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As far as Sariel was concerned, the world wrote its end with the swing of a mace.
He saw the frost melt before he saw her body. When the white-dusted foliage gave way all at once to a vibrant, sickening green, he didn't have to turn around to know she was gone. Most of his cohort had fallen, protecting her. It almost felt like a disservice to still be standing.
Temptation was fraught with promises he couldn't keep. Sariel felt it tug him, like the tide upon the ocean. It begged in sacrosanct susurrus, again for a split second, for him to join her. But even across the chasm between life and death, he was her high disciple. So he finished the battle in desperate crescendo: one last plea to his goddess. Stay. Stay. Stay.
He didn't remember how many interlopers he disposed of, but as soon as the ache of his depleted magic gripped him, he blinked away the blinding color. It took that one instant for the moon to supersede the sun. The Earth had begun to lap up the blood saturating every remaining Old Faith robe and severed, woolen limb. Masked flesh and ovine skulls surrounded him in various states of decay, but the face of his goddess was unblemished. Peaceful, even, as if her shut eyes were sojourning for a nap. Pressed against Yngya's corpse, he was the lone island of life on the barren battlefield.
Yngya entrusted Sariel with the whereabouts of her soul; no secret was hidden from him. Somehow she deemed him worthy of her undivided presence. She allowed him to voice his opinion even when it contradicted hers, and to decorate her horns for the Midwinter celebration. She confided in him to deliver sermons when she could only grieve those she hadn't yet lost, and to dry her tears when the rest of her flock wasn't awake to hear her weep. She tasked him to draw the battle lines that couldn't protect her.
The muscle of her heart was tender, but dry. Sariel pressed the small of his back against it and the point of his dagger against his chest. Again, he couldn't get further than a cowardly scrape, tainting his wool a resplendent red.
He could have made his home there, in that deep cavity carved into her chest. Years ago, he'd believed he already had.
Sariel buried himself deeper within it, chewing through the aortic barrier that kept them apart.
When her heart was free from its corporeal confines a moment later, the sun greeted him from the other side of Yngya's entrails. No, that couldn't be, he was far, far below the sky, beneath the ground. Not his tomb, yet. Just at the heart of the mountain, at the heart of Ewefall, because the heart of Woolhaven was the heart of Yngya. Something else burned bright, formless and palpable.
Perhaps he had been here for quite some time. He didn't sleep after she died, after all. He had only as long as her heart remained fresh.
She had held him like a vase held a flower, or how her veins held that ichor, blacker than black. He held what remained of her much the same. She was divine, not delicate, but he could handle her with his fingertips at most. Those slitted eyes peeked through sinews, unfocused, pupils mere pinpoints that flicked back and forth. She's as alive as he is, maybe. Nameless faces stare at him too. His fellow disciples stare at him too. They're waiting for something. Everyone's hand is clasped around a dagger. The moon is nowhere to be seen. The sun was nowhere to be found. Everything is entrancing and this heart, the focal point, is responsible. Yngya stares at him too. He cannot rest, so she may live.
Sariel watches soft tissue decay and wonders if it is his.
Yes. That's right, she'd held him. She had held him and her hands were burning cold, then. He knelt to reach her forehead, and placed his lips upon the cyan mark of a snowflake. She loved him, too, but he knew better. That was the crux of the problem: she held him so close and he could never reach her. It made his head feel heavy, like a drop of rain crystallizing into a hexagonal tesselation as it fell. It melted and joined the sea he was drowning in.
Yngya's heart isn't fresh anymore, but it is ripe. It chills him to the marrow of his bones. He cradles it, lifts his chin to meet it, but does not touch.
