled in her lap, the head of her love sat inside of it. Leaking, ever insistent, as what blood remained slowly escaped the crude wound of the beheading. Around her, the chatter and clamor of different people was heard. Her brother, intent on leading a hunt of some kind, guards that sat near her and made attempt to coax her from her stunned state. But all of it were muffled, sounds distant as though she herself were underwater. Only two sensations were present to Ardirnien then. The warm, uncomfortable weight in her lap that was all that remained of Louis. A mangled head that would never again smile at her or call her some stupid, silly name in that strange tongue of his that her father so disapproved of. The second of these was the strangling pulses around her heart, the seizing of an unseen pain that lanced through her in continued agony. Her heartbeat was loud in her ears, bringing with it the flashes of the night. The boy who sat at their table, the men who burst into the doorway with weapons brandished, Louis pleading for her to leave, and her stubborn refusal to move. But neither did she move to save him, the coward that she was. With every beat of her heart, she cursed her useless, powerless limbs. She saw the dismissive looks of well-armored guards she had never met, and a dull, almost bored gleam in the eye of Tiberias. She saw herself, hours prior. In a bid to console Louis from the murder of his brother, the possible death of his father if she could not convince the Tar, HER FATHER, to act .. Uttering the foolish words, sat next to him in the safety of her city: ".. Wanna get out of here?" The memory brought with it a fresh wave of tears, cursing her folly. Her naivety. As pain seized around her heart once more, she moved up to her feet, although she never felt them actually touch the ground. It was as though she were a ghost, and in a way, she certainly could have been one. Ardirnien climbed the stairs of the residential wing, her gaze trailing along the floor. Servantry parted swiftly from her path, eager to put a wide berth between themselves and the young woman who may have walked straight into them had they not otherwise done so. She stripped herself of the ruined silks, casting them to the floor and crossed to her wardrobe. Countless dresses of finery twinkled in the dim lighting of her room, pushed past so that she might draw out a plain dress of soft, black linen. She hung it on the door. On her bedside table, a half-drunk cup of now decidedly cold nightsap tea. It was tossed back, the cup cast carelessly to the floor where it cracked. Chips of painted porcelain were scattering the fine hardwood of the bedroom floor. She dragged herself beneath the heavy covers of her bed, curling inward on herself. As dreamless, alchemical sleep claimed her, the young royal prayed most earnestly to the angels above. A prayer, a desperate plea, that tomorrow might never arrive. . . . Unfortunately for her, it arrived all the same.

Ardirnien scanned over the missive in brief, one of many placed to a stack at her bedroom door. It was only that the pile of parchments, missives, and written sympathies fell over and scattered across the hall, knocked against the untouched tray of breakfast, having long since gone cold, the moment she cracked open her door that she decided to finally take them inside. Better not to make a mess for someone else to clean, on top of all else. The room was dark, a half-sputtering candle serving as light in the quiet space. Grief muffled what sound could have passed these walls, hanging in the air as though it were a shroud. She sank down into the mattress, sitting on the edge of her bed as she continued to read it. The joy of others, the joy of THEM was like ashes in her mouth. With a sharp, shuddering breath, the princess of Numenost turned over the colorfully inked parchment so that it lay face-down on her bedside table. Weight overcame her once more, coaxing her to crawl back beneath the heavy blankets sprawled in the dark of the room. She went back to bed.

Morning found the rather jovial princess of Numenost as it usually had, after a bath of milk and honey and a breakfast brought straight to her office. The air was murky, and a fresh batch of oiled lavender was cast above the flame to allow it to seep into the room itself. With a little flourish of one delicate hand, she brandished her letter opener to begin making her way through the pile of correspondence that sat there every morning. All was well. Peaceful, even. Invitation to tea . . Invitation to tea . . Spam . . A bounty for Louis . . Spam . . Ardirnien paused, picking up the bounty missive once more. She scanned over the contents a few times, and then a few times more, before ordering a copy of Ravenmire CRIMINAL LAW to be brought to her immediately. A headache began to brew in the back of her mind, worsening the fog that the nightsap tea she drank before bed had wrought upon her. So much to do, and now Louis were in need of assistance. Very well. Nothing a little tea and conversation could not fix.

