Human Antagonist Characters:
King of Marleon, the Usurper, Griffin's Bane, the Silvered Lord, Grandmaster of the Knights of the Boar, Lord Commander of all True Knights of Marleon
I lost my knighthood ten years ago.
It was a dark and cloudy night, and I was restless. There was a silence, a dampness clinging to the air, a foreboding weight in my chest that denied me sleep, so I found myself awake long after my watch, sitting in some lonely corner of the ruined castle. I shivered beneath my steel.
And then there was suddenly a thundercrack, without any flash of lightning. My reverie was shattered in an instant but still I was confused, as if in a daze, untilI heard a second boom. There was the sound of wood splintering, and then a dozen cries:
“They’re at the gate!”
“To arms!”
“Protect the king!”
It was all in vain. I looked across our camp and bonfire in the center of the darkened court, to the gatehouse on the other side. The weathered and half-rotted planks in that gave way after just the third strike of a battering ram, and then a black tide of shadowy silhouettes poured through the breach. “A griffin! A griffin,” we cried -- yes, my order was that of the noble Griffin, so you know that we were meant to guard the king with our lives.
But it was futile. We were just a few dozen, and taken by surprise in the midst of the night besides. We slept in our armor in those days when we were on the run, of course, but even so half my fellows were slain before they could even bare their own steel; the first enemies to come through were footmen with axe and hammer and mace, and they quickly battered and hacked down the guards we’d posted up front. Then they moved aside and swept out to circle round to our fire and slay our men in the tents, while a second wave poured through the ruined gates. That time it was knights on horseback, not mere men-at-arms -- I could tell from their heraldry in the moonlight, boars and lions and dragons. The knights couched their lances and rode down what feeble resistance we had left; I was grateful for the darkness then, for it spared me from witnessing the worst of the gore and agony wrought upon my brothers’ bodies. A knight dies just as quickly and ignobly as some levied peasant when he has a foot of steel lance driven into his chest, and the Arcosi mercenaries that we’d hired threw down their bows and raised their hands at once.
There rode one last knight behind the rest, and I saw him clearly for the moonlight shone off his polished breastplate and helm, and he wore a long cape woven from tiny links of silver chain that shone in the night as brilliantly as the moon. With a sideward glance, this commander sized up our surrendered mercenaries in a moment. Then with a mere flick of his wrist, he gestured for them all to be slain where they stood. The men-at-arms under his command obeyed quickly enough, and then there was suddenly only one man standing in the courtyard, surrounded by all his enemies.
My lord and king was brave. “Lord-Commander Uhtric,” he called out as he tore free his left gauntlet and cast it to the ground. I was frozen. The night was suddenly silent once again, save for a few gurgles and moans of those who lay dying, but my king was reaching for his scabbard on the ground and drawing his sword. “You have no right! The Exalted will curse you for a traitor!”
The silvered lord scoffed and leaped down from his horse. “I seem to wear my silver as well as you wear the white. You’re a craven king that’s bowed before the serfs and the Arcosi for far too long; you’re not fit to rule.” The words and justification seemed feeble, but nothing else about the menacing man was.
And then a squire rushed forward and knelt to present the enemy with his own scabbard, and the silvered lord drew five feet of naked steel that gleamed almost as brilliantly as his silver cloak. There were no more words after that, just the dance and the song. The two swordsmen fought as I watched from the shadows. Steel rang upon steel, their blades grinding together with agonizing shrieks, until the silvered lord suddenly guided the tip of his sword into the gap at the elbow in my own lordship’s armor. I heard a grunt of pain, and then a sword clattering to the ground, and then the second sword’s pommel being smashed into my king’s helmet. He collapsed to the ground dazed, and this Uhtric raised his own weathered blade high before driving its point down into my king’s neck. And then it was over.
“The king is dead, along with the last of his griffins,” I heard one of the knights say after a long pause, one of the boars. I guess that’s when I ceased to be a knight, when I did not come forth to die beside my king.
A light rain began to patter down, as if the sky itself were weeping. It started to wash away the blood from the silvered chains upon the kingslayer’s back -- perhaps that’s why he didn’t just wear a white cape like every other knight. “I am the king now,” he said.
“Long live the king!” the boars cried out.
“Long live the king!” the dragons echoed, then the lions, until all the beastly traitors and false knights were clamoring so loudly that it roused me from my reverie.
