The Pit of Nak
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Forum Name: The Travellers' Tale
Forum Description: Forum for Illyriad-related original literature & artwork.
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Topic: The Pit of Nak
Posted By: Shûl-nak
Subject: The Pit of Nak
Date Posted: 16 Feb 2015 at 10:05
Rather than spam up the place with multiple threads I'll just keep any future writings in here. This one was for my own profile. ____________________________________________________________________________
For hours, the sky ahead had been stained grey by the smoke of
distant fires. Rising over the crest of the last hill on the barren
road, your eyes finally settle upon Gruz'ak Shûl-nak.
Like a rash of fungus, the squat huts of the Orcs have sprung up
over these hills, their inhabitants quarrying cliffs, tearing down trees
and carving apart the earth itself to feed the hungry fires of
expansion. At a glance, the impression is of a brown
smear across the fair green earth, a patch of disease that has consumed
the life around it to grow ever larger.
Beginning your descent, you pass brawny haulers who
treat you to a sullen stare and hunters with hungry eyes. The town only
looks drearier as you approach the outer huts, where a muddy figure
emerges from within. His clothing is ragged and tattered,
red-rimmed eyes gleaming from a forest of beard and hair.
"Good day, my lords and ladies," he shouts, half-staggering
towards you. "Welcome, welcome! Hello! But why? Why have you come here?
To gape at the greenskins? To ogle the orcs? Is it for conflict?
Business? Entertainment? Ah, Malkom, it is none of your
business, this is the truth! But let me be your guide, friends. Welcome! Welcome!" The man is abuzz with energy, shushing away any questions and ushering you ahead.
Cattle and horses compete with jostling soldiers and goods-laden
workers for room in the muddy streets. Wolf-herders drag their charges
on tight leashes, savagely yanking them away from the skittish beasts to
yelps and howls of pain. Boisterous orc-wives
herd their offspring through narrow alleys, cuffing heads and shouting
as they pass. The older children stare at you fiercely, bristling and
growling, no doubt imitating the warriors of their clan.
The smell of wood-smoke, mud and unwashed bodies hangs thick in
the air, and all around are the cacophonous cries of orc and beast.
"So, my gracious guests," Malkom asks when you find yourselves in the town square. "Where to?"
The Consulate
"Ahh, so this is an official visit, eh? Striking up a few arrangements, are we? Bit of wink, wink, nudge, nudge?
Don't worry, you can trust me. O, diplomacy, the game of kings!
Step this way, then. I'm sure they'll be happy to receive you..."
A short walk eastwards and you arrive outside a ruined two-story hall. It looks like this
existed before the Orcs arrived here, perhaps as part of some Lord's manor, but much of its grandeur has been lost. All the windows are smashed, its doors broken, clay bricks and rough planks used to patch up collapsing roofs and rot.
Upon entering, several goblins scatter from the small reception hall and disappear into the dark recesses of
the building. You wait while your eyes adjust to the gloom, unsure of whether to advance further, when
you become aware of a presence in the corner of the room. A
hooded figure steps into the half-light, sniffing the air from inside
his cowl. He doesn't seem inclined to speak until you attempt to breach
the silence, at which points he growls "It wasn't
us."
On your way out, a pack of short, burly orcs push roughly past you, their arms full of goods...
The 'Mage Tower'
"A wizard, are
you? Well, fancy that. The shamans here are definitely magic. They do
some very inventive things around the full moon in there. You know, the
last spell they cast, I saw it myself, there were some bandits coming at
the town and these cows just dropped out
of the air, right on their heads. Fantastic! I wouldn't mess with them myself, so you be careful."
Despite its proximity to the centre of the town, there is an unusually large berth given to this cluster of huts.
From a distance, you can make out three figures clad in wolf-skin
pelts, covered in jangling trinkets with staves made of bone and skull.
The shamans look the picture of primitive mysticism.
Though they immediately notice you, they pay you no heed,
apparently more engaged with arranging sticks in a very particular
pattern in the mud. Fascinating as it must be, you decide against
offering your input lest they take offence and drop a cow on
your head.