Sariel does not hear the command he speaks. The cacophony of her absence mutes him, but the other disciples hear him loud and clear. They were are yes always will belong to Yngya
and with her, they would
ROT. Crimson tributaries woven together into a river of grief too enormous to speak, every drop its own self-contained ocean, mourning every curl of wool and every cloven hoof, pulse swelling until it distorted the surface of the skin with every frantic throb, suffocating with no absence of air, a little gurgle of fluids all intermixing into a muddy stew as ugly as the world that had made them endure such
ROT. He hadn't been able to weep for her so his anguish had to flow more viscous than tears and it brought him some semblance of peace to drive the dagger deeper, deeper into his soft innards and he couldn't tell, between death and her frigid call cradling him, which embrace was making him shiver now but the edges of his vision were fogging and deteriorating and ebbing and flowing and succumbing to the
ROT. sariel can't stand his bones cannot keep him this is what dying feels like it feels so alive he is alive he is alive she will be alive he feels so alive when he twists the knife just to feel something and notice the feeling fade as quickly as it began he will end the world that could not hold her hold her hold his throat is closing gurgling he thinks maybe screaming he can hear only the echo of
ROT metallic tang on his tongue beautiful disarray he will join her if he cannot save her he loves her he reaches arm cant lift above this dilapidated dolomite sepulchre cannot reach her but he will reach her he will reach her he will join her he will love her he cannot speak the prayer upon his lips he knows she hears it wait for me wait for me wait for me wait for me wait for me Cold Mother wait i am so cold am i coming home will you hold me as i
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Ơ̴̢̢̢̡̛͉̬̘̟̤̜͇͎̫̳̱̗̮̗͇̩͕͓̦͍̠͈̤̥̪̘̼̩̹͇͕͇̬͙̞̅͌͂̈́́̑̓̓̀̏̄̃̐͊͂̆̂̎̎̔́̈́̅͂͛̎͂̒̍̅̐͑͗͒̏͛̉̅̀͗̈́̉̓̉̎̓͒̊́̏̑̒̂̐͋͆̀̄͆̐̐̈́͑́̊̍̃̇̔͋̀͑̿͐̇̋͗̕̚̕͘̕͘͝͝͠͝͠͝ͅŢ̸̢̨̮̣͇̝̥̭͎͈͎͖͔̤̟̞̳̜̙̠̖̼̭̞̼̂̓͂͛̉̔̃̒̌̈́̓̏̄̃̈́͊͑͛͆̾̓̌͆͊͂̆͗͊̌̔͆͗̈̌͑̔̍̈̀̑͘̚͜͝͠Ŕ̷̛̖̲̲̫̼̰͈̲͆́͗̽̏͐̊̍̕̕͜Ò̸̡̨̡̧̙̪̻̝̘͙̘̺̗̬͉̺̯̮͇̰̞͈̩̘͈̜͖͓̤̹̦̣̲̠̙̟̲͍̙͖͕̖̟̜̼̰͎͎̘̱̞͈̭̘̠̭͉̖̮͓͈̳͔̥̠̪͓̠͎̣̜͙͈͖̞̠͕̣̘͙̘̹̫̹̥͕̽̔̏̓͋̎̒̋̿͋̀̈́͋͛̈́̌̀̈́̅̋̑̾̅̂͐͗͋̀̍͌́͆̔͑̒͘̚̚͘̚͜͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅT̴̡̨̡̨̛͎͈͓͍̦̬̲̫͍̮̼̗̙̘̫̜͖̱̠̭̮̯̜̗̟̹̟͓̼̘̟̝̙̝͍̙͍͙͓̞̤͚͖̹̳̩͕̖̱̲̯͍̥̠̲̯̠̦͔͓̮͎͙̲͚̏̅͛̍̐̿̅́͐̔͛̀̋̏̾͑̉̓̂̀̋̔̈́̄̀͑͗̀̊̈̀̌͗̿̊͗̅̅̒̀̌̔̄́̔̊͐̀̔́͋̌̃̾̀́̍͐̍̕͘̕͘̕͜͝͝͠͠͝
R̴̡̢̰͈̰̟͕͍̘͇̗̺͖̹͋̇͆̈͛́̓̂͒̑̿͌̆́̐̏͌̍͌̾̄͛̒̆̔͑̈́̇͗̈́̂̀͑̑̈́̈̋͌̔̓̽̆͌̚̕͜͠͝Ơ̴̡̡̨̨̧̧̢̧̢̢̢̡̡̢̛̙̹̟͕͕̪̗̦͚͉̲͓̞̬͓͉̟̞͓̣͕̙̥͙̙͓̹̹͎̟̣͎̠̯̠͉̬͚̝̳̦̬͕̰̙̼̰̬̞̭̘̗͖̤̥͓̖̪̺̯̖̯͔̭̰̻̝̪̤̞̬͖͓̦͉̤̟̭̪̱̰͙̲̹̱͙̻̮̖̫̻̼̫͓̹̬̯̲͖͙̄́͒͑̊́̀̽̈́͒̓̈́̓̒͋̓͛́́͗͋͋̒̓̆̉̉̊̎̇̆̓̐͌̎͋̄̔̃̎̈́͒̉̉̈́͂̓͒͌̈͌́͛̅́̉͒̂̔̄̓͂̀̔̈́̽͘͘͘̕̚͘̕̚͘͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