I crawled to the stairs leading up to the battlements and then jumped off to flee into the darkness, cursing my own cowardice and drowning myself in drink for years, until I finally realized why the Exalted left me on this world -- to expose the Usurper-King Uhtric for his lies, and for being the false knight and the treasonous, bloodthirsty viper that he is.
Father Caius, Ordained Priest of Paterdomus, the Lawyer, Servant of the Exalted One
Breathless, Caius slid onto the ground and pressed his back against a thick tree. The cold, rock-hard bits of bark poked into him as he hid silently in its shadow. He strained his ears, listening for footsteps, yet all was quiet. The branches above were bare now, but there were no leaves to crunch underfoot and betray the coming of his pursuer. There were never any leaves now, because all these trees had been dead for a really long time. Nobody was sure how long; the trees around Stonetree had been dead and turned to rock even before their village was first founded, his pa always said.
“I’ve found you!” his sister shouted as she burst from around the other side of the tree, but Caius was already laughing and sprinting away, just barely escaping the touch of her outstretched hand. His sister was quiet, but she wasn’t fast, so she always lost at tag.
But she was stubborn and didn’t know when to give up either, so she chased him on and on through the old dead trees until they were both panting and nearly gasping for breath on the ground, and then suddenly they’d come all the way back to their little house at the edge of the village.
“Got you,” she finally said, smiling between pants, but Caius wasn’t paying attention to the game anymore. There was a pounding sound in the distance, not of the old smith in his hut hammering out some new plow or axe head, but of the hooves of horses. His big brother heard it too, and looked up from his work smashing up gravel into little bits to put into the buckets of gloop. “There,” he called out, setting down the big hammer in his hand to point over one of the hills, “the riders are coming from the road to the holy city. It’s the Templars!”
Those half-dozen Templars, radiant like the dawn with their polished steel helms and fluttering long white cloaks, rode down the little dirt path and to the small church at the village’s heart. They’d be going to talk to Father Lucius about things for just a little while and then they’d be back off to ride to the holy city again, where they’d protect the walls and guard the priests and carry out the Exalted One’s justice.
“I want to go see them closer!” Caius blurted out when the party of horsemen vanished behind some other houses on their way to the church. “Me too!” his sister cried as she grabbed at his hand and started to almost drag him over there, but their big brother frowned.
“No,” he said in that same growly tone that their pa used. “You know what pa says. Those priests and paladins and other shiny holy men are all busy, and you don’t wanna get in their way or speak to them ‘less you’ve got to. Nothing good can come of it. Best you bow your head if they come close, and keep back if they don’t.”
“But we see Father Lucius all the time! I talked to him just last week!” his sister pouted.
“He’s different. He’s not like the rest, and besides, he’s the one here for us. The rest? No good reason for us to bother them, and they mightn’t take kindly to it. Don’t take the chance.”
The door to their small house opened, and their father stepped out with his masonry tools. “Got that mortar mixed up yet, boy?”
Their brother reddened a bit as he looked down at the half-crushed stones, still very much not fine like sand and not mixed up into the goop. Their father scowled when he saw it too. “We were watching the Templars! They came down the road and rode-”
Their pa spat. “Tax season. They’ll have come to take their dues from our village. Maybe it’s best that mortar ain’t mixed yet; that wall can wait until they’re gone. Come inside now, Father Lucius will deal with those men, and we’ll stay out of sight until they’ve gone.”
And just like that, all the fun and magic was ruined. The three followed grumbling, and then they crammed into their tiny squat house with their pa, their ma, and the baby in her arms. And then pa pulled down the shutters so that the Templars wouldn’t even chance to see their faces looking out the windows as they rode by, and the family sat there in the gloom nibbling at bread and making smalltalk while they tried to ignore the baby’s frequent wailing.
But then an hour later, the sound of voices drifted through the windows. The voices drew closer, and their pa peeked through a window and scowled. A few moments later there was a rapping knock upon their door, and pa had no choice but to grab a bowl of silver that he’d counted out (carefully, and probably a dozen times over the last hour) and look into its depths, deciding at the last moment to toss in a half-dozen more coins for good measure even as their mother gasped. Then there was no more time, so bowl in hand, pa got up and went to open the door. Outside there waited Father Lucius, and just behind him were all those Templars, and to his side there was another man dressed in a clergyman’s white robes and a head of equally colorless hair, rather than the Templars’ armor and gleaming helms. But this was still a man who had a stranger’s face; Caius knew everyone in his little village, so this stranger had to have ridden in with those Templars.
