Intermission: More Teasing, Pleasing Included

In the Days of Misspent Youth

The sun beat down on the field, baking the already hard-packed dust even further. A young man stood under the punishing sun, his leather hauberk and helmet only compounding the heat, sweat running freely down his face and back. He faced an older man who wore only a light leather vest and held his weapon with the practiced ease of many years of experience. The younger man swiped his gauntleted hand over his forehead in a vain attempt to mop away sweat and grit, instead only keeping the sweat from running into his eyes for a moment. The older man smirked to himself and lunged, forcing the younger man back several steps before he was able to bring his own weapon up to block.

Pressing his advantage, the older man feinted for the young man’s legs, reversing his stroke at the last second; deftly avoiding a clumsy parry to bring his weapon around in what should have been a killing blow. Fortunately for the younger man, the wooden practice sword only left a stinging welt, despite the thick leather armour he wore.

William picked himself out of the dust and proceeded to brush himself off, muttering quietly to himself.

“What’s that, lad? I didn’t quite hear you. Are you making excuses for your poor performance?” the weapons master said with a smirk. His iron-coloured hair and beard were near white in the sun of the Eastern Reaches and his face showed the colouration of a man who had spent many years under it, though his Elmordran accent marked him as being from the highlands of the Empire, far to the northwest.

“Of course not, goodsire, I’ve no desire for another drubbing,” William said, trying hard to keep the grumble from his voice. He picked up the wooden practice sword and saluted the weapons master, adding a short bow to acknowledge his loss.

“Good! That shows you can learn! Now, why did you lose?” the weapons master crossed the practice yard, tossing the cudgel onto a pile of a dozen more just like it and taking up the ladle from a keg of drinking water.

William thought for a moment before answering. Simply saying that the weapons master was better then him would only get him another long duel and a dozen more bruises to match the set he had just earned. It was an answer like that which had landed him before the weapons master’s waster to begin with. He thought about the fight, seeing every error he had made, each of which had been pointed out with a bruise where those errors had cost him.

“I was sloppy and complacent. I expected you to go easy on me, but you didn’t,” William hoped that answer would be sufficient to appease Master Cuhal.

“You’re right, lad, I didn’t and that you expected me to shows you’ve got far more to learn about fighting than strokes and stances,” Master Cuhal turned to address the rest of the young men standing in a rough circle around the practice yard, “That goes for all of you. Just because this is only training, doesn’t mean you can ever expect any quarter from your foes. Expect just as much as you would give, which is none. Is that understood?” Heads nodded eagerly, desperate to get out of the blazing furnace of the practice yard.

“Well, that’s about enough for today, then, off with you all,” he paused long enough for the bulk of the young men to start leaving, “Except you, William.”

William froze in mid-step, silently cursing his luck at having been singled out. He sighed and trudged back toward the weapons master.

“Yes, goodsire?”

Master Cuhal chuckled quietly, “You act as if someone just killed your new pup, lad. It’s nothing so bad as you might think,” he patted William on the shoulder and smiled, “You were sloppy today, lad, and that’s just not like you. You’re the best in the class; almost good enough for your first steel, yet the kind of mistakes you were making today were the sort of thing I expect from the greenest of boys. Is something wrong, lad?”

William only half-heard the weapons master’s words, fear suddenly running through him like ice-water. Something was indeed wrong, but William couldn’t speak of it. The fact that the weapons master had noticed made him wonder who else might have suspicions. Only his servant knew anything and he had been sworn to secrecy. Would Ælf have said anything? William could all but swear he would not have. They had made so sure to destroy or hide the evidence of his illness. The weapons master’s voice snapped him from his racing thoughts.

“William? Lad?”

William pushed a smile to his face, hoping his voice would be steady, “I-I’m fine, Master Cuhal. I think the heat is getting to me is all. Nothing to worry about.”

Master Cuhal didn’t look entirely convinced, but accepted the young man’s words at face value, “I’ll see if your father will go back to Caer Avondrev a little early. This heat is abominable and the roads should be sound enough by now.”

“Oh, no! That won’t be necessary, Master Cuhal, I just need a bit of rest, is all. There’s no need to mention anything to Father, really.” The mention of William’s father brought cold sweat to his brow once more. The last person that needed to know anything was his father. If he found out William was sick... Well, he just didn’t need to find out.