͠͝͝T̷̢̛̪̹̳͙̥̪̬̗̰̖̙̟̟͎͙̺͕̠̫̅̌͋̉͋͛͆̋̽̊͛́̀̈́͑̈́̈́̉̓̐͐̾͋̌̆̏͊̓̒̒̉͋̉̌͗̆̋̀̌̑͋̈́̓̃̈̑͐̿̂̎̃̾̌̉͊̾̉̏̎̍̆́̇͆̏͛͑̊͑̅̏͒͊̊͆͐͗͂̓̿͋͗̏̉̇̃̄̌͐̌̌͆̒͌̌̊͗͛̅̚̚̚͘͘̕͠͝͝͝͠͠͠͝͠͝ͅͅR̸̨̨̢̧̡̢̢̨̡̨̨̨̧̢̡̡̢̡̢̢̛̛̞͈̼̗̭̗̤̘̦̤̠̳̗͚̭̯̱̲͕̰͈̣̪̼͖͕̹̰̫̳̟͙̙̣̫͕̟͍̦̘̥̥͈̺̬̰͇̤̲͎͓͔͕̜̬͖̭̜̠͇̭̖̣̪̙̱̰̪͔̳̭̟̤͖͚͍̼̳̣̠͎̼̱̙̘̝̖͇͕̣̠̫̥̠͔̺̗̠̮̤͓̬̞̼̣͉̱͇̝̥͖͉̟͇͙̰͎̗̮̭͖̝̻͕̮̰̹̥̫̩̠̣̥̗̙̥̮̥̦̩̎̓́͛̔͆̈̐̇̅̇́͋̅̉̽̄̆̒̀̐̾͌̄͊̀̀͌̅̃̄͆̒͒̄̈̋́̿͗͂̑̾̂͛̋̂̒̈̽́̓́̊̀͐̔͆̓̇̇̊̆̔̐͊͆͋̔͛̈́̔͛̂̿͗͛̄̀́̏̓̿̏̿̒́̍͘͘̚̚̚̕͘̕͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅ
Ơ̵̝̠̙̹͆̈́͌̑̔̒̓̋́́͌͊͂͗͒͘̚T̸̡̧̡̧̢̡̡̡̧̢̢̨̧̧̡̧̛̛̛̛͍̘̜̫͎̱͇͙̹̳̼̬̱͙͚̯̳͍̬͚͍͎̘͍̱̜̖̻͖͇̘̠͍̪͕̻̤̺͉̭͖̤͖͕̘͈͉̤̹͚̺̣̦̱̙̮͙̼̠̜̯̣̩̣̺͙͕̻̪̠̟̬̥͔̗̟̺̪̪̬̳̗̘̘͇̤̙̰͕͉̯̘̫͖͖̣̟͉͕̯̻̰͓̙̪̙͔͈̯̪͇͉͚̩̞̖̲̲̱̩̼̰͇̺̠̼̝̰̟̪̟̝̪̦͍̗̞͔͔̦̼̦͔̫̘̔̉̾͌́́̃̎̇̓͋̎̎͋̆͑̐̆̾̆̌͆̉͊̊̊̍́̀̓͛̄̆͒̅̈͐̓͒͒͛̆͊̋͐͒̃̍̇̋̾̿͑̾̿̓̽͋͊̈́̈́̓͒̊̄͌̿̊̃͑̒̎͂̀͐͘͘̕̕͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅR̸̨̡̡̧̧̢̨̨̡̧̢̨̡̧̠̺̠̪̟̥̠̟͉̞̮̫̮͖͉̙̳̳̮̭̞͎̲͈̖͉̬̯̱̬̳̹̠̠̪̳̣͉̞̹͓̹̳͕̤͉̦̬̼̬̹̪̜͓̪̪̖͇̩̻͓̳̰̫̤̖̼͉̜͎͇̱̤̤͎͇͙̖̯͈̗͉̭͖̻͍̖͇͕̠͈̱̗̭̟̝̘͉̰̘͈͉̝̥̪̠̺̱͍̙̯͓̞̼͙͈̘̫̻̳̗̭͚̥͇̮̠̣̯̝͖͎͚̻͙̯̣̼̜̗̬̞̭̯̥̬̯̮͍̠̫̹̜͈̠̗̭͚̬̳̰͖̭̯͖̙͚͙͔̪̼̞̼̤̤̻͇͖̬̹̗̦̀̆͋̏͌̅͑̽̌̇̒̈̌̽̾̋͆̑̄̈́͌͛͆͐̃̓͐̆̑̾͆͌͆̄̈́̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅǪ̴̨̨̡̢̧̨̛̛̛̛̞͎̙̯͔̩̟̖̦͕͇̯͙̰̦̼̠̙͈̯̘̝̜͎̞͖̻̤̪̥̥͓͎̭̹̳̹͚̥̜̟̞͍͕̙͇͖̬̪͙̪̙͚̟̣̯̹͎̘̞̪͕̜̩̘̝̜͙̤͍͂̑̎̇̂̈́̈́́̂́̒̈́̌̐̆̀͌͑̊̍͐́̓̈́̄̊͐̓͆̾́̔̅̇͆͗̇͋́͗́̎̄̈̀̀̃̇̓̈́̋̅̃̓̉͗̒̈̇̉̈̊͊̋̆̈͑̾̔͊̇̕̕͘͘͘͜͜͜͠͝͝͠͠͠͠͝͝͝͝͠͝
