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Etched In Stone

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Etched In Stone last won the day on May 20

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About Etched In Stone

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  • Birthday 12/15/1991

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    Depths of the Underworld
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    Writer, Poet, Musician, Composer, Student

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  1. Even with odds against his lack of vision, Kenshi proved to be no less capable than the other fighters of the tournament. Once he had dressed his wounds and fully recovered the Hanyo celebrated very little in fact, he chowed down some of that buffet and took to small training sessions in the privacy of his quarters. Pushups, Situps, Jumping Jacks, usual calisthenics but then, set primary focus on his blind sense and concentration, his timing, reaction speed, his sense of feel which required more mental Will than the physical endurance or prowess. Seemed the people of Predator Keep's were surprised at the performance of the blind man in that first match, striking a victory against the Russian impressing those who had doubt in his efforts from the jump. Today, marked the day for his second bout, round two, and it been safe to say the foreigner felt more than focused. Approaching the arena once again barefooted, long bangs concealed his face in separate halves midriff his back beyond iridescent, seasoned white eyes. He didn't bare the straw kasa as he had previously. In medium-armor that extended the reach of his body acceptable for the tournament, he fancied himself none for this bout and without the company of his Jigoku wolves. His only exclusive items had been the black scabbard of an average steel katana tucked in the black obi on his right in the most untraditional manner possible and a one foot steel naginata blade in reverse fasten with it's three foot metal polearm protruding roughly from his posterior. Slipping through the doors he quietly kicked across the sand with his feet, his opponent beating him to his arrival. Without a doubt if the Momoku continued defeating his opponent's until the finals, his name would reach across the city faster than any thing else. Not only could that excite more followers under his teaching at Hinode no Gakko, but ultimately meant more numbers for the rising Jigoku Empire. At nearly 5'10 the ectomorphic male stopped abruptly across the opposite end of the area, hands dangling loosely to his sides. Facing his opponent atleast fifteen feet away he'd sniff out any misconstrued impressions of the man Arthur. There were things that even the eyes couldn’t see. Coming across the game of the black fur upon his shoulders, he'd ask firmly a question before commencing. This man was a fool to assume he'd not know the answer already, or that he couldn't distinguish the way it scented. But, his honesty was to be judged first then came his fighting. "Is that pelt you wear from a Wolf?" @Voldemort
  2. The longer he persisted himself to gander Martis felt inclined to believe this bloody place was uninhabited by earthly beings. In fact with the Chthonic energy he could feel the night creatures of the region scrutinize him, recognizing his half tainted vampiric blood and fearing it. The spruce varon scanned the vicinity from behind the cover of an overgrown pine throughout the lushness of what seemed nearly a hundred trees in a twenty foot radius. Only the peaking rays of the moon find itself exposing the backside of his blue tailcoat and his golden cascading hair. He was wronged. Splitting the airy silence of night was a woman's voice, a natural heir for leadership as she questioned the noble Keeper. The mysteriousness from the forest no longer felt foreboding in it's brokenness. Cervantes had been discovered conviently on his own lack in this moment of time, the predator became the prey or was it vice-versa? Bat-like sonar felt almost everything in his radius scanning as far vision permitted him the details around from what little to no light couldn't provide. However, he seemed to have missed the scent of blood blossoming into the air shortly after his shadow-step. Chasing the sound of the voice almost concomitantly, the spirit of the woman erected from her conjuration. The glimmering man seemed compelled to this calling, some eerie coldness that crawled human men spines however, this particular authority felt to be no threat persay. Not to a Dhampir. "I am. Martis Cervantes, may you call me. " He spoke, so eloquently and confident. Beyond the mortal intelligence of man and in his own sense of pride. It was then staring into the ghostly image of her sage tresses and carmine changing eyes, he found himself listening far more than intended, coming to grips he truly had just begun his journey. In between her breaths he went following in his slight not so perfected Spanish-English accent. "Then it is for you, I've traveled from the Glen in search of. Four witches? A banshee spirit" As she bled her words further for the need of his help, fruition struck. She was the beacon. Now in front of him she was, resting against the very base of the tree he sought coverage behind his golden eyes conspired with her own, his angular expressions denoting an agreement words no needed to openly express. The supernatural stared further into her plume eyes, their need of urgency and his existence there with her was nonetheless reassuring. He was not a Pureblood as he served his master, but surely there was something the Keeper could do in his mind control and art of suggestion. "I am glad, the hiding and seek is now over. Don’t worry, I do intend on giving you my full aid from hereoin, Luna. Representing in the behalf of the Choisel vampires." As she shifted her direction speaking on reward he nudged himself from the tree and began to follow slowly in step and into the darker bowels of the forest. Pointing in the way of the West beyond what his eyes could see, soaking as much information into his memory storing it as it was received. Finding an inscription was next if he'd wish to seek any more clues on discovering the Sisters whereabouts, or atleast he assumed it to be the way. One step closer he felt more obligated than ever to seeing this through.