Their pa bowed his head to the holy men quickly and low, then stepped outside to talk. That seemed a bit rude at first, but Caius realized there really wasn’t enough space inside their little house to let in all those men, and they wouldn’t have liked to hear the baby anyways. His pa tried to close the door behind him, but Father Lucius gave a tiny shake of his head. “That won’t be necessary, my friend. We have nothing to hide from one another, and why not let your children watch? One day that strapping son of yours will make a fine stonemason himself, but I fear he too will have to pay his tithes. Best let him see how this goes. Ah, but I am remiss! This good fellow besides me is Father Titus, come all the way from Paterdomus.”
“Father, your holy presence does me and mine a big honor,” Caius heard his pa say, even as the big man bowed his head again in an even more groveling way. “I have here the silver already for you to count out. Business has been good this year, so there’s more than last time. We can both be happy for that! Heh.”
Caius had never seen his pa this nervous. Something felt wrong, but he wasn’t sure what. Still, pits began to open in his stomach, and he heard a sniffle and looked over to see his mother with red eyes.
Father Lucius forced a small smile, but he didn’t really look pleased by the good news. More...sad? “The Exalted One has looked favorably upon you, for you are a good man. I can say with happiness that we have not come to ask for the silver that was the fruit of your toil, not this year. That tax will be waived as a sign of goodwill from the church; I’m afraid you know why.” Their village’s priest stepped closer and laid a hand upon his pa’s shoulder. And even from behind, Caius saw that his pa had gone pale.
“Please step aside, and tell your boy Caius to come out,” Lucius said after a long moment. And then his pa bent his neck again and did as they said.
Half-dazedly, Caius stepped out, wondering what was going on. He hadn’t done anything wrong! His big brother and his sister looked just as confused. That other priest -- Caius had already forgotten his name by then, sized him up closely and gave a slight nod.
“Caius,” the old white-haired priest spoke, “I’m told you’re nearly ten?”
Caius nodded nervously, looking to his pa and then back through the doorway to his gawking siblings and crying mother. He wasn’t sure what to say to make the men know he didn’t do anything! How could you deny something you didn’t do when you didn’t know what they thought you’d done because you hadn’t done anything?! Were those Knights Templar going to carry him away in irons like they did to villains and monst--
His thoughts were broken by kind Father Lucius, who suddenly interjected -- came to his defense! “He’s about the right age, in good health, and a clever lad too. I’ve never made note of any moral turpitudes, and he is as attentive as any boy his age can be when I hold sermon.”
Caius grinned sheepishly, happy that he’d always been good and quiet in church like his ma and pa taught him, that Father Lucius was a nice man and a kind priest and not like ‘those others’ that pa sometimes talked about.
But that other priest didn’t look troubled, or swayed at all! He only nodded, then answered, “Yes, I think he is a fine choice. Best gather him up in an hour or two with the other children you’ve picked. We’ll need to be off soon, but they will still want to say their goodbyes.”
’Where are they trying to take me?!’ Caius thought to himself.
The old priest saw Caius’ face and stooped down closer, carefully keeping the white of his robe from brushing against the dirty ground and being sullied. “Boy -- Caius, I mean, you must be brave. Think of this as an adventure! The start of a new life, an honorable one. I know that this might not have been your choice, but still, take heart knowing that the Exalted One will smile upon you for walking this path, and in knowing that there are some who would take this path if they could, but never managed to find it. My name is Titus, and now I am an old servant of our Heavenly Master, but once I was a boy just like you--”
“Where are you trying to take me? What’s going on?” Caius thought again, out loud this time.
His pa looked down, and now Father Lucius looked angry. Caius shrank and tried to murmur an apology for his outburst, but nobody heard because they were all looking at his pa.
“You didn’t tell him?” Father Lucius demanded.
“I-I-I knew you said it might happen, but I hoped not. There’s plenty folks ‘round with one or two more children than I, and I hoped -- well, I hoped with all this silver you might decide to take it instead, I don’t need this year’s tax waived, I done good enough for myself...” his pa stammered.