The Library
"Don't look so surprised. Yes, even the orc has erected these
temples to knowledge, for he must if he wishes to do more than scrabble
for worms in the dirt! The texts inside have mostly been reappropriated
from gracious donators, but there are a few
that they have written themselves. Oh, the orc language is quite
simple, but it has such a thrilling, guttural voice to it, don't you
think? Gruk va mush rik za fem! It's a shame they haven't got around to
writing for the stage yet.
The librarian is a dear, but if you make any noise, well... she's
always looking to craft some more of that fine pink-skin parchment."
The library, though crafted in the same roughshod manner as the
rest of the town's buildings, is actually much the same inside as one
might expect of any other across Illyria. The weighty silence and cool
air of the main hall bring a welcome reprieve
from the heat and racket outside. Many shelves lie empty,
still waiting to be filled, but those that are hold an eclectic mixture
of titles. One in particular catches your eye, bound in what you hope is
cow leather: "Orcish Poetry: A Collection, Vol
I."
At the front of the room sits the librarian, watching over the
desk-bound slaves who appear to be copying or reading themselves. She
offers you a toothy smile and raises a single finger to her lips.
The Tavern
"Working up a thirst,
are we? Yes, it is getting a little late. The chief lets visitors drink for free in the tavern, which is very kind of him, don't you think? Although, perhaps not when you consider the local brews. If they haven't got any
foreign stuff in then I hope you have a strong stomach."
By far the busiest building in town by the evening, the crowds
outside the shanty tavern are impenetrable. Apparently the chief's Fangs
had returned to town after a misunderstanding with some nearby dwarves,
and were celebrating their victory
with some stolen casks of ale. Horns and drums boom as the sun begins
to set, the orcs shoving, brawling, dancing and roaring in a heaving
mass of bodies.
Malkom wisely leads you away from the most violent areas of the
crowd, managing to corner and 'persuade' a goblin to procure some
overlooked bottles of elven wine from the tavern. He toasts your good health, and turns to watch the spectacle.
The Castle
"You want to see the chief? Hmm... his business does
usually conclude around this hour. But you still must not waste his
time. Temperamental, is he. As many moods as phases of the moon, each
more terrifying than the last, I'd say. I hope you're...
qualified to speak with him, or he'll eat you alive."
The sun has already cast its dying rays over the sky. The
streets, mostly deserted of the boisterous orcs, are now given over to
their smaller cousins. Goblins, kobolds and things unnamed scuttle like
rats through the shadows, striking deals and blows,
bargaining and pleading, their shrieks mingling with stranger noises
erupting from elsewhere.
A chill wind rises to meet your neck as you ascend the
exposed path leading to the great hall, far above the last of the
orc-homes. It sits like a great black toad in the twilight, spiked
fortifications forming a menacing silhouette.
For now, its gates lie open, and through them passes a group of
particularly rowdy and uncouth persons of all races who seem to be
shouting something about krimpets. They descend into the town without a
glance your way, their voices receding and becoming
one with the festive din.
Behind them comes the chief, an orc of small but bullish
stature with piercing red eyes, flanked by two hulking clanguards. He
turns to get a better look at you and approaches with a swift stride. "A
visitor," he grunts, eyeing you up and down.
You cast about for Malkom, but he, too, seems to have disappeared into
the night.
"Do come in," he smiles, eyes locked upon yours. "We shall dine well tonight..."
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Replies:
Posted By: Shûl-nak
Date Posted: 21 Feb 2015 at 14:24
Story I wrote for the Broken Blades alliance. __________________________________________
From the journal of Wulfhirst Kurtz, writer, explorer and diplomat of King Sigurd's court.
'After
the captain of our bodyguard was discovered in bed with at least two of
King Ulharadd's wives, we fled the port of Belgorrian with all due
haste. The morn's earliest rays
illuminated the sun-bleached skeletons that hung in cages along the
coast, leaving no doubts regarding our fate should the black-clad
vessels on the horizon reach us; but fortune was kind, and as the
days passed we made good our escape.
Yet
all was not well: once clear of pursuers, our ship was under constant
assault from the notoriously cruel winds of the middle seas. We had
hoped to put the Pirate Isles far
behind us and voyage north to the Brother's Haven, but the wind bore us
ceaselessly to the southwest, past the Newlands coast towards Almenly.