Master Cuhal nodded and patted William on the back, guiding him to the shade and the keg of water, “Well, get something to drink and try to stay out of the sun for a while, then, hey? I’ll go let your tutors know you’ve a touch of heat sickness and to excuse you from your lessons today. Get some rest, hm?”

William nodded and gave him a grateful smile, “Yes, Master Cuhal, thank you.” The weapons master smiled in return and walked from the yard, leaving William standing alone. He was able to wait just long enough for Master Cuhal to vanish from sight before he was brought to his knees by his guts suddenly twisting and causing him to retch and vomit violently. He felt like spears were being driven into his stomach with each retch, expelling less and less each time, but still the spasms wracked him. Even through the pain-filled haze, his only thought was, Please don’t let there be too much blood, please don’t let anyone find out I’m sick.

Intermission: In Which the Chronicler is a Filthy Cocktease

By Demons be Driven

The bricks of the chimney oozed just enough heat to warm the small room comfortably, yet to the figure huddling on the bed, the room was stiflingly hot. Sweat damped his shirt and ran freely down his face, mixing with the tears rolling slowly down his unshaven cheeks. His dark hair hung in limp clumps, fat drops of sweat running down the clumps to drip onto his already-stained shirt. A single candle burned on the small table in the corner, the stubs of three more just like it scattered around the battered holder. The man stared blankly into the flame, grey eyes rendered amber in the weak, flickering light of the candle. Only he could say what he saw there, but judging by the fear in his eyes, it wasn’t anything pleasant. Silently, his lips moved, forming words that only he could hear, each word seeming torn from him as if dragged free by a team of horses.

A faint, sibilant hiss suddenly drew his eyes to the true object of his fear, lying across the foot of the straw mat that made up bed, flashing and glinting in the light of the candle. His arms peeled away from hugging his knees and he tried to push himself back, further away from the thing, but his back was already to the wall and his limbs lacked the strength to move him more than a few inches before they gave out.

“You ssee? You ssee what happenss when you neglect me?” the voice whispered, quiet as silk drawing over flesh. The man pushed himself from the bed, tumbling to the floor with a thud, fresh bruises already beginning to form under his pale flesh.

“You are weak. I am sstrong. Sstrong for you, William Lynch.”

The man grunted with the strain of levering himself upright and heaving himself into the corner, as far from the thing on the bed as possible.

“You need my sstrength, William Lynch. You will die without it. Sslowly, wassting in thiss sstinking inn. Thiss iss not your fate.”

William’s lips moved in time with the words, the hiss coming from his own throat, through his ears heard it differently. To him, they came from what he knew was the true source of the words. On the bed, the swept-hilted rapier lay unmoving; its hilt burnished silver and graceful curves. Only William could see the truth of it, knew the truth of it. Of the monstrous thing that lived inside of it.

Inside of him.

“Yess, William Lynch, sstop thesse regretss and sself pity. You can be sstronger than thiss. Take me up. Let my sstrength be yourss again! You can be the sstrongesst of them all!”

His eyes fell closed, as heavily as if they had been made of lead. He squeezed them shut, refusing to look at that cursed thing. His hands came to his ears, refusing to listen to the honeyed words, trying to block them out. They came still, creeping into his mind without stopping first at his ears.

“You need me, William Lynch. I need you. Take me up, feel my sstrength as yourss!”

Hot tears started fresh down his cheeks, sweat running in thick rivulets down his face and back. His entire body began to shudder, though from the effort of holding himself upright or resisting the urge to reach for the sword was impossible to tell. Slowly, his fingers untwined from his lank hair, shaking as if palsied, moving almost of their own volition. Gradually, his arm stretched, trembling like a leaf in a storm, to its full length, his palm upward.

Resting there, lightly as if it were nothing more than a dream, the rapier fitted to his hand more closely than if it were a glove of the finest kidskin. In that moment, the whole of his being changed.

He stood slowly, easily, the quaking in his limbs but a faint memory. A slow smile spread across his lips, full of stated desire and dark intentions. The most striking change, however, was the faint bluish tint shining in his pale grey eyes. He lifted the sword to his lips, smiling more and gently kissed the naked blade.

“My strength,” he whispered and this time his voice was wholly his own.