  3. It was difficult to say the match up between he and Bishop held little weight to the fact that both these fighters were limited in their abilities for the sake of the tournament. One simply couldn't gage who was better of out the two because of it. While the Hanyo had trained and lived to fight in war as a warrior, the better entertainer just might have been the Russian on the other hand - still, the foreigner thought about all this in the care of the clinic staff. They repaired the broken elbow, his right foot patched anew suffered from a slight fracture, staring at the reconstructed injuries with his blank white eyes of a blind man next he flexed them, the corresponding arm bending beneath the sleeved fold of his yukata. No doubt in his mind was there, his performance he'd critique today he was challenged by unorthodox fighting methods. This guy Bishop didn't seem to calculate as a Martial Artist, he only stuck to his goal - in his ferocious endeavor to crush Kenshi as quick as possible that was a true fighter. Rising to feet wiggling his right foot, Kenshi bowed to the medics in a small gesture of respect and gratefulness. Handing his belongings first the sheathed two swords and Naginata, well as his geta wooden sandals they offered yet, another glass of cold water before he was on his way out the door and heading to the Feast Hall. The seven Okami from Jigoku awaited at the other end. Barefeet guided him through the corridor into the scent of the delicious namkeens and plates of various entrees. Unlike the other combatants that were present earlier all the Soke ate today was a Fuji apple. His stomach growled intensely, twisting and curling releasing gassy knots. Still, even as he came into the light of the Feast room he re-centered focus into finding an area furthest from the rest that was unoccupied. A lone wolf he was, seemingly reserved even quiet as he passed the others in attendance with little acknowledgment he remained task-oriented nonetheless. Kenshi soon found a table, coming into contact with it in his extension of a guiding foot. The pack realigned themselves gathering around him, yet with their master in the forefront center.
  4. The Cambion could never park himself without getting bored quickly, perhaps the years of demon were getting to him that doing absolutely nothing, made him frantic and go crazy. Perhaps, this is what one called a true Adventurer after all? It's been rather months of no contact since the last time the two met face-to-face in his visit of the Chateau, the Magician was exchanged several vials of the Elixir to do as he bloody wished, but to get them gone as quick as he could. Leinhart came in faith today to Port Kyros returning a favor to the old friend all the way from Martial Town in Terrenus. His infectious spread over Cyberpunk City in what lasted a little longer than a month's time, now had the place ridden with ghouls and vampires. It was only a matter of time before the uprising Coven nesting there took over GRAFT clinics and the department of Police there all to acquire the appropriate pieces and claim Martial Town as his own in proximity to the Glen. The scent of sea stretched throughout the entire port many folk of the place carried with their regular activities being selling goods at stands, fishing at the docks close to the bay, or simply enjoying a good stroll along the boardwalk on this great, sunny day. A massive dogwood and iron stagecoach rolled through the limestone streets of the inner city, two mighty nightmare steeds pulled the reigns defiantly in their glowing red ember eyes. Kicking from hind legs flames wreathing from their hooves and smoky tendrils escaping their nostrils, these horses appeared to be constructed strictly from an incorporeal essence without a physical body resembling the embodiment of a three-dimensional shadow. It's midnight black hair and silvery mane it's only corporeal parts. Steering the reigns towards the harbor from the broad deck was a male banshee dressed in a pinstripe black suite and tall dark hat. From his curtain behind the window of the stagecoach and plum aviators, Leinhart's golden visage caught glimpse of the vast blue coastline just on the outskirts of the city. Had he felt the resin Rose giveth to Xartia close enough to his existing person, travel could have taken much less time and effort at the cost of seven days. From what a took a week by horse-travel, the Kronos was now staring in the face of such a breathtaking sea. For once since the Vampire could remember last, he had felt a sense of mixed awe in his descend towards the shimmering sea. Having been around such a large body of water was overwhelming for the Ancient, detesting travel by boat more than walking into a pit of flames. While this was certainly his first visit to Port Kyros it's most fascination had definitely come from the sea. The