29 Sep 2017 12:10 pm
lastofthekellys: (new forest new ways)
[personal profile] lastofthekellys
WHO: Kate Kelly
WHERE: Waterfall
WHEN: 20th September
OPEN TO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster

Kate does not particularly like the forest here. It's too different from the bush of her home, too green and then changing so dramatically when it gets cooler. The smells are different, the shadows are different (oh, except for that strange period when the shadows were right but the sun was wrong), and she'll never forget that time she was lost with Margaery. She will venture into the forests with a group, but on her own? Never.

But today she's decided to stop being a silly little girl, and take Benedict out to the waterfall where the river begins. It is nice to have a day without work, so blessedly nice, although that's not the main reason why she's here. No, she has Plans with a capitol P and they involve swimming.

Kate doesn't trust the river. It changes, and she knows from last year that the weather will turn, and who knows what their captors will think up this time. The best way to deal with a flood is to avoid getting in the water altogether, but just in case...

Well. She'd prefer Benedict know what he was doing. And if they take all day, and make a nice day of it, with some packed food and just them, then it'll be a nice day from whatever weirdness is going on.
assertiveness: (≺ 103 ≻)
[personal profile] assertiveness
WHO: Stella Gibson
WHERE: 6I - the inn
WHEN: September 24th
OPEN TO: Kate Kelly
WARNINGS: None, will update if needed

A couple of months or so after breaking her arm in the earthquake, Stella thinks it's high time she sat and talked to Kate Kelly.

She hasn't been avoiding the issue, honestly — in fact, she'd meant to thank her for helping her get to the hospital as soon as she could. But with the earthquake and its aftermath, and then the number of people that had fallen ill in the epidemic after that... well, suffice it to say she'd been distracted and occupied. Now, though, they've room to breathe, at least until the next crisis the observers see fit to throw at their little village.

Stella comes in after lunch, when most people have finished eating and gone their separate ways. The post-meal cleanup seems mostly done, but Kate is still there in the kitchen, dealing with the last of the dishes. This is probably as good a time as any other.

"Miss Kelly," she says, polite, and soft so as to try to avoid startling her. She doesn't exactly smile, but she's trying as best she can to appear nonthreatening. There is a particular skill Stella has developed, a talent for being intimidating despite her height — or rather, her lack thereof — but she's learnt the opposite, too, a quiet, unimposing, self-contained calm. If she makes a point of seeming at ease, perhaps Kate will follow suit.

"Do you need any help?" she asks, nodding to the pile of plates and pots and pans. She wasn't brought up so privileged as to balk at hand-washing a few dishes — and she does try to help people here when she's able, because not contributing would be counterproductive at best.
fishermansweater: (Default)
[personal profile] fishermansweater
WHO: Finnick Odair
The Inn
WHEN: Early September
OPEN TO: Kate Kelly
WARNINGS: Mentions of depression

It's strange, having a future to plan for. Except it's not really a future, because how can it be, in this place? Or maybe it's more than it's not really a plan. Whichever it is, he's not used to thinking about what he wants. He plans for the revolution. He plans for seduction and the secrets he'll steal with it. He plans for how to make it through the weeks each year he spends in the Capitol. Anything more than that disappears into the distance, overridden by the President's demands. Maybe that's why he hasn't known how to plan for the wedding. Or maybe it's just that the past months have been so hard. Or maybe he just never believed it actually would happen.

Annie, though, does believe. Now that she's helped him steer safe to shore through the storm that raged in him for weeks, she wants to know when it can happen. How it can happen. And that's one question he's not sure he can answer, because there's still one thing he hasn't worked out: who actually will marry them. Johanna had suggested Peeta could perform the ceremony, but he's gone now. There's just him and Annie and Johanna from Panem now, and that means he needs to find someone else, who can marry them in whatever way the people here are used to.

He doesn't know who that would be, either, but there are one or two people he thinks might, and of them, Kate Kelly is the one he knows best and, more importantly, trusts most. So this morning, when Finnick brings by the excess fish from his catch, he sits near the basket of fish, by the steps of the Inn, until he hears the door open.