Part the Fifteenth: Skin of My Teeth

Spend enough time in the business of killing people and sooner or later you’re going to end up on the receiving end rather than the giving. This, of course, gives you the opportunity to either prove your skills or vanish into the annals of dead assassins. The first few times this happens it can be a little disconcerting, especially if it happens when you’re still rather new to the game. After a while, you get used to people wanting and trying to kill you. What you never get used to is the times when they almost succeed. These are usually the times that end up keeping you up nights with a bottle of dwarven whisky to keep you company. This episode with the warlock was definitely shaping up to be one of those times.

I’m not a big fan of pain. I try to avoid it whenever possible, though that doesn’t mean I can’t take a few licks when I need to. There were times during the war I hurt so badly I would have preferred the sweet release of death. Whatever curse it was that the warlock had used on me, it was an order of magnitude worse than all of those times combined. Just the act of drawing breath was almost too much to bear and the hammering of my heart in my chest felt like it was trying to punch its way out of my ribcage one beat at a time.

The night elves have this trick they use during times of extreme duress to block out all but the most necessary sensation. The druid who tried to teach it to me said she used it in place of sleep much of the time, as it was more efficient and restful. I never believed that, but I did recognize the value of being able to block out extraneous sensory input. For instance, now would have been a good time to start blocking.

I really wish I’d learned that trick better.

I was trying to draw down and find my inner focus when the warlock pushed me onto my back. My eyes were squeezed tightly shut, so I couldn’t see what he was doing, but the chanting didn’t bode well for me. The problem I’d always had finding that very specific mental state was in the trying. Moiralyn had always told me that I needed to stop trying and just let it happen, which never made any sense to me. The more I tried not to try, the more I ended up trying and, well, you get the idea. I was, at that moment, trying very hard not to try to find that non-state of mind I needed to block the truly exquisite agony I was in. Short version: I wasn’t doing very well.

The warlock’s chanting was becoming more strident, which could only mean my time was getting shorter. My old drill sergeant’s unforgettable catch phrase came floating unbidden from the depths of my memory. Sometimes, your best just isn’t good enough. Apparently, the mind tends to wander when it knows it’s about to die. Remembering my old drill sergeant brought Saya’s face front and center to my mind. Thinking about my time in the military always made me think of her, since that’s where we met. In the face of her easy smile and kind eyes, floating large in my memory, I knew I couldn’t let things end like this. She still hadn’t gotten her justice and I’d be damned if I was going to let some two-bit hack demon-fucker stop me from laying hands on the person responsible for her murder.

Suddenly, there was no more pain. Just like a snuffed candle, the fire that made me feel like I was being torn apart from the inside out was just…gone. I knew it wasn’t the night elf trick that had brought about this miracle, since I could very clearly feel the floor at my back and, more importantly, the pure cold fury that raced through my veins.

My eyes snapped open just in time to see the warlock’s dagger plunging toward my chest. Without even thinking, I caught his wrist in one hand and shattered his forearm with the other. His scream was immensely satisfying.

I was back on my feet in a moment and already bringing my booted heel around in a bone-crushing kick. At least one of the warlock’s ribs had to have snapped, probably more, judging by the yowling scream he let loose. He crumbled to the floor, trying to cradle and shield his broken arm and ribs at the same time. I kicked him to his back with a snarl and put my foot over his throat.

“You brought this on yourself,” I sneered, “You could have just given me the key and walked away, but no, you had to try and be the big bad warlock.”

He probably tried to reply, but all that came out was a kind of wet gurgle. That’s usually all the does come out when someone has a boot on your throat.

“You have this one chance to save your miserable hide. Give me the key to the dwarf’s shackles.”

I got an enthusiastic nod, though with my foot under his chin, it was hard to tell he was nodding. The warlock’s trembling good hand reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and drew forth the key. It clattered the floor, slipping from his hand. I could see clearly where it was, but I let him grope around for it for a few moments and offer it up to me once he was able to get it back into his fingers.

“Good. See how much easier that was?” I said, taking the key and slipping it into a hidden pocket in one of my bracers.

The pounding from downstairs came to an end with the sound of a door being splintered apart by something large and heavy. I had only a few seconds before I would be up to my eyeballs in Defias. I glanced down at the warlock and flashed the sort of savage grin I imagine most trolls reserve for their dinner. He knew what was coming and that there was nothing he could do about it. Even knowing that, he still grabbed at my ankle, ignoring the broken bones in his wrist.