sounds of hooves clomping against the docks weren't loud enough for the boarders of the Peregrine to hear and catch attention of, but the largest ship on deck and a man dressed sprucely well in a tuxedo in short black hair had to been Xartia. When a man wasn't from some place particular, little did he know how poorly he stood out! That reminded him of how he forgot to wear that suite he was given. Winding up to where the crew ship was docked, flaming hooves came to a silent halt as they settled to a matter of smokiness the banshee, Bolthezar hopped from the deck to the side door and opened it for the Choisel Vampire to make his exit. First a foot stepped onto the iron descending platform, a sparkling brown cowhide loafer protruded itself with the sleeve leg in a deep purple. A pale hand extended with polished black nails to grip over the coach's rail as the creature slipped from the darkness into the sunlight of Port Kyros. Standing at nearly a height of Six feet tall the alabaster skinned man furrowed his goldenrod eyes at the crack of light hitting his angular face. Staring into the openness of the dock he searched his eyes intently for Xartia, even went as far as venting for him. The Vampire fancied himself well this day, if not just as dapper as Xartia in a open violet long-sleeve exposing a chiseled framework of his petite abdomen. Hanging from his neck fastened in a necklace was a giant serrated wolf fang. His ash hair fell in two separate arcs parting down the sides of his face in soft silk tendrils cascading to about shoulder-length. Stroking the steeds under the chin before dismissing the butler with a gesturing wave of the hand, Leinhart refixed his vision ahead again he shifted his direction towards the Perengrine and casually headed in the direction of the dock. Surprisingly, he appeared human-like, despite his ageless flesh and predatory vampiric features of fangs that casually peered from his maw. To any onlooker this moment, the Lord Choisel Leinhart Kronos was a regular man, maybe wealthy and definitely up to no good. But, seemingly threat less to the Port of Kyros and it's citizens. @Twitterpated @Voldemort
  5. The idea seemed casual of a witch seeking others to fulfill her dirtiwork however, selecting the undead and dark variety felt a bit weary in Cervantes opinion well aware of these dwellings that formulated in his mind. Other than being at a constant battle with the Dolos vampires that fled the Miasma of Tia invading parts of claimed territory in The Glen, the Cervantes was more than willing to meet the witch and her summoning yet the timing had been a little late for certain. How could he have missed such an undeniable beacon of Goetic magic as it connected with Martis on a personal level, in cynosure? So be it if these People were inconnus to the House and their respected Master. His half-human weaknesses felt it was more than that, potentially that could come from this request of help persay and he'd only discover that out for himself. The Dark Lord, The Pureblood Redeemer and Matriarch had yet to return from their sojourn to Neon City and Talix-Engine. While the Kronos Lord Choisel was spreading his lifeforces across the continent to amass his numbers, the administration of an Elixir created by his Doctor Nash was no doubt his most efficient and effective tool. There was no falsity to the fact that their stay was a little longer than intended. This job, however. Three days was how long this trip took on foot for travelers coming from not-so-close areas of land neighboring other regions of Terrenus. Luckily for the Dhampir a supernatural healer and chemist, he was to mortals considered an undead of nearly three hundred years. His walk alone held the framework of nobility. However, his intents were as unknowing as his featureless expression abroad his soft look. The Amnesia of the Forgotten Woods while there wasn't a way to escape it's inducing effects after a minimal of three hours, partially undead ... in his awareness of such, the exposure was short-lived. Martis’s countenance in the perpetual darkness glowed of youth with alabaster skin on an angular face and thinned lips, commonly mistaken for a female with his sun-kissed blonde locks in chalk make-up. One thing was sure, his shoulder-length Shirley-temple curls were luminous in the reflection it casted an aura from his form coiling about the tendrils of his hair, covering his body in a glorious radiance of energy. Standing to about a solid 5'10 and 150lbs he was average appearing the most least threatening of the Coven. Solivagant, the Dhampir’s fine dark leather boots stopped to scan the distance from a brush of trees. A frisson shocked through him with excitement and thrill as he touched forth an utterly sick white hand flatly to the base of a tree. While there had been travelers sometime around prior his nose could finally