"Kate Kelly," he says, in greeting.

lastofthekellys: (rabbit and dandelion stew)
[personal profile] lastofthekellys
WHO: Kate Kelly
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: 15th August | Noon
NOTES: All sections are completely free for all! You can handwave your character helping out or thread it out, or just jump in to them eating. All characters are ICly invited, as they are every day. In light of the illness plot, feel free to use this post as an excuse for your characters to catch ill or spread the plague around.
STATUS: Open and ongoing!

Rain, hail, shine; blizzard, earthquake or lightning storm, the meals at the Inn have continued. People can, and do, wander in at breakfast and supper - as long as the stores are enough for three meals, anyway - but the main meal remains the one at midday. It's this meal which is the main event that Kate structures her day around, making sure volunteers arrive to help prepare, serve, and then clean; double-checking that there is enough food for all, that stores aren't too low and that fresh greens have been gathered. With the village chickens now producing eggs regularly there's a welcome addition of protein to the foodstuffs, and by now there are a number of experienced cooks in the village. At least, experienced in the ways of cooking communally and with what's on hand.

The main room of the Inn is swept, dusted; cutlery and bowls, plates are laid out on the sideboards in piles to be collected as people need. Everything is as it should be, even if some people - Kate included - are feeling a bit under the weather. But that's to be expected, isn't it? Everyone gets run down, has a day or two of feeling off colour. Certainly, it's nothing to worry about.

So come on in, help at the kitchen or pull up a chair at a table and enjoy some warm food and company while the outside confusion stays firmly outside.
maternis: (fb-6)
[personal profile] maternis
WHO: Newt Scamander
WHERE: In the forest, the village, and at where Graves and Credence live.
WHEN: July 8 and onward.
OPEN TO: All with closed starters for Graves and Credence.
WARNINGS: None yet. Will update if necessary.

everyone needs a place.  )
assertiveness: (≺ 246 ≻)
[personal profile] assertiveness
WHO: Stella Gibson
WHERE: Near the inn, then the hospital, then around the village
WHEN: July 1st-3rd
OPEN TO: Various closed threads and an OTA section for post-earthquake recovery nonsense (see headers)
WARNINGS: Descriptions of injuries

all i'm asking is to be alive for once. )
warriorborn: (easycompany-benny-157)
[personal profile] warriorborn
WHO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: Backdated to June 20
OPEN TO: Kate Kelly
WARNINGS: adolescent fumblings of a sexual nature

If his Kate is to be believed (and she generally is), they've been here almost a year. Benedict has not been keeping track of the days, having not taken up the habit when he arrived and only thinking of it weeks later, ultimately deciding not to bother since he'd missed the first few dozen days and it seemed pointless after that. He remembers he arrived in what he'd been told was Summer, although it was far less hot at his arrival than it is these days. Is there a season hotter than Summer? There must be, as they are living in it. The endless, relentless sunshine has been slowly baking their habble like an oven, and when it is safe to do so — namely in the privacy of their own rooms — Benedict has taken to wearing very little clothing at all.

It seems pointless, when he and Kate have been living as husband and wife in all but name for months, although he cannot quite shake the little thrill it gives him, the illusion of breaking some kind of taboo, lounging around nearly naked with a girl he's made no promise to. A promise without a ring is worth very little, after all.

Perhaps one day.

If he thinks himself hot, he can't imagine how Kate must feel, wrapped up in her corsets and petticoats all day. Sometimes he thinks she's even more eager than he to retire at night (or what passes as night these days), just so she can peel out of her clothes and flop about their room as uselessly as he is, dressed in their underwear and blowing moist air across each other's skin in a vain attempt to cool down.

Watching her pin up her hair again to keep it off her neck, he's struck with the very strong desire to reach out and touch her, to slide his sun-darkened hands across her pale skin and perhaps follow their path with his lips. The fact he can see her sweating stays his hand, though. He is not so squeamish to find a little sweat distasteful, but considering how much he himself is perspiring, he can take a guess that his touch might not be so welcome after all.