Why am I in this?

It had not been so late in the day for worry to find Ardirnien. No, worry came after the sun had fallen from the sky and the moon had risen in place, when all those nearest to her had gone to bed. To be so worried this early in the day was a rarity, brought about by the unnerving buzz of the servantry. It left her curious, curious enough that at least she made the excuse of bringing down her own teatray when she had finished with it, the delicate porcelain clattering against the brightly painted thin metal. In her heart she was certainly aware that eavesdropping was not a polite manner to maintain. And after all, the servantry deserved to be able to gossip freely without fear of their employers listening in. But it did have her still lingering near the doorway of the kitchen, right as one of the scullery maids clapped her hands to her mouth in horror. "They found her where?" The teatray clatters to the ground in a display of noise, colorful, and flying shards of pottery stained with the remnants of honey-lemon tea with a slice of candied orange. A fragrant, aromatic brew that was locally sourced. The gossiping maids rushed out in a panic through the doorway then to find Ardirnien standing at the center of the disaster, her hands shaking. Soft, silken slippers that were certainly now ruined with shards of ceramic that were scattered around her like starlight. Of the five cups there, only three remained.

8th of The Grand Harvest, Year 225 of the Second Age ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ “There is nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by which so much happiness is produced as there is by a good tavern.” ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ In times of tension and conflict, the call for kin and camaraderie bids us to look inward for hearth and home. Word spreads of a position needing to be filled at the Numenost tavern by someone of exceptional skill in hosting and conversation, someone that enjoys the facilitation of community bonding, silly games, and the running of not simply a business, but a central location for gatherings of all kinds. Positions include those of the tavernkeep, the bartenders, and performers who seek to establish a reputation within the capital of the kingdom. Interested parties are encouraged to pen a missive to Ardirnien to arrange a time to discuss implementation, logistics, and the possibility of funding from the Crown to acquire quality supplies and assistance for the aspiring tavernkeeper. Copies of this advertisement are placed primarily throughout the Exilic Kingdom of Númendil, but certainly, knowledge of such may reach even beyond nearby realms. Smiles. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ SIGNED, Princess of Numenost, Daughter of Tar-Anorhil And Co-Master of Númendil Revelries

The Disappearance of Henry ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Peppered across the multitude of realms were a series of missives and posters, each one distributed with care by some of the folk of Numendil, Ardirnien herself, or friends of the young royal. Of the many produced, a few had tear stains over the parchment. All hand-written, it would seem. The missive read as follows: ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ "To those of the realms, briefly do I ask that we set aside our differences, that we might band together in search of a dear friend who needs our help. Henry the Sniffer. Early this morning to my utter dismay, I visited the paddock of Henry and Henriette to provide them with freshly gathered greens from the Kingswood. They enjoy the variety. What has greeted my sight is not the adorable, loving snout that I have so often witnessed, but instead the absence of my beloved pet and Henriette's mate. Large footsteps have trekked through the garden I made for them, muddying the flowers .. But the trail runs cold." "To those with involvement or information, I ask of you this. Please return Henry. I know that deep in your heart, you did not mean to take him from me. Perhaps he broke free of the hedges and you wished to protect him from the cold and the wolves. I laud you for this and your kindly soul. Know that whoever returns my Henry will always have a friend in Numendil." Signed, Ardirnien Arthalion.

I think I need to travel to see all these new locations ..

[!] The letter that finds itself to the wizened Thalandir is harried and scribed in charcoal across rough parchment. "I climbed your damn mountain, so you know that I'm capable. I will be expecting your reply shortly." Signed, Arrow of the North. Farseer.