detect the scent of serpent's blood one dead, another alive in his proximity. He'd adjust to the umbra's mysteriousness, sniffing further at eerie surroundings. The area was silent, evident the ways the trees brushed with the wind nobody was near the longer he listened as a night predator. Then, without warning Martis disappeared as so fog was created of him. Towards any onlookers he'd just vanished into thin air as with the wind only to reappear seconds later several yards away, behind another brush of trees in an entirely different location than his last. His blue orbs also seemed to transition from their icy hue, the further any bystanders looked the more they felt drawn to his supernatural glamour and not bare notice his eyes had become swirling bulbs of gold. An intricate royal blue and gold trim tailcoat hung itself to his knees with golden trinkets in the white cuffs at his hands from an obviously expensive tailor, a golden belt fasted to his hips securing his matching velvet blue slacks, standing in the immediate silence Martis examined deeper into the nightfall with his golden visage in a riddle lowly to himself. "Where, oh where has that pretty beacon went, where oh where can it be?" @Fallen Joy @Lacernella Rubra
  6. "Huuu!' The sound of the audience long since tuned out. Scaling the edge of the katana from hip to the floating rib Kenshi took the beating to the arm oozing blood across his Akatsukizikuyo robe further, even his face and lidded eyes. No matter how conditioned Hinode’s Grand Master was, he couldn’t tank that damage. It was his reaction to been knocked and pushed even when he had been grounded on the deck, no more than a Buck Fourty in weight. The foreigner's teeth gritted together in shattering frustration, exalting a wildly shout of pain and discomfort from the dislocated right elbow, immobilizing further movement from his right limb. So unimaginable, a never felt experience, a honor to be struck so in his openness that a fighter he had just met this day, his first match of the tournament had caused him such. The Okami had not once yet stopped feeling, hearing, and ultimately smelling Bishop whilst in such close proximity throughout his hurt. This was fight or flight he was a dire wolf in danger's way. Forcing weight onto his left front foot as he stepped to pivot to the right, counterattacking after the mace hand. His deftness of the Katana none the less with all fingers remained in position and grip. For the Imperial City and Wolves of Jigoku! Nimbly barring down on that blade a quarter twist, he side stepped to his own left and twisted from the air with his arm diagonally, two thirds the blade from hisaki cutting to aim down the blind exposed right side of Bishop's neck and fatally end the match. Simultaneously, his own right arm fell from his hip broken and useless as he pressed onto his rear leg to regather himself from harm. @Twitterpated
  7. While surely the leg was longer than an arm as it was heavier and slower, it did in fact grant more power over a punch. Considering the mid kick landed in the solar plexus, Bishop should have experienced some painful winding from the nerve endings and or immediate spasms of the muscles from the shock. Yet, he braced himself and flexed his six pack against the prowess of the drawn heel pressing against him. Placing the weight of his body to return on his left foot Kenshi rolled on his own heels to the left of the incoming fist using the momentum from his retracted leg. At about halfway in his committed 360' spin his left rosary hand fled to free the Katana from it's saya on his right hip. Planting his feet back into the deck with his thumb held against the tsuba hilt, the flash from the draw of his metal sword arched to slash at the exposed back of the guy with it's hisaki tip from bottom-to-top, cutting deep into the flesh to the point of his neck in one clean motion completing his full spin around to where he began. His arm following the familiar closeness of his enemy to guide the sword. @Twitterpated
  8. "Hmph!!?" Relieving the front right foot of most weight he stepped, leading with a fluid left foot twisting inwards to the motion from his enemy Kenshi didn't grab the mace hand just yet. At the point in which Bishop pivoted to remain facing him, his interest of locking the hand and breaking it from the arm went disregarded and instead tilted with his head to follow slightly 90' degrees. Almost all sudden vibrations, sounds and ultimately the hanyo's sense of touch whilst being in contact with the surface of the deck was unwavering he smelled the anticipation by the minute. So intense of a fighter, of a General, a Grand Master even, his limits were beyond the normal consistencies of what life taught man and that of the true extents of a living being bereft from sight. In the silence of the audience, once again the world seemed so