"Sweetling," he rumbles, his head lolling lazily as he props it up with one palm, sprawled across their unmade bed as he hopes in vain for a little breeze to come seeping through the window. "Sometimes I think you do this just to tease me." He's lying, of course, understanding that she would no more want her hair pressed wet and warm against the back of her neck than he would, but watching her sitting at the vanity, her body on easy display, arms lifted and back arched as she fusses with her hair and pins it up high, tries the very depth of his patience. "If this heat doesn't lift, I'm going to have to move into a spare room to avoid temptation."
playmakings: (Let me call a few)
[personal profile] playmakings
WHO: Kelsi Nielson
WHERE: The inn, outside the village, forest
WHEN: 16th-18th
OPEN TO: Everyone!
WARNINGS: N/A, possible mentions of dying
STATUS: Open, come at me bros

it feels so right to be here with you. )
163: (40)
[personal profile] 163
WHO: Steve Rogers and YOU
WHERE: Fountain, Inn, Town Hall
WHEN: 16 June
OPEN TO: Open to all
WARNINGS: No warnings as yet.
STATUS: Open to new threads

on a steel horse i ride. )
fishermansweater: (Actual human dolphin)
[personal profile] fishermansweater
WHERE: The waterfall
WHEN: During the hot weather in late May
OPEN TO: Anyone
WARNINGS: PROBABLY NAKED. cw your warnings in individual threads.
STATUS: Open. THIS IS A MINGLE, have at it, tag around, you know what to do. If you want Finnick, let me know in the comment subject!

He wouldn't actually say it was really hot yet, but it's definitely getting to the sort of temperatures that make Finnick miss swimming. There's no substitute for the sand of a beach underfoot, the reassuring roar of the surf, the taste of salt in the air, but there is at least water here, tumbling down from the waterfall and flowing through the canyon until it disappears into the rocks to the south. And he knows from constantly checking his fish traps that the water is deliciously cool.

He's tested out a few spots along the river for swimming, and it's good to be in the water again, after being kept out of it for so long by the harshness of the winter.  Not swimming doesn't feel right to him, and it never has. He's never spent this long somewhere with a winter this cold, and he can't remember ever going this long without swimming. So Finnick's been testing the water out since before it was probably what most people would consider to be warm enough to swim. It had helped that he and Annie had some gifts to hunt for in the river, but those have long been found, and now it's just for relaxation.

The calmest, most relaxing place he's found so far for swimming in the river is the pool at the foot of the waterfall, where the water plunges into the canyon crisp and cool from the heights of the cliffs. It's deep around the falls, and it's big enough to swim, and Finnick spends most of the hottest parts of the day there.

So whenever he hears someone talking about the heat while he's dropping food off in the village, he suggests they try the waterfall pool. Word's likely to get around, so he won't be entirely surprised to find other people stopping by the falls.

When they do, they're likely to find him swimming around the deep part near the falls, stripped down to his underwear and, from the grin on his face, having the time of his life. It's clear just from looking at him that he's good at this, moving through the water with a confidence and grace more like to a sea-creature than a man. He's in such a good mood that he even calls out to greet many of the people who approach.

Of course, he's not the guardian of the waterfall: everyone's welcome to stop by whether he's there or not. Once or twice, there's even a moose to be seen standing at the edge of the pool taking a long, relaxing drink.
not_a_slave: (I do not brood)
[personal profile] not_a_slave
WHO: Fenris
WHERE: Fountain and Inn
WHEN: May 8 - 10
WARNINGS: ... nothing yet

i. avanna, soporati | fountain park

It is cold in Ferelden. Cold, with the clamminess of skin-piercing damp, in a way Minrathous never was, a cold that seems to seep into the bones over the course of a night in camp. Not like this. This is cold and splash and the feeling of disorienting movement, as though he'd been thrown into the lake as he slept. Fenris' mouth opens involuntarily, and he swallows a mouthful of water as he forces himself upwards, the only thing he can focus on. He's not a strong swimmer, for what reason would a slave have to need the skill? He'd learned of necessity as he ran from the slavers, but he'd mostly learned to force his way through the water, rather than to swim, and he forces his way now, until one of his reaching arms breaks the surface into free air.

He coughs as he grabs onto the stone wall of what seems to be a fountain, grabs it and pulls, hauling his body out of the water. His feet are heavier than they should be, and when he glances down he sees boots instead of the stirrup heels of his armor leggings. That's not all that's wrong; his clothes are too light, fabric, not metal, and when he reaches around his back for the Blade of Mercy, he finds a backpack instead.

He should run.