The warlock’s choking and gagging on the crushed remains of his throat didn’t last long, maybe as long as it took me to toss the small table he’d been breakfasting at down the stairs. That would at least slow the Defias coming up down for a few precious seconds. I spent those seconds smashing out a window with a chair, which I tossed down the stairs as well. Even half-blocked, I was able to worm my way out and grab on to the eaves. I was just pulling my legs through when I pair of hands latched onto one of my boots. The owner of the hands earned the heel of my other boot in the ribs for his trouble and let go. From there it was simply a matter of hauling myself up to the roof. I stood up for about two seconds before whizzing crossbow bolts convinced me it was a much better idea to not make such a good target of myself and I hit the deck.

When you’re being chased and have a decision between going up or down, in most cases, it’s best to go down. Going down usually leads to a ground floor, which leads to more escape options. Obviously, that depends on being above ground to begin with, but you get my point. The problem with going up is that, eventually, you always run out of up. Case in point, I was on the roof of the farmhouse now and out of places to run. Worse, the Defias on the ground already knew I was up here and weren’t being shy about trying to find me with their crossbows. It wouldn’t be too long before someone inside got suicidal enough to try to follow me out the window and onto the roof.

I spotted the stables off to my left, as well as a dozen Defias ranged around loading and firing their crossbows at me. Aside from the Defias, it was only thirty or so yards between where I was and the dwarf I was trying to rescue. At least I didn’t have to worry about them killing him. If they hadn’t done it by now, they certainly weren’t going to do it in the immediate future.

Crossbow bolts continued to ricochet across the shingles around me as the Defias kept firing blindly, hoping to score a hit. Random chance would see me get hit before too much longer, something I didn’t really care to have happen. I belly crawled across the roof toward the edge that didn’t have crossbow bolts flying up from it. A quick peek showed me it was mostly clear below, despite being higher that I usually like jumping down from. With few other choices in the matter, I swung over the edge and dropped to the ground.

Even knowing how to fall and land from a height, it doesn’t hurt any less when you twist your ankle on landing. So much for running full tilt back to the stable. A curious Defias popped around the corner of the house, probably investigating the loud thump and grunt of my landing, and earned himself a throwing knife in the chest for his trouble. It was enough to convince him that pursuing his investigation was a poor idea. I moved the opposite direction from the wounded Defias, keeping low and in the shadows as best I could, which really is much more easily said than done when one has just twisted one’s ankle.

I made it to the tree line and the underbrush that came with it with no further incident. While I wasn’t safe, I at least could take a breather while the Defias searched the farm high and low for me. It would probably be a few minutes before they thought to start searching the surrounding forest. Most likely, whoever was now in charge was probably making assumptions as to who I was and why I had been there. These assumptions probably centered around the assassination of their former boss, the now swiftly-cooling warlock. Never mind the fact that had the warlock actually been the target of an actual assassination by an actual assassin, they probably still wouldn’t know the warlock was dead.

There were a lot of puzzled Defias wandering around the farmhouse with a bad case of the wheredidhegoes. Still, it wouldn’t be to long before someone saw my footprints leading away and into the woods. I stuck to the undergrowth and circled around to the stable again. Not unexpectedly, it was all but deserted. Just to be on the safe side, I put the stable between myself and the farmhouse, though. Getting in unnoticed was a simple matter, getting out with the dwarf was going to be another matter altogether.

“Ye sure raised a rum-bugger o’a ruckus oot theer,” Brass whispered once I’d climbed into the hay loft, “Ah hope thais is awl part o’yer plan.”

I sighed heavily, “Well, whether it is or not doesn’t matter much now, does it?”

The dwarf bowled me over with the most unexpected hug I’d ever received when I unlocked the shackle from his ankle. If I didn’t know dwarves so well, I’d swear there were actual tears in his eyes.

“Oh, Light praise ye an’ all yer kin, lad!” he said as he released me. I was grateful to be able to breathe again. I learned two very important lessons in that moment. One, a dwarf gives a hug with the same sort of enthusiasm they put into drinking, fighting and mining, which makes them a hazard to the average human. Two, never get within breathing distance of a dwarf that hasn’t seen a bath in more than a fortnight.