quiet in his blindness. The snap kick aimed from the heel of his right leg with his body, leaning from Bishop's pivot that found itself turning into the direction of the right kick aimed for the area of his solar plexus. With the motion of his legs he relieved his hands and reopened them into slight palms again. Snapping to an half erect posture his hips and body shifted in the direction of his opponent to read his next move. Placing the weight of his body to return on his left Kenshi advanced his entire body forth at Bishop. It was now the rosary left extended this time singlehandedly, somewhere close to the upper half of the Mace polearm to stay from it's crushing reach. In an overhand grip of the tsuka on the Katana by the time the flash of drawing the blade from it's scabbard became apparent, the full extent of his arcing slash was executed to dissect Bishop's left arm beneath the cleavage of his pit, past the shoulder and into the side of his neck to behead him more or less. @Twitterpated
  9. @Thotification @HumanBean03 Are we still down with the sickness, guys? Lol I’ve started it up, nothing too classy. Haven’t technically landed yet.
  10. Leinhart would've to somehow reanimate the corpse of that hideous boyfriend later, but now, the girl grabbed him by the arms dragging his lifeless body across the hard surface into the large walk-in closet for the time being. Her clothes had obviously seen better days, dirtied as they were wrinkling. Her face from all the tears obviously a pain to her makeup and eyeshadow from the stains left. Tatia was left to handle once she dressed her own self for the occasion. The ancient found his way mysteriously popping up to her side behind that divider she was dressing. A slender black polished hand gripped its talons along the framing. The Dark Lord interrupted the Countess further as he pushed her lingeried form against the wall, cornering her and began to make out with her soft lips pressed against his own with both hands riding down her curvaceous hips. "Now, where were we?" He played and smooched her further, his left hand found it's way cupping gently over the side of her face and ear, sliding a leg at the knee between her - the scent of her flesh reminded him of the rose garden in the Chateau of their home. Leinhart could bed her then and there as planned as she was always, so irresistible in her features even more in the exposure of her nudeness. Staring her down deeply with his matching lustful eyes, she would give it to him if he desired. "I willn't interrupt our night over my impulsiveness. Finish, so we can get going and begin our festivities." The Vampire smiled delicately replacing his hands from her and heading for his own change of clothes under the fluorescent purple lighting in their room. Then, he came to remember, when they had left the Chateau he had not picked himself any thing, no luggage, just the few samples of the Elixir in the leather briefcase he sat out by the couch in the living room. Tatia in her preparedness of the Count's forgetfulness, had packed an emergency outfit or two for situations as this. Once she dressed herself in that obsidian silk feathered dress he made it quick to double checking her baggage for something of his own he could wear. In the bottom of the briefcase he pulled out a silk black long-sleeved button up and matching slacks, a pair of dark cowhide loafers and some purple tinted aviator shades. There was no shame in his game of course, he dropped his draws and everything above to the floor staring at Tatia in his sculpt nakedness, licking a coyful tongue at a protruding fang. Without much time to spare in-between he clothed himself leaving the buttons open on his dress shirt around his neck hung a massive lycan fang in the form of a necklace and faced towards the wall of the room with the human girl that should have finished getting herself ready as well. Running his hands to brush through the strands of his cascading mane down the shoulders, Leinhart began towards the exit of their room. @Eternity
  11. "I've brought cities crumbling to their knees before me wise Benny; humans, vampires, undead. Must I correct, that I am Count over if not all, the Monster Nighthoards in this region. It's possible my Son Alistair, has began investigating these sightings and just had yet, time to tell. However, you allude to me that these artifacts are only pieces to your true extent of powers. What could a Pureblood bare to witness in possession of all them? I will rid you of this Bloody pest in return, guide me through the haze in Tia to the rest of these relics so I can finish what I've started with this world." An actual fight? If Vampires even did that any longer, almost a decade it's been since Leinhart could imagine encountering one of those. He was one to get very little dirty himself, after acclimating through the ranks and