That life was years ago, but it's never left him. Something is wrong. Something has broken into his camp, taken his blade and his armor, and an anger swells in him, stirs deep in his veins and under his skin.

"You will not take me!"

He reaches into the anger, reaches down under his skin for the power resting here, and finds ... nothing.

The sensation jolts, like a foot breaking through a rotten plank, and suddenly defiance seems dangerous in a way it hasn't in as long as he can remember.

ii. benefaris | Inn

It is some time later, after Hawke has explained to him, that Fenris reluctantly leaves the house to explore some of their surroundings. There is a mill, a river, a path that leads into a forest which would be easy to lose pursuers in.

He'd never lost the ability to read a location and see what he can use if he needs to flee. A coward's way of viewing the world, perhaps, but a practical one, for a fugitive slave. He follows the path away from the woods, past the mill and across the bridge, and finds himself in the midst of a small village, the houses built in a style completely unlike any he's seen in Tevinter or the Free Marches. The basic shape, yes, shares something with the buildings in Ferelden, but little enough that it all seems strange and unfamiliar.

It's perhaps incautious to follow the person ahead of him into the large, two-storey building, but it's the one place other than the mill which he can wager the purpose of. As he steps inside, it's with a certain sense of smugness that he looks around.

"Ah. This would be a tavern."

Very unlike the Hanged Man, but that is hardly a criticism.
andrastianherald: (Cannot Look)
[personal profile] andrastianherald

Dreaming is always dangerous. Every night, mages enter the Fade in their dreams, bright and fascinating beacons to the demons that prowl the shifting realm. There is risk every time, being found, being tempted. Evelyn knows this, even in her slumber, and wages war against the easy way out every single night.

Tonight is different. Tonight there are no demons, no lurking spirits, no shifting of the landscape in a crazy array of her hopes and desires, of her mind wresting to make sense of her day. Not even a pleasing dream of time alone with Cullen. All she can see is water, with light overhead, and a desperate need to reach that light. Evelyn swims upwards, still wondering why the Fade should take the shape of deep waters, until she breaches the top and gasps for air. Inside a fountain.

This is a terribly peculiar dream.

She hoists herself out of the fountain and sits on the ground, blinking in the sunlight and holding up a hand to shade her eyes. Her left hand, in particular, where the Anchor still resides and yet is reacting to nothing at all. That is puzzling in itself. The hand is lowered back down into her lap where she runs a finger across the mark where it lays dormant. This must be the Fade, she's so certain of it, but why isn't the Anchor sizzling or popping or glowing as it is wont to do?

A test then. She reaches out her left hand to open a rift in the Fade to escape from, but nothing happens. Evelyn then attempts to pinch herself to force wakefulness. Again, nothing changes, nothing happens.

All alone and confused, Evelyn allows herself one brief moment of frustration in the form of a sigh. "What is happening now?"

Around Town

Given a couple of days to adjust and settle in, Evelyn has not adjusted. Not truly. She is very hard pressed to believe that this isn't the Fade and that she is merely unable to wake or exit. She's quite ready to and not just because the clothing she's in is foreign and hideous. Who wears such things anyway? Nor has she a hairpin or comb or ribbon to her name and it's made wresting with her long hair something of a nightmare. Her solution today has been to braid it, lightly knot the end and then wrap that into a knot at the nape of her neck. Serviceable enough but not pretty. Practical.

Nonetheless, she's more or less absorbed with thought as she roams the town, wandering as if lost. She is, though not in the way one might think. She mumbles the Chant under her breath, trying to steady herself and find comfort in that familiarity. Something Evelyn desperately needs for she's lost, lost as to what she should do. Lost as she was in those fateful days after being told the Circles voted to disband, to go home, she was "free." Free to do what? All her life had been spent in the shelter of the Circle. She knew neither how to sow seed nor bake bread, and her family certainly would not be taking their embarrassment of a mage daughter back under their roof for anything longer than the briefest of visits. She had no idea how to live outside then.