Here,
then, we hoped we could make our way into the calmer waters of the
Almenly Bay, or at least find some sheltered cove in which to rest and
repair. But the fickle sea had
other plans, and our undermanned and anchor-less vessel was powerless
to resist them. At the utter mercy of the waves, the thrill of our
daring escape was soon forgotten, our hopes of salvation fading with
every splintered plank and torn sail. During those
dark hours I am sure I overheard even our scholar of reason praying to
the Gods for mercy, though he was none too pleased by my later
insinuations.
It
was after countless days of sickening chaos that we finally ran
aground. My beleageured stomach was gladdened by the prospect of
stepping onto solid land, so I emerged from
the stinking cabins in relatively high spirits, though they were soon
dampened by the sullen humour of the crew.
Fate
had seen fit to sweep us onto the shores of the Orken Coast, a region
infamous for its savage and hostile natives, the orcs of the
Drek-Hhakral. The land itself was harsh
and barren; windswept coastal hills and cliffs immediately gave way to
vast dry plains, while grumbling jagged-tooth mountains quaked and
cracked in the distance, wreathed in ominous volcanic clouds.
We
gathered what little supplies remained and settled in to weather the
chill night. I need not repeat the gruesome tales that the sailors
recounted of those whose remains had
been found on that accursed shoreline, though the tales became so
extravagantly grim I could not help but question their authenticity.
The
day being all but spent, I was left the unenviable task of the first
night watch. As the moon made her way into the sky the beasts of the
land howled their mournful chorus,
and the wind bit all the colder for the chill of fear it instilled in
me. My restless mind saw hungry warbands and long-forgotten creatures
lurking in every shadow, but soon the smothering tide of fatigue
overwhelmed my weary eyes...
“You're
not very good at keeping watch, are you?” growled a voice by my ear. “I
could've gutted you like a fish, worn your skin as a hat and you
wouldn't have noticed a thing.”
I should have sprang up and about, but my sleep-hazed mind decided instead to laugh at the ludicrous proposition.
“Maybe I still will...” it continued, as a hand grabbed me by the collar.
“Enough.”
This
voice belonged to a woman; tall, red-haired and regal; yet her hands
were bound in bandages, and even the darkness could not conceal her
black eye and broken nose. She appraised
me with a searing stare, looking decidedly unimpressed.
“These ones couldn't put up a decent fight if they tried.”
“There
is no honour to be had in killing shipwrecked travellers,” agreed a
third. Undoubtedly an orc, he towered over the others, bearing a long,
cruel spear and a commanding
tone. “Let them be.”
With
a sullen grunt I was released. The squat orc by my side returned to his
comrades, red eyes glowering. On his right hand he wore a bizarre
golden gauntlet that shimmered in
the night. He began to polish it obsessively with his filthy fur cloak,
treating me to the occasional murderous glare.
I was still unsure if I was dreaming.
“I
think it's time for a drink,” offered the fourth, a stern green-eyed
man with a knightly bearing and a long blade by his side. With that
simple suggestion, the four apparently
forgot their hostile introduction and produced a barrel of fine red
wine from the shadowy recesses of the night.
Though
the hours we passed together were long and full of drinking, I can
recall them with perfect clarity. These were no four brigands as I had
first suspected, but rather the
first pioneers of this wild land. Each as raucous as the last, they
recounted tales of bloody daring, of epic deeds and ingenious exploits
across battlefields near and far. Each boasted the number of warriors
they could send to certain death on a whim, of
riches they had daringly plundered from the unwitting and of victories
snatched from the jaws of defeat.
As
the night progressed I could not help but feel that this savage Orken
Coast was deserving of such rulers. What sane leader would forsake the
golden shores of Elgea to tame
a land such as this? And what men and women would follow them here, to
the hellish ends of the earth?
Truly
they were mad, but each radiated such magnetism and will that I was
left wholeheartedly taken by their endeavour, that they earned my
respect and fear in equal measure.
I
must have fallen into slumber ere long, for the next morning I awoke
alone and with a pounding head. The sight that greeted me was a potent
cure; trundling across the distant
hills were caravans bearing supplies and hands enough to see us
shipshape within days.