Inside his mother was now bawling along with the baby, and his brother seemed to have realized what was happening because his face grew long too. Only Caius and his sister were in the dark.
Father Titus had risen to scowl at his pa, but he remembered Caius then and looked back down to the boy. “Caius, you’ve been chosen to come with us back to Paterdomus. To become one of us, to serve as a clergyman bound to the Exalted One and his holy city and all his people.”
The bowl of silver pieces clattered onto the ground by pa’s feet as the man fell to his knees. “Please,” he pleaded, “I’ve only got these two sons, and my daughter, and--”
The baby’s wail grew to a crescendo at perhaps the most inconvenient possible time. “--and that infant, a third son,” Lucius finished. “This pleading does not become you. Sure, some folk have more children -- but a farmer has need for many hands to bring in his harvest, and you’re just a stonemason. You have your eldest son to take up your trade after you, your daughter to help your wife keep the house, and if the Exalted One is merciful then your fourth child will grow hale and you shall have his hand too to help you mix your mortar. Caius is especially suited for this. And besides, it is not a bad life that your son will live, not at all. He will be well-fed, and he will grow learned, and he will be permitted to send you letters of course--”
“But I can’t read them! And he can’t write them! What good are a few scratches on a piece of parchment, compared to a son’s smile?”
“He will learn to write,” Lucius insisted, “and whenever he should choose to send a letter to our village, I will make certain to read it to you. And besides, you may yet meet him again -- there is nothing to stop you from going to Paterdomus, and indeed a pilgrimage there can only be good for the soul. And not every holy man is bound to write ledgers in the capital or sworn to guard its walls as a Knight Templar, or to fight the Exalted’s enemies all across the land as a paladin. No, there is a decent chance that he will eventually be assigned to serve somewhere in the countryside, perhaps even to a place closeby. Perhaps he might find himself taking my place here in this very village, if my own health should fail so soon, though I hope you will forgive me for praying that is not the case!”
And just like that, the conversation was over. Caius offered all the heartfelt goodbyes that he could over the next hour, hugging all his family and kissing his mother in an ordeal that consumed nearly the whole time and left just a few minutes for him to go about the village stammering to his friends and cousins and uncles and aunts. And then he was mounting a mule (that was something new!) and riding it behind the horses of Father Titus and the five Knights Templar. There were other mules besides him, though. Two other children from his village (at least he had those friends coming with him) rode mules of their own, and the rest were packed with the silver and other tithes gathered from the village.
Their party journeyed for days through the bleak hills and past the ancient trees made into stone sentries along the path. After passing through a few more small villages much like his home, they came across one large town where they stayed a while to resupply and rest before they left Stonetree Point altogether. In time he grew at ease around Father Titus, who didn’t seem so bad. He even spoke a bit with those five Templar Knights, who were quiet and alert for the most part but occasionally willing to jest and talk at night when they made camp, at least the ones who weren’t circling around the campsite on first watch. One of the five knights was always awake at any given moment during the night, to watch the road and guard over the rest of them. That made Caius feel safer, if not any less homesick -- in truth he suspected they were watching as much to keep him safe as they were to stop him from trying to run away when everyone else was asleep. Caius had thought about doing that of course, but he realized that even if he did find his way back home, Father Lucius would be angry and send him right back to Titus. His ma always said he was wise beyond his years.
After leaving Stonetree Point behind, the roads became wider and more traveled; that slowed them down, because Father Titus stopped to bless everyone they passed. Anyways, they pressed on for several days longer before they finally came within sight of Paterdomus, Great Paterdomus, ancient and strong, the ifirst capital of the Holy Kingdom before some old king who died a really long time ago decided to move to its sister-city of Marleon. Paterdomus, the mighty bastion of good whose walls had once been blessed by the Exalted One himself, not long before the ramparts repelled ten thousand orcs (and the walls were smaller back then, too!) and withstood a siege that lasted a whole year. Caius hadn’t believed all these tales and things Titus had been telling them about Paterdomus as they went, but now to see it looming over them as it crowned the foothills, he found that he could believe all those things after all.