The Inquisition had given her direction, a purpose, something to justify her own existence. And now that too is gone. At least there she could put her education to use, she could investigate or collect elfroot. She knows nothing of these plants, nothing of the lands, and she has found no library with which to educate her ignorant self. That distressing reminder that she is quite useless in every way prompts her to wring her hands while resuming the Chant. All the while, her mind keeps churning over the same question again and again: What am I do to? She is no fool, she has no truly practical skills with which to keep herself alive or contribute in any meaningful way.
mund: DO NOT TAKE. (Default)
[personal profile] mund
WHO: Percival Graves
WHERE: Town Hall
WHEN: Half an hour after the first sighting / hearing of the Obscurus
WARNINGS: Mentions of violence, abuse, hate, etc
STATUS: Something like a mingling -- feel free to post OTAs of your own. If you need Graves to respond, just put his name in the header / or in bold somewhere in your comment!

the ragged they come, and the ragged they kill. )
lastofthekellys: (light and dark and pretty)
[personal profile] lastofthekellys
WHO: Kate Kelly
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: 10th April
WARNINGS: TBA as needed

Spring has arrived, warming the air and seemingly to banish all that dreadful, dangerous fog. Some part of Kate thinks that it should be autumn, but she's not in any of the Australian colonies and everything is backwards here. Backwards and strange and draining. The winter was hard for many, many reasons, and spring hasn't been off to a brilliant start with disappearances and biting insects. Not just disappearances, others have moved out of the Inn. Which she'd been expecting as the weather turned more habitable, but the combination with disappearances means Kate is feeling a little lost and uncertain.

At least she's patched things up with Benedict, thank God.

But as self-destructive as she can be (and has been, over winter, with the access to drink), Kate knows there are still things to be done. Today after the daily village lunch is cleared and the volunteers are cleaning the kitchen, she takes herself to the verandah at the front of the Inn with some sewing. For all the weather is warming and based off last year (oh God, oh God, has it been so close to a year?) it'll get hot even by her standards, clothes are wearing out. There's more farming to be done, more repairs and more building, and what they have will be wearing out.

Today, she has some of the rabbit leather and is stitching together simple fingerless gloves to help protect palms from rough work. She can make clothes themselves, as is evidenced by the fact that she sits there in a long brown skirt with a petticoat underneath and an undyed long-sleeved blouse with some simple embroidery, but those she has to be asked to make. The working gloves are a project she's assigned herself.

And, as is usual, as Kate works, she sings. Nothing more recent than 1883, and usually folk songs, traditional songs. Some sad, some sweet or sly, but all sung clearly and with the air of someone who is keeping herself occupied.
warriorborn: (Default)
[personal profile] warriorborn
WHO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: March 23
OPEN TO: Kate Kelly specifically, anyone else who wants to come hang out in the kitchen
WARNINGS: so many feelings
STATUS: ongoing

It's been over a month. A whole month of sleeping in Kira's room, of avoiding Kate's eyes, of trying to keep himself as busy as possible when there still wasn't much to do. 

It's difficult, being helpful in the Inn, since any and all chores he might set his eye on would run a high risk of having him bump into Kate, and they've been avoiding speaking to one another since their fight in the kitchen, the night Benedict burned his arm. His arm has healed, only slightly-pink and shiny skin left to mark his stupidity, but his relationship with Kate was not so easily mended. (Perhaps it might have been, had he been brave enough to step forward and apologize, but Benedict hadn't been able to find the words to say what he wanted to say, and then too much time has dragged on for any attempt to be plausibly accepted, so now he has to come to terms with the fact that he's managed to cock up the one really good thing he's found for himself here, and he'll never get it back.) 

The empty houses around the habble had been drawing his eye, but somehow, the thought of leaving the Inn made his rift with Kate seem so much more permanent, and he hadn't the courage to take that step. Besides, Kira had told him that he was planning on moving out of the Inn soon, so Benedict needn't worry about overstaying his welcome in the room they now share. 

Like he has so many times before, he creeps down to the kitchen after everyone else has gone to bed, intent on making himself a cup of tea. He's much more careful with the kettle now, the cracked tile on the floor from where he dropped it the night he burned himself enough of a reminder to not be so careless, but he can't resist the comfort that a hot cup cradled in his palms brings. Leaning against the counter as he waits for it to steep, he looks out the window towards the tree line, absently missing the swirling colors of the Aurora. The fireflies that have taken to chasing and stinging people are just as dangerous, but if he was given the choice between the two, he'd almost certainly pick the former. There had been something peaceful about the lights in the sky, something that reminded him in a strange way of Etherealist magic. 