Ţ̵̡̢̧̨̛̳̪͔̱͙̬͈̗͈͚̹̘̝̺͔̞̙̫̝̙͕̙̲̖̩̳͙͖̦̫͎͈̗̝̤̰̜̤̥̱̘͓͕͖͎͇̘͚̳̤̻͇͔̹̩̺̘̩͕̙͎̘̙̖͕̖̪̩̗̦̩̥̌̈́̈́̾̿͗͂͆͛̄̃͆̒͋̓̑͐̋̿̽̋͌̃̐̌̉̀̉̈͆͗͆͒̆͋͊̿̓̀̈̇̈̈́͒̔̒͊̿̍̏͛̈́̈́̓̓̅́͌̌̎̀̓͆̔̏̂̎̿̊͊͊̈́̊̓͊̈́̋́̿͋͂̊̈͐͗́͗̇́̇́̓͑̃̿̅̂̔̃̈́͐͒͆̌͒͆̑͗͌͑̓̅̔̌̂̅̄̾̐͐̎̔̽̓̊̈́͆̀̋̉̂͛̃̓̅̽̈́̽̓̌̉͒̋̀̋̅̇͗̋̈́̅͆͒̾́͒͌̿́̌͂͋̌̌͋̀́͐̃̀͒̈͋̑̅̾͌̓̾̑͑̔̓̅̍͌̅͛̾̅̅̋́̏̌͋̅̽̑͘̚̚͘̚̕̚͘̕̚͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͠͝͠͠ͅͅͅͅͅ
Ŗ̷̢̧̡̧̢̧̧̨̡̧̨̡̧̡̨̢̡̡̨̢̡̨̡̧̧̢̧̢̛̛͕̹̖͈̞̤͉̺͙̤͖̣̳̥͉̱͔̱͙͍̣͓̠̩̦̳̬̞̥̭͙͚̘̗͎̞͎̬̯͇̘̤̫̟̼̣̯͇̫̠͍͖͙̘̞͕̰̥̳̜͕̘͇̬͔̺̭͖̤̯̟̩͈̠̲̘̬̥͙̩̜̖͔̺͈̤̟̼̥̣̖̮̹̳̰̗̥͖͍̬̤̰̤̞̗̦̮̬͉̝̟̬̘͔̠̙͓͔̭͍͓̖̰̦͚̪̩̳̯͇͇̙̯͙̬̻͎͔̲͔̥͕͍̝͎̮̰̜̜̯͎̲͚̫̼̙͍̯̮̠̞̙̭͖̫̣̥͚̥̗̭̭̬̜̰͓̘͖̻̫̙̭͎̫̳͚̠͉̹̹̮̗̟̖̻͙̗̹̜͔̘̺̩͍͕̬͔͙̦̥͇͍̟̩̳̱̤̫̘̣̟̥̩̥̯̤̥͉͚̔́̉̋̓͒͗̽͒̎̽͐͊̉̑̂̀̽͋̅̃͋̈͌̋̆̆̆͛̏̾͒̈́̉̑͑̽̉͊̿͒̍̍̓͂̍̓͋̽̑͊͌̓̈́̓̋̆̈̋́̍̂̓́̃̄̌̑̔̐͛͛̇̄̓͆̇̓͋̓̾̚͘̕̚͘͜͜͠͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅ
Ơ̸̡̧̢̨̡̢̨̢̨̢̨̧̡̢̧̢̡̧̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̹̩̹̜̦͇̺̭̱̙̩͍͉̥͎͈̰̹͙̝̱͚͎̱̩͍͔̖̗͖̱̱͖͚̞̠̫̭̝͕̲̯̯̻̗̺͍̦̠̩̰̙̖̤͍̫̥̠̘̫̪͉̰͎̪̬̥̤͈̯̙̣̪̘͚̝͓̘̝͉̻̞̠̣͈͇͚͓̙͓͖̭̙̱͎̬̦͕͕̰͇̲̻̠͔͙͍͉̥̖͇͚̬͚̮̙̙̺̗͖̰̭̰͚̫̬̯̺̳͉͙̝̺̼̯̼̣̳̰̻͔͕̼̦̖̺̦̫̥̹͎̦̲͈̭̻̟̥̩̙͕̓͒̎͗̊̒̌̊̀̃̈́͒́͒̄̊̾̀̂̿̄͋͋̊̿͒̏͒͑̊̄͋̅̈́̓͋̍̔̉̏̃͊̇̉̏͒̀͗̎̃͂̑̆̎̇̅͊̿̈́͛̓̉̈͒̈́̊̄̇̐͊̾̎͊̆͛̐͂̌̒̀̑̉͋̌̒̔́̔̀̆̃͛̉̽̉͌͑͌̊͆͛̎̓̓̄̅̂̃̏͛̇͋̑̈́̅̀̇͒̆̄̊̓͑̅͐͂̒̅̈́͛̑́̏̇͐̃̅̀̊̔̂̑͛͑̌͋͐̋̎͊́̄̆͗̉͗̾̐̆̊̍͗̊̾̄̄̑̈́̆̂͛̈́̄͐̍͋̎̎̅͐͊̾̈̌̉̿̀̔͊̾̀̓̐͒̈́͆͑̃̋̅̾͒́͊́̑̈́͆͘̕͘͘͘̕͘͘̕̚͘̕̕͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝͠͠͠ͅͅͅT̵̨̧̨̧̨̧̢̧̧̧̢̡̢̡̡̢̛̛̛̛̛͓̦̩͍̟͉̘̺̖̯͔̭̲̖̦͉͇͉̮̗̥̭̦̜̙͈̭̥̫̠͉̳̦̳̥̪̣̱͙̪͍͖̮̙̺̤̜̗̫̱̼̻̞̻̤͉̮͎̯̟͈̥̩̳͈̹̙̯̻̘͈̭͕̲̙̫͓͉̠̜̪͙̟͎͙̹͖̟̖̭̞͕̲͙̠͔̣͖̲͚̬̞̠͎͙̻͙͎̱̫̞͙͈͍̖̗͖̱̜̘̼̗̲͔͇͎̣͖̤͉̣͓͍̥͙̭͓̘̬̠͎̠̠̖̻̗̭̲̺̣̪͍͍̝̥̺̫̜͓̮̰̠̮̳̩̹̮̤͕̣̤̞̪̼̪̲̭̳̪̱͕̪̖̹̖̫̮̘̞̹̺̅͐̏̔̾̓͛̊͒͗̅͋͗̒̓̔̒̃̈́͋̾̋̽̏̋̔̂͋͊