crunches on the pretty pictures

𝘚𝘪𝘹𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯. 𝘈𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘢𝘬. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘴, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘦𝘴, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘶𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘣𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘪𝘳. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘺𝘳𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘭𝘧, 𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘭𝘢𝘻𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺, 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧. 𝘈 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴 𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘴𝘴, 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵. 𝘚𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯. 𝘈𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘸𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘥𝘦, 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘯. 𝘚𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘱𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘨𝘢𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘤𝘺 𝘴𝘭𝘶𝘴𝘩, 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘪𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘈𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘷𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘺. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘦𝘯𝘷𝘺, 𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬. 𝘌𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯. 𝘈𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦, 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘢 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘰𝘰𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘢 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘩. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴, 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴. 𝘗𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘴𝘵? Ń̸̡͙͎͉̠̱͈̟̎͝i̶̧̨̩̥̮͖̦̱̒͒̇̌͐̚n̷̤͉͚͆̐͒̈́e̷̥̿̌̒̀̿͠ţ̶̥̤̜̞̰̤̳̲̓̀̊͛͐͜͝è̵͍͓̩̝̻͌̊̓̉̍̒̚͠e̶̥̙̾͂̈́̚n̴̯͚͔͉͊͗́͒͐̄̕͝. ̷̛̳̗̅̿̌͊̇̒̽͌͘ͅ ̷̯́̈́̾ ̸̤̠̻͊͐̄̓̕͝ ̷̨͇̼̞̙̹͎͓̊̌̇̇̆̀̐̚͝ ̴̛͍̉̀̀̈̀̚̕ ̸̘̜̀͛̓̂́́̆̕͠ ̷̫̹̳͙̰͂̇̀̿̕͜͝ ̶̧̨̹͇͍̦͈͛̈́͊̂̃̽ ̵̧̛̯͓̖̞̬͚̓̃̄̏͝͝ ̶̢̨̡͔̌ ̶͉̍͐́ ̵̱̩̈́́̂͝͠͝ ̵̢̢̗̠̣͙̅̅̍͝ ̸̢̯̫̤̤͓̖̺̞͆̅̀̓͛́̕͜ ̴͙͈̺̭͖̭̣̓́̑̋́̀̌̍̆̕͜P̸̧͈̿̎̊a̴̛̻͎̟͍͍̾͛̐̏͂́̈́͝i̷̧̫̝̝͉̫̩̗̍͛̔̆̚n̸̥̭̣̄̚̕͘͜.̸͚̫̻̤̙̗͐̀͘͝ ̶̛̣͍͉̪̫͌̆͌͂P̶̢̠͖͕̈́͆͐̅̒̀̈̃͊͜a̴̺͔̘͆͑̽̽ͅȉ̶̧̜̯̬̲͋͋̈́͒̂͛̇͘͝n̸̞̝͇͚̓̅͐̇̓̈͌̚͜ ̷̼͖̀̆a̷̡̩͇̖̗̼̼͍̰̦̓̇͗̓̏̈ṇ̷̛̯̜͆̑̈̈́͛͋̓͠d̸̮̝̩̽̓ ̸̭͔̻̩̰̹̖̂b̶̯͉̪͍̀̿̔͜͜ͅl̶̨̤̠̜͈̩̺̖̣͕͂̾̾̕͠o̷̦͍̥͆͑̉͑ȯ̵̖͇͕͓̠̫̖͉̞͆̒̿͒͋̅̀͘d̵̛͕̳͕̿̑͑̒̽͠͠ ̷̫͈̅̊̍̌̃̇à̸̗͔̣͙̼̈́̌̐͂͋͋̊̎̚n̶̡̧̟̣̟̟̖̲̔͂̈́d̴̡̹̗͙̝̥̫̐ ̷̧͙̞̺̖̽͗̓̑͝f̵̛͍̣͊̈́̃̊̄̊̊̚ȩ̷̜͈̳̳̥͓̩̜̂a̴̡̾̈́ṙ̵̜͙͚̜̼͖̖̒̑̍.̵̲̀̾͆́ ̶͙̍̎̔̈́̊̈́͑͘Á̷̹̘̟̳͑g̸̻̞̩̳̺̖͓͖͔̍̄̌̐̓̓͝͝õ̷̯̩̠͈̬̥͠ñ̷̹̼͂́́͠y̷̧̟̯̲̱͙͕̼̹͂̍̓̒̔̽͗͝.