Paterdomus looked absolutely massive, and it only seemed to grow bigger for the rest of that day as they drew closer. With its fortified walls like sheer cliffs of grey granite and its towering temples and spires of marble almost like mountains, the fortress-city stood defiant, proud, and unconquered before those ominous Ashmonts in the distance behind it. Caius knew that somewhere beyond those black peaks were evil mountains that wept fire and smoke, and beyond even those was the accursed land of Arugoth filled with orcs and ogres and demons, but it was hard to imagine any army of monsters breaking this city. Caius had never seen a city before, and this one was a dozen times grander than anything he’d ever imagined.
They arrived in the shadow of the massive walls he’d heard so much about, and eventually passed through the main gate and into the city proper, and it still all felt surreal, a strange dream conjured into the realm of the waking. But the splendor soon faded as they were quick to assign Caius to his tutors - he met them after only one day of rest to recover from the journey, for his education was to begin almost at once. The learning of law and history and theology soon consumed what felt like every waking hour, broken by a few welcome times devoted to exercise (or ‘tempering of the body’ as the priests called it) and occasionally a foray into martial arts. The library was always his sanctuary though, particularly that one corner where they kept the books full of laws and the rulings of old judges, bulls of past pontiffs, and even decrees of the Holy Kingdom’s sovereigns and their magisters. Thoughts of Stonetree and home gradually grew rarer and rarer, until some day came when he realized that he’d started to think of Paterdomus as home.
And then the years passed quickly after that.
Trollcatcher, Troll-Cursed, Joldursson, Three-Notched Axe, Seed of Tosku Fjord, Grey-Topped Pine, Five Horns at Noon, and many others
It was when winter had been twice thin-snowed,
When Brynnhöll’s get had sated ravens ‘yond the sea
And come back laden with gleaming blades and gold,
That Mrifk the tröld at Gurre forest made his rest.
On pine-knives he laid his bed, in a dim cavern,
Where the river Brelunde runs to the fjord of Skell;
He was mighty of limb, the born of black swamps,
To the sons of olden Sjötli he brought ruin and rapine.
Spoke Hávard, who holds Sjötli’s gilded sword-anvil:
“When I turn my eyes to the fields and pens of our hall,
I see trampled stalks, the spilled entrails of our cattle.
When I turn my ear to our hills and hearth-gates,
I hear cries and mourning for the taken unbloodied.
“The fen-beast alone will count the goods of Jurrehöll,
Gleaming in steel and gold, if we do not spill its blood.
The gray-pelted brigands will gnaw on our starving bones,
Worn thin by winter, if the tröld will not rejoin its lord.”
He took his hirdmen, all mighty elms, tempered by storms,
And his brothers both, Gjuki who bore Sjötli’s war-serpent,
And Hrólge of sharp eye, who donned his bright steel peak;
They went into Gurre in arms to water the pines with blood.
Many were laid low on the moss, much did the wolves feast,
By the walking-cairn’s hand; he was devious as the serpent.
Hávard’s war-face halted his fist, and Gjuki’s steel-skull alike,
And so did Hrólge’s flame bite him, yet still was he fiercest.
There came Hnikar Trollcatcher to the get of Sjötli, and he said:
“Here are I and Regin Hog-Face, and Gunnar the Long-Footed,
Us all whose wound-tongues are notched. We came over the hills
That hold the Brelunde’s flow, like fingers the grip of a sword,
To run our hands through the pine-trees where hides the tröld.”
Hávard answered:
“Would you go into Gurre, that has swallowed more than the sea?
Your axe is twice-notched, your hird knows bog-born blood,
But the tröld is wily as the night-face; to meet him is an elm-crash.
Twice you overcame, but the third time you may taste the soil.”
Hnikar said:
“The earth-gnawer himself I might meet, and I won’t be shaken.
I have a net fine as the sun-smith's eye, and strong as his hand,
Many notched blood-paths, and a prize that fen-dwellers desire.
For a wealth of rings of red gold, I will rid your land of the tröld."
The grey-topped pine took his band, and led them into Gurre,
To run and seek like wolves, to lie in wait like bloodied huntsmen.
They found the skulking tröld and the forest they made their anvil;
Fierce was the bone-chewer, but he was brought to feed the earth.
As he lay dying, Mrifk said:
"I have quaffed too deep to drink, and it seems that now I must die.
But I will not grieve as I breathe my last, for I lived long and merrily;
Many have I devoured, young and old. Soon you will follow ingloriously,
Gnawed painfully by my kin, or betrayed by yours; this is my curse."