“So, what’s our plan fer getting’ oot o’ here?” the dwarf asked, testing the weight of a baling hook in his meaty fist. I didn’t envy the first man to be on the receiving end of that hook.

The men running around the farmhouse were starting to spread out in a very organized-looking search pattern. They would find us before long. Whether he had any fighting skill or not, I figured the dwarf had a few years of rage to work out, which would probably serve just as well at this point. Any running fight wasn’t going to be pretty.

I watched a pair of Defias moving toward the stables, “To be honest, I hadn’t quite gotten that far. This is all pretty on the fly at this point.”

Brass pointed to the two men coming this way, “Wull, Ah hope ye kin fly fast, we’re aboot t’ave coompany.”

Briefly, before I’d killed the warlock, I’d entertained the possibility that I might be able to sneak in and sneak back out with Brass and no one would be the wiser. So far, the body count was at four with another probable and the way things were shaping up, it was about to get a lot higher. As a rule, I prefer not have to kill people if I can at all avoid it. However, I do recognize that it is sometimes unavoidable that a few people may have to die if I’m going to live. Sometimes, like now, in order to survive, you just have to make bodies start hitting the ground.

My swords came free of their scabbards with the usual hiss of steel. Resolved, and resigned, to what was about to come, I glanced to Brass and shook my head, “This may be a real short rescue. Keep up and watch my back.”

“Ye dun need t’ worry aboot me, lad,” he said with wicked grin and a twinkle in his eye, “But they do!”

That was about all we had time for because the men who had been coming this way had entered the stable. They paused at the door to let their eyes adjust to the gloom inside. The last they saw was a flash of steel and then the floor rushing up at them.

Intermission: Honest Scrap

So, there's this meme going around call the Honest Scrap award. Maybe you've heard of it? No? Oh, well, in that case, I was gifted with said award by Ms. Jessika of Pretty in Plate, who has determined that I be worthy of such an honour because I comment on her blog, which does have a fair amount of brilliance to it. So there's some rules for this here award and they are thus:

1. When accepting this auspicious award, you must write a post bragging about it, including the name of the misguided soul who thinks you deserve such acclaim, and link back to the said person so everyone knows she/he is real.
2. Choose a minimum of seven (7) blogs that you find brilliant in content or design. Or improvise by including bloggers who have no idea who you are because you don’t have seven friends. Show the seven random victims’ names and links and leave a harassing comment informing them that they were prized with Honest Weblog. Well, there’s no prize, but they can keep the nifty icon.
3. List at least ten (10) honest things about yourself. Then pass it on!

Right, so there's the rules out of the way. Rule one is done above (ha! I'm not lazy, I'm efficient!) and rule two will be...well...I can't think of anyone who hasn't been tagged already, soooooo, yeah... Rule three, well...here goes...


Ten Things You May or May Not Want to Know About the Guy Who Writes This Blog (every two months or so)...

1. Despite my good intentions, I've only finished one story in a length acceptable enough to be called a novella. Sadly, said story was finished when I was approximately 15 and it bears all the hallmarks of being written by a 15-year-old geek. Never shall it see the light of day. Ever.
2. I did a tour with Uncle Sam's Aviatin' Fools when I was a younger man. I loved my job, but didn't care so much for being in the military (although I wouldn't trade the experience for anything and believe that every snot-nosed 18-year old punk who comes out of high school should be conscripted into the service, but that's another rant entirely.) I'd love if I could still do my job as a civilian, but, sadly, there isn't much call for weapons system maintainers outside of the Air Force.
3. My friends love to make much ado about my inability to cook anything, mostly due to the fact that I have a bachelor's habit of creating atrocities in the kitchen which should not be visited upon the mortal palate. In point of fact, if given a proper set of instructions, it's quite possible for me to cook quite well. I'm just a hazard to myself and others if left to my own devices.
4. Khol does not actually exist on an RP server. In point of fact, the character of Khol Drake and the character Khol that I play are two entirely different entities who simply share a name and a class. I suppose that might change if I were to move him to an RP server, but that's not likely to happen in the near future. Interestingly (maybe,) Khol is not based on myself, though he does share a few of my personality traits. Khol has more in common with Michael Westen, than myself.
5. I am a proud member of the Utiliclan. If not for the fact that the torturous hellhole I live in does tend to get a little on the cold side and tends to be excessively windy, I'd probably wear my Utilikilt all the damn time. Freedom is good, but showing the world what your momma gave ya isn't. It tends to get one's freedom curtailed.
   