̶̛̲̤͓̦̪̭͚͆͐͝͠ ̵̤͔̼͈̲̥̾̽͒͂͑̓̐̕͜H̸̡̛̗̹̗͓̖̮̀͑̾̃̈o̵̟̜̞̝͖͈̽̍͒̑̌̚w̷̘͎͇̄̒̎͛̈́̋̐̎̈́l̵̫̽̿͌̊͊̈́̉̾̐͝ị̴̥̩̮͓̻̫̣̳̽̈͑̔́̚͠͝n̷̗̰̓̋̔̊͐̒̕͘͘͝ģ̷̠͖̂̀͌̋̈͗͗̕ ̸̢̼͇͚͎͈̺͛̓̊͛̈̂͝͝͠ͅa̷͇̲̞͚͋͑̄͂̚͘ţ̴̳̩͉̜̓͑̉͐ ̴̛͓̯̞͈̬̝̄̈͗̎̽͜͝͝t̸̟͍͚̬͍͓̬̫̉̌͛̃̓̒͒̔͂͝h̸̘͈̻͗̑̽̅͑͜e̴̘̋͐̂ ̷̦̮̼̤̱͐m̵͎̒̅͛̏̀̚ò̶̫̟̭̭̬̅͝o̴͙͈̣͇̟̯͈̽̃́͜͜ņ̴̯̥́͐̊̓,̵̢̫̺̹̻͓̣̜̔̎̓̑̈́̆ ̶̢͙̟͔̱̭̾̉̅͂̀̏ͅd̵̨̧̨̢̠͈̲̱͐̌͆̈́̐͗͂͜͝͝r̵̢̰͎̘̰̗͘ė̵̙͙̞͓̜̱͓̭̜͖̒̆̀͠à̸̛͔̜̾̚͝͝m̴͎͉̲͎͚̫̄̉s̵͕̭̬͖̓̏͊̿ ̸̭̘̭͎̊̉̋̄͌̇r̵̦͈̞̎̒ǘ̵̡͉͖̝̜́̊͊n̴̢͔̖̟͍̤̟̠̿̽͌̉͒̾̽̽̔ ̴̡̤́́́͠ŕ̸͎̝̺͐͋͗̈́a̵͈͂m̶͈͇͚̰̜̰̳͑͌̆̋́̒̎p̷̧̙̺̖̹͇̭̝̃͊̾̋̑̔̎̏͝͠ä̴̡̳̱̘̳̝͛͝n̶͔̣̺̪̝̺͙̗̄͘t̸͇͒̕ ̶͓̠͉̭̎̉̕w̴̧͘i̴̡͈̝͙͉͙͇͂͑͐͑̚ẗ̵̩̠͑͐̄̽̽̂͗̈́̑h̸̖̳̖̞̗͖̟̅͜ ̵̹̱̜̞̹̄̈̿͠r̷̝̤̜̝̬̭̣͉̃ì̵̛͚̩̻̰̏̂̋͌͑͑͑͠v̷̭̑̔͐͂͘͝ȩ̴̬̜̲̘̖̺̠̏̃̾̊̅̐͝ͅr̷̩͈͔͔̝̝̭̈́͗̏͗̈́͘ş̸̝͈͚̲̼̙̘̝̽̅͛̍͂̈́ ̴̧̟̦̥̫͓̫̄͂̇̽̅̈́̓͝o̵̝̲̠̰̰͈̚f̷̪̂̈́̀̋̀ ̶̢̧̧̤̥̹̺͉̔͋̎́͆͌̀c̴̛̝͖̙̿̐́̃̾ͅr̶̡̧͔̪͇̹̈͒̀̔̇̅̐̍́̓i̸͉̜̱̘͕͎͔̺̅͜m̸̬̦̘̪̈́̌̈́̈́̓̆̕͘͝͝s̵̘̞͐̉ͅơ̶̧̼̈́͂̾̌̏ņ̸͉̝̙͙̩̼̀̈́̚͠.̶̢̞̙͛͑́͌̎͊̅̏͠ ̴̨͚̹̈́̉͋̽̈́̉͝S̶̨͓̞̖̻͔̗͛̄͐̅̑h̸̯̟̦͇̗̩̠̱͈͛̅͜e̵͔̍ ̶̙̪̗̝͔̭̈̒̓̒́͋͗̔̒͝ả̸̟̯͉̜͚̳͎̲̹͌͜v̴̨̦̋̀ô̸̯̻͖̳͕̲ḭ̸͎̱͖͖͚̼̯̯̆̀͐̐d̷͙͎̤͔͐̍̈́̄̌̓͌̕͘͠ͅé̶͉̩̹͑̈́̈͘d̵̨̞̹̺̳̯͕͇̈́̔̃̑͋̎̒͜ͅ ̷̨̦͉̱̬͖̂t̷͉̟͕̘̹̙̣͌͋̈́͜h̶͙̟̖̥̘͔̫͖̬͘ǒ̵̡̤̰̌̎́̿̓̉̚ͅs̸̨̹̯̝̊͑̀͒͌̅̏́͘e̴͕̪̦͆̂́̂̀̆͆̍͘̕ ̸̧̧̡̥̠̜͔̬̪̘̄̒̈̚s̷̢̘̼̣̟͕̻̲̾̌̂͊̈́̑̚h̶͔̮̟͔̽͐̂̈́̃͐̕͘è̷̳̑́̚̕ ̸̞̗̽͋̉l̶̨͊o̵̹̗͚̯͎͐̈́͌͌̈́̚v̵̥͉͕͐̓̒̆̏̓͋ͅe̴͎̟͚̩͊̏͐̑d̴̢̦̗̮̻͓͔͔̰̎͘ ̵̪̫̩̳͕͚͊̓̎̈́͊̑̆̏͠f̶̧̛͕̗̅̌̀̌̃́͝ͅǫ̷͍͓̥̲͖̳̓̐̆̃ͅȑ̷̛͍̘̬̤͑̊̒͋͘͝ ̴̢̨͓͍͍͔̪̮̔̇̋̇͆̈́̅͠f̶̢̛͈̺͉͇̭̻͚̅̾̏e̶̛͈̘͕̞̲͆̏̈̍̉́̈́̽͝a̸̳͚̦̭͗́̌ŗ̶̢̗͎̞̜̼͈̘̂̀̇͊͂̇̈́̒͠͠ͅ ̴̨̨͖͉̙͔̪͙̈́͛̅́̿̈͘ͅţ̷̢̰̲̳̩̣̬͍̀̇͘h̵̢̺̝͉͕͍̺̦̜͗̓̀̿a̸̠̰̣͍̱͔͌͆͜t̴̪̥͒̆́̑ ̴̼̹̯͓̬̳̒͆̐͊͆͝s̸̟̘͚̔͒͂̉h̸̖̜͋̄e̴̘̫̺̗͉͔̲̦͗̅̾̈́̀͠ ̵̨̛͚̦̬̣͕͚͈̦̓̊̎ṃ̴̼̹̰͈͖͖̼͆̽͑̉͠î̵̬̯͇̲̗̳͛̀͂̅̏g̸̢̢̞̩̞̭̖͇̟̞̎͋̑̃ḧ̶̫͉̱͚͕͍̖̿́͊̒t̵̡̼̣͚̱͊͑ ̴̬͐͑͋͝ȩ̸̙̖̦͊̋̆̇͊͘a̴̧͎͉̭̠͙̺͆̽͛̍̕t̷̻̞̪͚̙̹̪̓̾̋́̀͊̉̋͜ ̸̙̈͛̇͘ẗ̸̢͙̀̿́̈́͊̃̋̈h̶̢͂̂̀̌ę̷̈́̈́̿͗́̂͆m̸͖̙̘͈̘̲̲̿̂̃̒̉ ̵̢̧̺̭̪̬̑͑̐̿͠t̴͎̥̤̜͔̽̓̿̍̓͘͝͝o̵̹̗̦̼͕͛̿̍̿̅̈́͑͘͠o̶̦̳̜͇̣̗̖͙͙̿̅̑̉̀͠,̶̠͓̭͇̪̯̊̆̽̒̍̏̀͘̕͠ ̷͍̭̖̯̖̥̩̚f̴̨̛̳͔̗̥͕̣̆̑͋͂̂͊̓̓́ͅȯ̵̢̨̬̯̈͒͐́̾̿̚͝ͅͅr̵͚͎͊̄͒́̂̔̓̑̌ ̴̢̢̡̭̭̬͛f̵̰̏͂̈́̓͛͂̈́͘ę̴̹͇̪̗͙̓͆͋̀ą̶̗̙͖̰̳͖́̀̽͂̄̋̃͝r̶͔̆̋̀̈́͘͘͜ͅ ̶̧̡̖̦͎̯̹͆͑͌̉̊͝ť̴̼̜̳̼͈̹ḫ̸͇̪̤̝̪̥̰̀̿̑ą̴̘͔͎̼̙̙͈̪̉̏̂̐̊͗̿̋̕͝ţ̴̭̭́̓͐͐͂ ̸̨̧̢̦̼̞̬̫̖̕͜w̴̗̘͕̮͇͋̈́̄̽̓ḩ̵͚͈͔̠͎̩̭͇̑̉̅̓̒e̷̡̯̒̽́ṋ̷̝̗̪͙̣̦͓̓̀̓͐͆̑͒͝ ̶͚̠̈́̔̉͒̏̂́͝͝s̸̺̲̪̻̯̭̥̾͗́́h̶͙̝͖̊̄̄̊è̷̡̗̮̠̏̄̌̌̎̓̊̓͝ ̶̧͎̾̄̕͠ͅw̷̛̘͕̙̜̹͚̳̌̆́͌̊̓̊͛͝ͅa̶̖̅̔̽͌̀̉̚s̵̗̩̞̠̣͖̼͕͓͌̔ ̸̛̳̬͕̩̮͕̰̗̖͚̽̍̿̓̇̚d̸̥̖̅̄͘ȯ̶̠͈̹̤͕͙͛̽͝n̴̢̛͓͍̯̬̘͛̒̌ͅę̸̩̣͕̤̬̬̝̜̼͆̀͒̅͒͒̄͛͗͘,̵̢̢̲̱͚̝̣̌̈́̾͝͝ͅ ̴͕͇̦͚̳̺̱̰́͑̕s̶̘̯̱̈́̿͋̈h̶͉̪̺̱̎́͗̑̏͝͠e̷̟̪̰̤͙̖̦̲̿͂͒̓̌ ̶̧̯͔̠͔͎̮͍̑̊̒͒̇͒͒̑͘͝w̶̱̜͗̆͋̄̍̉͌͘ō̷̡͚̻̖ử̸͖̦͚̠̰̫̼̙̃́͆̋̀͝ͅl̴̨͎̘̠͈̟͊͌̆́͊͌͝ḑ̶̮̟̲̙͎̼͔̲̓̽͜ ̶̖͓͖̓͊̍̈́̅͊̏͝f̵̜͕̥̲̠̜̥̘̄̿̀͗͝͝e̵̥͍̘̭̩̙͓̫̥̕͜é̶̢̗̞͍̺͎̊̉l̸̛̲̬̦̭͑̃̑̍́̈́̀̒̕ ̸̛̞͎̳̯̲͚̦̎̇̅́̈͋̚͝͝ņ̶͇̭̖̟̪̱̫̟̝́̈́ǒ̶̧̨̨̱̲̬̰̬̼̺̈́ ̷̞̓͆̄̇̍̇̐͘͝g̶͇͓̭͍̹͕̮̀̾ͅu̴̮̝͈͛͂́͌ȋ̶͓͐͂͒l̷̦͍͈͓̀t̵̡̛̲͇̤̻̗͎̟͚͒̽̀̏̒͂̈́̕.̴̡̻͓̥͉͉̟̙̬͒ ̵̨̳͇̬̜͊̈́̐͐͊͒̊͘͘N̴̠͔̖̦̰͑̀̚o̵̧̮̖̺̽̓̀̊̒̿̚͘͠ ̷̡͔̣̜̗̺̞̀̈́͌͗̎̆r̷͈͚͔̦̹̠̘͈̯̒̾e̵̛̟̥̣̒̇̿̈́̐̂̀͒m̶̞͙̻̫̃ơ̵͎͆͊͋̔̓̀͑͝ṛ̷̌̃̓s̸̪̤̠̖̳̩̱̺͉͊̐̌̇̈̾̇̄̊͝e̴̢̨̟̬̬̹͇͆̉̉̾͌͝.̶̨̢̯̲̠͔͔͍͙͠ͅ ̴̼̕͠N̸̹̑̊̎̃̈̈́ǫ̷͚̩͕̰̥̒̽͘ ̷̡͇͓̹̭͉͙̥̗̳̈́͗̐͂̔̂͆̐̀s̵̡̰̣̍̊͆̈́̾̃ḩ̴͎͙̜͉̰̯̫̀̒͛̋̈́̄̋͘͜͝͝a̴̡̨͖͎̳̟͔͊̋͛͊͠͝m̶̟̮̈̀͋̀ȩ̴̹̝̊̂̉̀͌̚.