̈́́̊̿̔̆́̈́̇͐̋̈́͗̐͑͒̽̈́͛̂͊͌͛̓͑̉̾̓̓̔̓̔͑͒̈́̔͌́̇̍̀̂̐̎́̐̌͂́̿̑̿̈́̆̔̈́̉̽̒̔̽͋̓̀͌̅̀̉͐̒͗̏̈́̅̌͂̔͗̒͊̀͆̀̓́̆̆͛̑̓̄̈́̃͐̒͊̌̍̑̃̅̒̄̒̈̽̽̐͛̅͌͒̾̍͆́̀͌̀̔̏̈́̋͊̔͗̊͊̽͊͆͆͌̈́́͐̏̍͊̓̉̊̑͂̈́͋̀͐̄͂̈́̉͋̆̅̉̐͐̆̇̿̀̑̀̇̎̓̓̄̀̍̀̔̂͌̌̈́͛̒͑͆̆͛̓͑̃͒͗̀̀̐̔̿̈̀̑̾̑̉̔͋́̅̆͑̋̒̒̅̓̐̂̂͛̄͋͊̕̚̚̕͘̕̚̚̚͘͘̚͘̚̚̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͠͠͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅ
Ŗ̴̧̧̡̡̢̡̨̡̨̡̨̡̢̨̨̡̧̛̛̛̛͇̯̳̫̳̤͉̼̥̘̗̝̲̦̤̩͖̖̖̥̯̝̙͇͚͎̦͍̟̱͚̮͍͎̳̲̹̤̣̳̫̱̬͈̖͕̣͎̠̖̙̘̝̪̠̪͍͓̻̝̰̦̘͓̝̬̤̤̲͍̰̤͈͍̤̳͎̱̞̪̱̗̲̟͙̯̣̲̜͔̙̭̪͉̲̭̝̻̹͈͈̝̜̤̳͓̩̜̣̺̫̰̩̟̺̺̞̯̲̥̟̺͕̯̠͖̻̠͚̙̞̦͚̺͍̲͎̤̪̰̲̮̜̙͉͖̱͍̗͎͈͎̣̖̫͔̞̙̭̖̙̥͕̼̭͎̝̲̠͇̘̺̥͚̤͔̣̮̗͍͕̰̗̱̼̟̹͙̪̭̩̞̘̙̥̪̼͍͉̪̞̫̤͕̱̯̟̪͙̬̯̗̪͖̙̗͖̼̖͇̦̖̟̟̋̈͂̈́̉̇͑̾̐͒̐͒͊͑̑́̋͐̊̆̈́̀̓́̒̀́̂͗͌͒̆͒͐͂̋̾̊͆͊̊̓͂̋̒̓͋̈́͛͛̆͑͂̃̈́̂͌̌̔̊̋̅̈́̃̓̔̽̿̓̎̂̀̆͒̋̆̄̑̅̈̄̿͒͗̄͋̐̀͌̂̆̒͆̾̋̈́͋͒̀̒̊̀̈͐̓̐̽͆̔̀̾̃̄̽͐̉̿̈̽͐̈́̔̃̋͛̀̀͊̀͐̏́̏̈́́̆̍̑̽̂́̀͆̏͊̂̔̇̎̅̊̔̐̏̽́̆̌̀̽̔̒̒̾̋͋͊̑̋̇̈́̀̉́̏̽̕̕̕̚̚̚̚̕̚̕̚͘̕̚̚͜͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͠͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅͅ
O̵̡̧̡̡̢̧̢̧̡̡̡̢̢̧̧͔͚̫̙̤̪͉̣̖̰͍̥͎̟̼̫̼̖̰̪̠̹̭̙͍͓̭̲̲̱̮̼̳̟̼̯͙̞̤̜͔̤̲̞̬̟̪͎̼͔͎̟̲̲̝͎̲͍̰̙͉̠̜̱͖̻̳͔̰̼̝̬͙̜̝̬͔̖̮̪̪͕̙̟͍͍͉̟͇͔̯͓̺͎̭͙̩͕̹̥̫̮̫̯͈̖̹̥̟̗͙̹̺͙̥̬͓̹̗̙͔̗̹̟̩͚͚͈͚̗͍̣͙̫̗̗̤̭̜̗̹̜͙̻̹̗̙̦͕̳̞̹̟̞͉̺̓́͗͌́͌̆́̎͛͛̑̿̈̕͜͜͜͜͜͠͠ͅͅͅͅͅ
T̴̡̨̧̡̡̡̧̢̢̧̞͈̞̞̣̘͎̜͍̤͈̥̙̘̥͇͎̦͍̩̝̳̻͍̝̲͚̲͕̫͎͔͖̰̖̞͓̗̣̩̙̲͙̪̟̜͉̬̲̬͎͓̫̹̣͖̘͕̞̻͔̯̺̖̮̯̦̪̯̝̤̰̟̯̣̲̯͙̱̻̻̱̳̯̙͔̬̬̜̟͓͉͙͉͇̲̹̪͚̟̣͓͍̺̰͚͍͚̠̮̺̟̩̤͙̙̘̞̪͔̦̞̱̬͍͕̠̺̩̲̫̰͎̜͚̦͇͔̬̘̯̝̤̜͎̪͍͉̠̝̩̥̦͖͙̖̱̫͚̥̟̤͇̯͔̼̰̥̱͈͖͈̥͎͇̘͉̲͈͙͚̘͚̭̫̬̗̪̲̠͈͍̩͖̺͆͌̌̐͌̍̈́̇̐̽̒͗̏̽̆́̔͑̚̚͜͜͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