Hnikar answered:
"Do not foul the wind at me, tröld, but spare your words for your master.
I have not the barrow-kind to fear, nor the swine-begotten word-breaker.
From the lakes to the mouth of stone, all know the fame of the Tröldvangar:
Who would defy me? But you, filth-eater, will have only dust and worms!"
When Brynnhöll’s get had sated ravens ‘yond the sea
And come back laden with gleaming blades and gold,
That Mrifk the tröld at Gurre forest made his rest.
On pine-knives he laid his bed, in a dim cavern,
Where the river Brelunde runs to the fjord of Skell;
He was mighty of limb, the born of black swamps,
To the sons of olden Sjötli he brought ruin and rapine.
Spoke Hávard, who holds Sjötli’s gilded sword-anvil:
“When I turn my eyes to the fields and pens of our hall,
I see trampled stalks, the spilled entrails of our cattle.
When I turn my ear to our hills and hearth-gates,
I hear cries and mourning for the taken unbloodied.
“The fen-beast alone will count the goods of Jurrehöll,
Gleaming in steel and gold, if we do not spill its blood.
The gray-pelted brigands will gnaw on our starving bones,
Worn thin by winter, if the tröld will not rejoin its lord.”
He took his hirdmen, all mighty elms, tempered by storms,
And his brothers both, Gjuki who bore Sjötli’s war-serpent,
And Hrólge of sharp eye, who donned his bright steel peak;
They went into Gurre in arms to water the pines with blood.
Many were laid low on the moss, much did the wolves feast,
By the walking-cairn’s hand; he was devious as the serpent.
Hávard’s war-face halted his fist, and Gjuki’s steel-skull alike,
And so did Hrólge’s flame bite him, yet still was he fiercest.
There came Hnikar Trollcatcher to the get of Sjötli, and he said:
“Here are I and Regin Hog-Face, and Gunnar the Long-Footed,
Us all whose wound-tongues are notched. We came over the hills
That hold the Brelunde’s flow, like fingers the grip of a sword,
To run our hands through the pine-trees where hides the tröld.”
Hávard answered:
“Would you go into Gurre, that has swallowed more than the sea?
Your axe is twice-notched, your hird knows bog-born blood,
But the tröld is wily as the night-face; to meet him is an elm-crash.
Twice you overcame, but the third time you may taste the soil.”
Hnikar said:
“The earth-gnawer himself I might meet, and I won’t be shaken.
I have a net fine as the sun-smith's eye, and strong as his hand,
Many notched blood-paths, and a prize that fen-dwellers desire.
For a wealth of rings of red gold, I will rid your land of the tröld."
The grey-topped pine took his band, and led them into Gurre,
To run and seek like wolves, to lie in wait like bloodied huntsmen.
They found the skulking tröld and the forest they made their anvil;
Fierce was the bone-chewer, but he was brought to feed the earth.
As he lay dying, Mrifk said:
"I have quaffed too deep to drink, and it seems that now I must die.
But I will not grieve as I breathe my last, for I lived long and merrily;
Many have I devoured, young and old. Soon you will follow ingloriously,
Gnawed painfully by my kin, or betrayed by yours; this is my curse."
Hnikar answered:
"Do not foul the wind at me, tröld, but spare your words for your master.
I have not the barrow-kind to fear, nor the swine-begotten word-breaker.
From the lakes to the mouth of stone, all know the fame of the Tröldvangar:
Who would defy me? But you, filth-eater, will have only dust and worms!"
Identity: What the character is known as. Can include names, titles, nicknames, kennings and more.
Type: Scion or rogue being?
Myth: Describe what is notable about your character in the form of a brief narrative. This would include their history (or maybe just speculation about it), distinctive features of appearance and personality, and remarkable abilities they may have, as well as anything else you feel should be mentioned. It doesn’t have to take the form of dialogue or a full story scene, but it can if you so prefer. Just remember to keep it fairly short - there’s no need to overdo this part.
Type: Scion or rogue being?
Myth: Describe what is notable about your character in the form of a brief narrative. This would include their history (or maybe just speculation about it), distinctive features of appearance and personality, and remarkable abilities they may have, as well as anything else you feel should be mentioned. It doesn’t have to take the form of dialogue or a full story scene, but it can if you so prefer. Just remember to keep it fairly short - there’s no need to overdo this part.
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