̶̰̮͊͂̒̿̂̈́͑̀͂̐ ̷̙̙̳̖̜̯͛̍̒̋̍̏Ȯ̶̡͔̲̦͒̏̏͗̐̈́̆̉̕͜n̵͙͍̗̒̀̂̀͘͝l̶̨͖͙̲͇͕̞̖̪̱̒̈́̓̿͊̊̆̽̕y̴̧̤̺̐̽͌̇́͑̓̃͘͝ ̵͓͑̎̇̊̓̅̽ḫ̸̻̽͆u̵̖͎͙̞̖̦̘͈̎͒̓̉̽̔͝n̵͉͊g̴̪̖͖̞̩̱̭̑̋͋͛̚ę̴͖̳̠̦̮̰̒̇̒͜͝r̶̮̱͓̉͒,̶̝̳̿͛ ̷̧̥͔͔͕͖̹͙̣̆b̵̫͕͌̊̇͆̕ų̵̹́̄͘͝r̷̫̩̐̄̉̇́͐̽̔͂̕n̵̰̩͕̤͝į̸̨̤̬̝̖̗͍̔̿̀̈́͛̿̅͒͝n̸̢̘̰̰̬̥̺̻̗̺̅̽́͋̈́ǧ̵̢̲̟̟̻̓,̷̳̻̙̬̱̳̏́̉͐̇͂̏̕ ̷̱̰̞̮̽͊͆̍̐̉̀͠g̴̘̉̓̏ǹ̷̢̘̣̰͓̥̇́͌̏͛̕͘͜a̷̛̦̰͑̈́̓͗̔́̇͝ẃ̶̨̖̈́̽ỉ̸̱͉̭̩̮̄̐͆̅͐͘͜͝ṅ̸̛͔̓g̶̰̖͈̖̲̬̖̺̈͐̊̋͗́́̚̚͜͝ ̷̨̭̠͕͇̯͓̥̟̊̔͗͛̾̀͛̓̓h̶̨̡̫̹̻͉̮͍͙͊͐̔̊u̷̲͉̖͙̹̺̤͊͗̐̓̌͝ň̵̨̥͇̊̈́̿̈g̷̠̻͉̼͒̉̇̕ͅe̸̠͕͔̲̥͎͙̩̲̓̀͋̄͆̊̓̈͝r̴̰̦̣̮̗͈̪̬̙̅.̶̡̛̗͍̩͇͔͔̤̜̣̈̊̈́ 𝘛𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺. 𝘈𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘰𝘭𝘧 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘨. 𝘈𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘳, 𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘴. 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦, 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴? 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺. 𝘛𝘳𝘪𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘩 𝘴𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘥. “𝘌𝘢𝘵, 𝘈𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸, 𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘠𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸.” “𝘌𝘢𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘫𝘰𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘵.” 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥, 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘥. [𝘈 𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘝𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘳, 𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳.]