It
was as we left the Orken Coast on the horizon that we came across our
final gift. Amongst the bins and barrels of the hold lay four shattered
swords, rusted and worn from ancient
use, bound together with a parting message.
“For when the final night falls,
and our enemies abound,
we shall rise with bloodied grins and broken blades to meet them,
and forge our names as legends eternal.”'
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Posted By: Shûl-nak
Date Posted: 21 Feb 2015 at 14:30
Story I wrote for Shogun no Yari. _______________________________________
The
retreat was well underway. The orcs had turned their backs as soon as
the first cavalrymen were sighted. They shouted and roared and squealed
as though the very daylight was burning
their flesh, the sweeping wind carrying their pathetic cries straight
to the ears of the enemy.
Away from the the teeming rabble, their warlord merely stood and watched the battlefield, waiting.
In
the distance a noble figure impatiently raised its sword, shining
magnificently in the dying light of the day. Immediately, the
surrounding lines of cavalry eased into their advance,
eager to crush the cowardly horde so terrified by their appearance. The
muted rumble of hooves grew and grew until it was a thunderous roar,
their armoured steeds now racing across the plains. Flags and banners
fluttered proudly in the wind, and the earth
itself trembled beneath them.
The time had come.
The
growling boom of the black horn cut across the battlefield like a
knife. The warlord watched as the orcs instantly turned, formed up and
closed ranks. Where there had been a streaming
mass of cowards only seconds before, there was now a bellowing,
bristling beast, all spears and fangs, braced to face the charge. Not a
moment too soon.
With
a crash like the breaking of the heavens, the charging knights were
upon them. Horses cried, shields shattered and screams of pain and rage
engulfed the field. Bodies were violently
flung through the air to be lost amidst the chaos. Across the line,
each warrior painted the bloody madness of war with sword, spear and
lance.
The
knights' momentum now lost, the orcs now surged forwards to isolate
each man before he could disentangle from the mass. They were swarmed by
the heaving tides, pulled from their
steeds by powerful hands and poached by cruel spears seeking the gaps
in their armour while their wounded steeds buckled beneath them.
Within
minutes, the struggle was over. Only a handful lived to retreat across
the field. The glorious charge had been utterly broken.
The
warlord once again sounded the horn, to the exultant cries and roars of
his orcs. Victory was theirs, but the battle was not quite done.
Surrounded
by his dead or dying bodyguard, Lord Uldir was slumped against the body
of his fallen horse, blood dripping from his mouth. The light of
recognition flared in his eyes when
he looked upon the young orc emerging from the ranks. It was the face
of an orc his scouts and spies had recently etched into his memory; a
name that shadowed his fitful dreams. Shogun no Yari.
“You...”
he coughed. “I should have expected... your honourless tricks. Go on,
then, spear me. Finish me, you savage,” he spat, his face bitter with
resentment.
The
surroundings orcs laughed and jeered, urging their leader to stick the
old man who had hounded their people so relentlessly for years. The
blood of hundreds, even thousands of
their kin was upon his hands.
But the warrior did not move. “Stand and fight,” he demanded.
Lord
Uldir bared his teeth. He groaned and snarled as he rose. It was
abundantly clear to the laughing orcs that his arm and leg were broken,
yet still he managed to stand in defiance.
His pale and shaking face spoke only of cold resolve even here, when
his death was all but certain.
The
warlord flared his nostrils, his gaze never leaving the crippled
commander. “You do not face death like a dog.” He briefly glanced away,
over the field to where his few remaining
knights had regrouped. They seemed to be preparing to charge once more.
“And your men are loyal.”
“They will see you cut asunder. Even if I do not,” said Lord Uldir calmly.
Even the warlord laughed this time.
“There
is no honour in killing a wounded dog,” he growled. “I will show you
the mercy that you could not show our children, Uldir Child-slayer.
Fetch him a horse!”
The
orcs growled and grumbled, though none loud enough to draw their lord's
attention. After he was stripped of his armour and clothing, and bound
at the hands and feet, a skittish
warhorse was dragged to the Lord's feet, across which he was
gracelessly thrown like a hog.
“These
orcs are mine. My people. We are leaving your cursed lands for the
south, where we will forge our own kingdom.”