becoming ultimately a stronger Pureblood. This was his kingdom, his coven and family. It was clear the King didn't do the dirty work himself. Leinhart's declaration went shifting from points in his throne chair with a wide shit-eating grin about his angular face while a polished hand waved a raising palm for Benny to stand. He'd take ahold of the ring comparing it to the previous extension of power with the first, in such close proximity the two radiated throughout his single hand attuning the ageless vampire of new capabilities over light absence. The sensation of brief warmness generated from the ring into his body from head, to toe and the bewilderment in his golden eyes had finally settled. The Ancient did not wear it at this time, stashing it into a pocket on the inner seam of his fleece for later purpose. In a second exaggerated gulp from the ruby chalice, the liquid containments had been finished. In a loud sough his thinned lips were wiped clean of the blood pursing them before opening to close the deal. "I am ready, now." @amenities
  12. Imagine fear that rang behind the unknowing of a blindfold, the panic that brought one's heart having to feel and listen, losing the ability to see. When the floor boards rattled the difference in the vibrations of movement, to how close Bishop was standing in his attacks, to the Mace that whistled through the air every time it struck a swing. Once in contact with a physical object, the information registered to paint the hanyo minute details and pattern. Kenshi's blindness was a double edged sword, gift and curse that couldn't discern matter with the absence of his vision. However, in his instincts, his faith and conditioning, the warrior had a firm belief in what he felt from all physical senses. Bishop's readily cues leading to his attacks were something the Swordslayer was unable to read and react to accurately, and accordingly, not every time. In his defensive guard, the Soke shallowed breathing, lathering his bare feet across the wood, recovering their feel of the surface shall say. Not once the Foreigner's narrowed gaze made contact with the guy, his face lacked remorse or consequence for battle, devoid as lifeless were his white eyes. The footsteps became noticeable once everything else blocked out, Bishop paced himself a bit hastily than usual. The right leg alleviating pressure off the deck reaching striking range could have been the key alert and possible evasion. Yet, in that final step forth allowing Bishop to kick with his right and contact Kenshi, he stepped forth to brush on the outside of the kicking leg as it retracted. Sealing the gap between them shut as both arms went to grab the Mace hand by the wrist forcing downward pressure upon Bishop's. The blind man pivoted his body behind and to the right of his opponent swinging the arm in reverse as he contorted the wrist in an completely, unnatural manner to dislocate the limb from shoulder. @Twitterpated
  13. Kenshi went staggering over the collision his body went slightly tilting in the other side as the returned kick offset balance. The force against his injured foot the sharp sensation stemming almost, immediately into the area the spiked glove came into contact. Though even as he stumbled over the hard surface he braced his arms and stiffened footing, gritting his teeth. Refusing to let up on Bishop's leg from his clawed grip. In an attempt to further lock the captive leg the Foreigner snaked his rosary hand under hook from the forearm over the toe of Bishop's right boot simultaneously, the right clawed hand extended for the heel as he instead went ricocheting to regain his lost balance. Releasing the leg from his grips, the Soke retreated a few shuffles back and to his opponent's right about five feet closer to the discarded Naginata near the arena edge. His front foot pointed first leading with the swollen right yet, still pushing away on the ball in unyielding strength. The left foot angled a slightly 90' bend forming a t-stance capable of keeping the distance without losing focus on Bishop; as one foot moved the other picked up where it left off. The Swordslayer's hands went lifting to chest level, his arms bent forward in a defensive guard. Loosely were his palms open and fingers as he came to a halt slightly, crouching in his await of Bishop and white narrowed gaze. The end of the fight was near, the hanyo smelled it close and he was more winded. Still, he stood in battle alertness of his enemy as the audience further applauded against their disbelief of this being a one sided match-up, that the blind fighter already lasted longer than most expected. All the while, remaining entertained by the overall bout. @Twitterpated
  14. To every body which I owe, I'm moving at a turtle's pace I know. 

    The waters are deep in these seas. 

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