Thank god we have finally banned this man for the heinous crime of being better than me at PVP. Mickaelhz and his cult of personality has been vanquished once and for all. On a more serious note, it seems to me that a little clarity on the situation, such as the reasoning behind this band would do well to calm the angry mob. After all, how can you expect someone to know what not to do next time if they still don't know what it was they did the first time? Also please add a cooldown to goat horns. I hate goat horns. I am tired of hearing goat horns.

There was the faintest latching of the door as the wizard bustled across the threshold of her home, groceries in hand and children in her arms. She chattered amiably towards the nanny as the dutiful woman sought to relieve her burden, and yet .. There was a grimness in the air. In the tightness of her mouth. Nesrin glanced to the table, where a letter sat open. Her eyes scanned the contents of it, and her features turned quite ashen. She rushed up the stairs in search of her own Kortrevich, with words of comfort and tea following soon after.

╔══ ≪ ° ❈ ° ≫ ══╗ With the utmost delight, we cordially extend these invitations in eager anticipation of the union of the esteemed Ladyship, Nesrin Nadia Carrion-Tuvyic, and the gracious Lordship, Kazimir Georg Kortrevich. The joyous occasion of their wedding shall grace the afternoon within the sacred walls of the Chapel of Aldersberg, by the authority of Bishop Lorina. Ceremony The sacred bond between the bride and groom shall be sealed in the time-honored tradition, as they exchange their vows and rings within the Chapel of Aldersberg under the watchful eye of the most holy. Celebration Following the sacred ceremony, a brief intermission will allow guests the opportunity to return to their abodes for a change of attire. Upon their reassembly in Veletz, the festivities will culminate in an evening of revelry. The tavern, nestled just beyond the grand front gates, shall come alive with the rhythms of dance, the melodies of music, and the clinking of glasses, as we raise them to toast the harmonious union of these two illustrious houses. Special Invitations Her Ladyship, Ileana Kortrevich of Jerovitz, and her noble pedigree. The Baron of Marignan, Karl von Theonus, and his noble pedigree. The Duke of Adria, Markus Sarkozic, and all of his citizenry. Her Most Esteemed Ladyship, Klara van Aert, and whomever she chooses to bring. The Lord Avram Carrion, and the rest of the bridal house. Sir Gaspard of Adria. Lady Esther of Velec. The Haeseni-Wizard, Haus. Lady Sarah and her wife, if she so chooses. The Lord Alasdair, and Marian. The Lord Hamish Kortrevich, as the father of the groom. The hosts gladly welcome the inhabitants of the nations of Haense and Veletz, as both of them hold differing ties to the once war-fraught realms. Signed, Nesrin Nadia Carrion-Tuvyic Her Ladyship, Nesrin Nadia Carrion-Tuvyic, Heir to House Carrion-Tuvyic Kazimir Georg Kortrevich His Lordship, Kazimir Georg Kortrevich

Real.