From
somewhere near the horse's behind came Lord Uldir's fuming response. “I
will follow you. You and your filthy creatures, you are nothing. All
the free and good people of Illyria
will remember the day I purge the last of your kind from this world.
You'll see!”
“As
I had hoped,” the orc snarled. “Go now to your people. See to your
wounds, gather your men, and then come find the death that awaits you in
the south.”
With
a mighty blow, the horse was sent packing towards the waiting knights.
As Lord Uldir looked back across the field, he saw his family's tattered
golden standard raised high in
the air, its flowing weave stained red with the blood of his men. And
beneath it, the ominous silhouette of the Warlord of Spears.
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Posted By: Shûl-nak
Date Posted: 21 Feb 2015 at 14:35
Story I wrote for the short SHORT story contest. __________________________________
Azurrok
inhaled deeply. The cloying air was thick with smoke, ash, fear and
death - the raw scent of war. In his heart he could feel the primal
spirit of the Always-Chiefs raging and roaring, exulting in the
bloody madness. His teeth ached for more flesh to tear, and his hands
longed for more soft elven necks from which he could wring the
pitiful life forever.
The last of El'tirisel's defenders sent a volley of
humming death from the keep's final spire; a swathe of kobolds collapsed
squealing in the courtyard. Azurrok snarled and grabbed a dying runt to
hold aloft. His newfound shield quivered with caught arrows as he
sprinted towards the stairs.
Many Elven
wardens blocked the winding ascent, but their fluid fighting style
suffered in such cramped quarters. The stocky orc used his bullish
momentum to
barge, grab and hack, pushing and shoving them to fall to the
tower floor below, dealing bone-rending blows with his cruel
scimitar.
The thrumming of loosed bowstrings filled his ears as he reached the
summit. He discarded the kobold, now bristling with arrows, and leapt
into the ranks of the unwitting archers with vicious glee.
Wielding his blade with both hands, their soft leather armour could
not save them as he split limb from limb in great cleaving arcs.
His savage
laughter was cut short when a blade scored a deep slash across his
shoulder. Azurrok's eyes flashed as he recognised the wielder; a
wardancer captain, a fellow death-walker he had fought before. A
worthy opponent.
They
circled, carefully stepping over the bodies of the fallen, the floor
slick with blood. The elf's blade sang as he gracefully adjusted his
stance; the orc snarled and growled impatiently. Then the first clash
came. The orc swung; sparks flew, his scimitar deflected with ease.
Azurrok
saw the counter-attack too late. His left hand sailed over the edge
of the tower as it was severed by a deft swing, but he was already
ducking to avoid the blade sweeping for his neck. Yet the elf had
overcommitted to his strike. The orc screamed, surging forwards to
grapple his unbalanced opponent. They collided in a blur, sent
sprawling over the balcony and into the air.
As the
wind howled around them, the orc bit, clawed and struck the captain
in savage fury. With fist and fang he battered the life from his
adversary; by the time they hit the waters of the lake below it was
over.
Winded and wounded, Azurrok unceremoniously dragged himself to shore,
finding his severed hand already on the banks. He seized a passing
orc: “Take this... to the chief. Tell him... the city... is ours.”
He
raised his black warhorn and sounded the growling victory call. He
bellowed and stomped as the howling roars of his horde erupted from
the streets below, their celebrations beginning in earnest.
But even as he claimed victory, his eyes were already fixed upon the gleaming cities of the horizon...
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Posted By: Shûl-nak
Date Posted: 02 Dec 2015 at 22:31
The Orc in the LibraryMusings by Malkom Zweistirn, Fool of the Court of Nak
Far from the fires of war, in a hushed and untouched
corner of a once-grand library, a brute sits poring over a book. Its
fragility is magnified by his callous, scarred hands, unused to handling
the delicate, and his sharp claw-like nails
that scrape across its pages. He gazes unhurriedly at the strange
figures: a rudimentary knowledge of his clan's script, more like a
simple series of pictures than a true language, is his only experience
of the written arts.
A tantalising familiarity niggles at his mind as he
turns the book this way and that. Some say Orcs were once Men, or Elves;
maybe it is some ancient inkling of such blood that, for a moment,
brings him knowledge of things that once were.