He hopes Ferus and Folly are well. And Gwen...the fact that he's barely thought of her for weeks makes him feel suddenly guilty. He's been so wrapped up in his own hurt feelings that he'd all but forgotten his family back home. She'd shake her head at him and cluck her tongue disapprovingly, then threaten to tell his mother the way she had when they were children. 

Almost despite himself, he smiles. 
mund: DO NOT TAKE. (27)
[personal profile] mund
WHO: Percival Graves
WHERE: Assorted places
WHEN: Mid-March
OPEN TO: OTA, with closed threads for Credence, Stella,
WARNINGS: Disturbing imagery, epic paranoia, that's pretty much it for now.
STATUS: Open to new threads!

and I'm straining to remember just what it means to be alive. )
ad_dicendum: (νοσώδους ἅμα χειμῶνος)
[personal profile] ad_dicendum
WHO: Gaius Gracchus
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: Backdated to February 2
OPEN TO: Kate Kelly
WARNINGS: Historical sexism, references to slavery
STATUS: Ongoing

There had been much that was discouraging in the previous day's meeting. Not simply the attitude of the people here that government, even so much as a guiding council, was something to be feared, but also the way the arguments had driven home that he is nothing here. He has never before in his life been nothing. Even at the height of the Senate's odium, or in the months after his brother's death when espousing his politics could mean exile from the city, he'd still been the son of a man who'd been twice consul and twice triumphant, the grandson of the man who'd saved Rome from the Carthaginians. His presence, his vote, his voice, had strength based on the men he could claim as his ancestors as much as on the gifts of his eloquence, education, and intelligence.

Not a single person here has recognized his name. But this is exile, or whatever it is, and the whole point is that it's not Rome, and not being Rome means that none of what had made him briefly the brightest star of a political generation matters.

There has, though, always been more to Gaius Gracchus than simply his parentage and his education. However easily his experience could be dismissed, he knows its value. He'd kept an entire army in supplies and winter clothing through three years in Sardinia, with the Senate turned against him and willing to do whatever it took to thwart him. If he cannot turn that experience to helping the people of this village stay warm, fed, and supplied, then he was never worth his election as quaestor in the first place.

So, once lunch has been served and cleared away, Gaius goes in search of the one person who'd asked for his assistance and advice the day before: Kate Kelly, the innkeeper. He brings with him the pen and the book of lined paper he'd received in the gift-giving shortly after his arrival; though many of the pages are already filled with Latin cursive, there are still plenty of pages left to fill.

He seeks Kate out in the kitchen, first, and if she's not there, will make his way back to the main room, then the sitting room the guests use upstairs.

"Miss Kelly? Are you there?"
candor1: (Default)
[personal profile] candor1
WHO: Cassian Andor
WHERE: Everywhere he can poke his nose into, whether he's supposed to be there or not.
WHEN: All week after arriving
OPEN TO: OTA; any day, any location. The only one he won't respond to directly is Day One (even if you knock on the door or yell through the wall, he's too out of it), but it could totally set up interactions on Day Two…!
WARNINGS: None at start, will see if that changes while writing. [Update:] Nope, not really!
STATUS: Closed
NOTES: Was looking at all the setting info trying to figure out what C. will be doing and where he'll be living… and realized it was enough to write out IC. I'm not dropping any arrivaltag threads! If you'd to drop there to pick up here, totally cool by me, but anything goes; we can do both.

Si no estás aquí algo falta )
assertiveness: (Default)
[personal profile] assertiveness
WHO: Stella Gibson
WHERE: The inn
WHEN: January 10th
OPEN TO: Kate Kelly
WARNINGS: narrative references to sexual assault.
STATUS: Closed

Read more... )
theroadremains: (I’ve drowned and dreamt this moment)
[personal profile] theroadremains
WHO: Son of John
WHERE: The Fountain, The Inn, The Butcher, The Baker, The Candlestick Maker. Pretty much all the big buildings near the fountain/inn. If your character lives there he might knock or peek through the windows.
WHEN: January 7th - Night and January 8th
OPEN TO: The post is open to everyone but each section has a set number of tags available to it.
WARNINGS: an instance of short, mild musings about ceasing to exist.

The water is cool and clear. )


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