6. I'm often said to be honest to a fault. I have a nasty habit of telling the truth even when it would be to my benefit to lie my ass off. I actually do this as a defense mechanism. I find it much more useful to use the truth as a weapon than any number of clever lies. It's usually much more painful that way, which feeds my inner sadist. Also, I'm kind of a bastard.
7. Related to number six is that I have a certain...inflexibility...when it comes to truth and honesty. I am, by nature, a very tolerant person. I will put up with just about anything for a very long time, except for people lying to me. I ended a decade-long friendship in a heartbeat because said (former) friend chose to lie to me. Yes, I realise some would say this makes me the dick, but they're my priciples and I will stick by them, come hell or high water.
8. Contrary to what the previous two points might indicate, I'm actually a pretty lighthearted and easy-going guy. I come from a long line of sarcastic smart-asses and I carry on the family tradition proudly. Perfect example: my grandfather passed away when I was still a young buck. Now, in a normal family, a relative's passing tends to be a somber affair with all the attendant wailing and gnashing of teeth. In my family, however, we do things a little differently. As my mother and aunt were making the funeral arrangements, they're cracking jokes left, right and center. The poor funeral director, much more accustomed to dealing with the wailing and gnashing of teeth, really has no idea how to handle this pair of jokers in his office. He's trying to remain respectful and somber and all, but, really, when my mom and aunt get going, they're bloody hilarious. They left the funeral director in tears of laughter. My grandfather wouldn't have had it any other way.
9. The fastest way to a man's heart is through his stomach. In the case of this man, a chicken vindaloo, saffron rice and naan is like a guided missile.
10. I detest the telephone and cellphones. I understand the need for these devices and I use them only grudgingly. Given my druthers, I'd communicate either via IM, email or face to face, but never over the phone. In a cruel twist of irony, I spend my working day chained to a phone.

Okay, so there's ten true things about me. It's really hard coming up with ten things to say about yourself. Or maybe that's just me, because I'm really not that interesting. Anyway, I'll put more story up soon and stop being a filthy cocktease with these intermissions.

Intermission: Tagged by the Seventh Son of a Sixth Screenshot?

Man, there sure has been a lot of not-story posts going on here lately. What's up with that? Someone needs to smack that writer-guy over the head and tell him to get to work and quit slacking off with things like memes. Of course, when he gets tagged, there's nothing he can do but meme away and do what the meme tells him.

Today's memetag comes courtesy of Billy Wallace (i c wut u did thar) of Casual Tank, which is quite the enjoyable read. Check it out, won't you? Here we are tasked to display the sixth screenshot in our sixth folder (no, I didn't just descend into the royal 'we', nor am I emulating the inimitable BRK, I say we meaning those tagged by the meme, sheesh!)

Note to self: don't write posts after staying up for almost 36 hours trying to get your priest alt just one. More. Level. It doesn't go well. Although it goes give you the ability to shout "TONIGHT, WE DINE IN NORTHREND!" for no apparent reason.

Addendum to note to self: stream of consciousness writing never turns out well. Stop it.

Right, where was I? Oh, yeah, the meme.

So, since I only have one screenshot folder, I'm just posting every sixth screenshot and seeing what spews forth. So with no further ado...

Here we have the altar in C'Thun's chamber after a bunch of my guildies and I got really drunk and decided to go knock over some old instances. Achievements, you understand. I still have C'Thun's heart in my bag. It's gotta be starting to smell. Bonus points if you can pick me out of the crowd.

Hooray for the guild first kill of Thaddius on 25-man! This shitebird gave us no end of trouble for weeks. Note the nelf pimpette in the foreground. No, that's not me, I just wanted to draw your attention to her.

Here we have my (pre-Titan's Grope) fury warrior alt doing his impression of a Spartan. That's right, I was fury before fury was cool. Also, THIS! IS! SHATTRATH!

lolwut?

Okay, screw this, I just realised how many screenshots I have. Good christ, I fat finger that button a lot. I should faceroll less. So, in the tradition of the Daily Show, I leave you with this moment of zen, in which my hunter learns that Kara=srsbzns.

Karazhan is serious business.