The need to record, write, share, create. The call of the open page. It
might inspire some morbid laughter, or pity, then, had those ancestors
the means to see the orc staring intently, as if on the torturous verge
of realisation, at the word 'forget.'
But even had the Orc some grounding in the many
languages of Illyria, it would be of little use to him between the
covers of this book. It contains the near-incomprehensible
scribblings of the ancient wizard and mathematician who first
named infinity.
It is said that the hubris of this wizard, Mael
Infinus, brought about his own demise. He sought to understand the
ever-shifting tides of the universe, from the stones to the sun and the
gods; the greatest simplicities and complexities,
all at once. His reckless and ultimately fatal pursuit of
all-encompassing knowledge is a popular fable, and a cautionary tale
amongst scholarly and arcane circles.
Theories surrounding his exact methods are numerous.
Some believe that he bound his mind to creatures of all kinds,
culminating in the heinous subjugation of even humans, elves, dwarves
and orcs, creating an infectious magical host that
spread its masters' influence throughout the peoples of Illyria. Others
that he became one with elements, able to move through the deepest
earth with skin of stone, or to disperse into the waters and winds.
Whatever the case, it is abundantly clear across the
pages of his final record that his mind became unhinged. Whether he
could feel the actions and reactions of one thousand lives
simultaneously, or the very movements of the earth, seas
and air, or had simply lost his mind to some greater, nefarious entity,
is unknown.
The story pieced together by Elven mages from the
songs of charred, ancient heartwood, and glimpses of the guarded tablet
fragments of the ancient Dwarven kingdoms, suggests that his supposed
demise or disappearance coincided with an event
of great and terrible ruination.
Even had the Orc been able to read, all this would
be lost upon him. But the wormlike shiftings of the magical script,
written in the blood of creatures foul and fey, brings him ideas and
questions the likes of which he has never entertained
before.
His lack of understanding compels him to assign
these arcane symbols infinite potential; the possibility that they could
bring him the secrets of the moons, mastery over flame and air, or to
transform dirt into precious gold. Why else would
so many soft-skinned weaklings cast their bodies in the warband's path
as they storm into library halls, if they were not more precious than
life?
And as the realisation of this dawns over the Orc's
mind, a small glimmer of Mael Infinus' madness, or brilliance, is
brought back into the world. The creature finally understands that it
does not understand, and seeks to remedy this, though
its motivations are likely tainted by violent ambitions. Reaching for
another charred and blood-stained book, entitled
How To Bake Grayte Big Cakes, the newly awakened drive to know
sets another on the journey; one that has wholly engulfed minds far
greater on all counts than this basic beast's.
It was not dark magic at all that was responsible
for the hysterical exaggerations attributed to Mael Infinus and his
consorts. It was the strength and motivation brought by a grand, yet
simple, idea; one without beginning or end, binding
the smallest ant to the greatest stars; perfectly sane, yet maddeningly
contradictory: an acceptance of each moment's boundless beauty and
utter insignificance, on the path of discovery that leads on and on
ad infinitum.
In truth I know it, for long ago, under a different
guise, it was I who broke ink on the pages of the tome of Mael Infinus
in a language I can no longer decipher. That was key to its purpose; its
only constant is change, its only desire
to draw mortal minds down the endless path. Though it is found through
many lands, it has never been copied. To its most studious researchers,
it reveals contradictions and broken fragments in languages new and old.
No two students ever arrive at the same
conclusions.
Though it was my greatest discovery, nothing remains
in me of the man who filled those pages. The accumulated knowledge of
centuries has been discarded. The secrets of the world have been
rendered useless. Such inventions we might yet make,
or powers we might yet harness, if memory did not defeat me.
But all I have left are the whispering impressions
of my immortal mind, still enthralled by the simple beauty of the
infinite. That idea, and its spread throughout the fertile minds of the
world, is all I can claim has come of my ancient
endeavour.
I have seen it blossom, piecemeal, throughout countless civilisations
and individuals in my long travels. Bound are we both, this book and I,
appearing to some as the words in a long-forgotten tome, or as a vague
idea on a summer's day, or in the words of
a fool, bringing a moment's curiosity that can still even the mind of a
raging warrior. For a moment, at least.
And should you ever seek to follow it, it will beg you know: it lives on now in you, too.
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