birthrightgreen: (dancing in the field)
Sam and I have decided to have a BABY!!!!


Apr. 10th, 2006 10:29 am
birthrightgreen: (Dream of a Place Called Home)
Surreal wandered downstairs in search of breakfast, casually dressed in trousers and a sweater. She wasn't sure where Rainier was, as he'd been gone when she woke, but it seemed a good time to explore the house a bit more on her own. Her things had been delivered from the family townhouse, what few of them there were. Mostly clothes. A few books. The majority of what she'd collected in her life had been left behind in Terreille. Not that she regretted the loss, not really, but it was so much of her past that looking around she couldn't help feeling that she was back to that rootless existence.

Except that he wanted to buy a cabinet for weapons for her to practice with. Put up targets for her to practice throwing at, in his beautiful dance studio no less. And he'd told her she could redecorate if things didn't please her.

She still couldn't imagine that. The same impulse that had kept her from redecorating Daemon and Jaenelle's townhouse kept her from considering that here, even if it was different.

And it was different. Everything was different.

She flushed a little under what she was sure were the servant's knowing eyes as she helped herself to the rather bountiful breakfast they'd laid out on the sideboard.

He loved her. He'd said so.

She flushed more, mumbling her thanks, then focusing her attention on buttering her roll as the maid poured her some coffee before retreating. It wasn't like her to blush like this, damn the man. She'd been the highest paid whore in the history of Terreille. She'd seen it all and done most of it. She wasn't supposed to blush at the memory of three little words that had turned her world upside down.

There was guilt there, niggling. She wasn't supposed to love him, she was fairly sure. She'd made promises, rash ones. No vows of celibacy--she wasn't an idiot, and she knew herself--but promises nonetheless. Even if only to herself and he'd never asked for them and wouldn't be upset. No right to be.

They'd made their choices and they were the right ones and they were both happy with them and he'd be happy for her and want her to be happy the same way she wanted him to be happy. All she'd ever wanted was for him to be happy, so why did she feel like...why the guilt for taking a chance on her own happiness?

She left her food mostly untouched, sipping at her coffee as she got up and wandered to perch in the window seat, looking out at the street.

She loved him. A wry smile flitted across her lips. Both hims. Because of honor, family, and love itself, she'd walked away from one of them. She had a chance with Rainier, though, for something new. Something unprecedented in her life. Something she'd never really dared to hope to have for herself. And she'd taken that chance, agreeing to stay with him here. To make his home hers. But now there was a new layer to that. She should have known how he felt. He made it clear enough in every glance, every touch. But somehow it seemed too...improbable that anyone something she couldn't put a word to, but someone like him...improbable that someone like him could love someone like her.

But he did. She could feel the truth behind the words. He wanted her here. He loved her. He wanted her in his life.

She glanced back around the room. This could be her home. He could be her home. Was...her home, maybe, already, without her consciously deciding that. She had a chance at happiness that she hadn't had before.

All she had to do was take it.
birthrightgreen: (Not that girl)
The tree did not make a satisfactory target. The knives stuck in it well enough, but it didn't bleed. Graysfang was astute enough to stay behind where she was hurling things and not present himself as a target, but he stayed close enough to let her know he was there if she should need him. Not that he knew what he could do, and his puppyish distress was palpable in the air.

She ignored it steadily, just as she was ignoring the ache in her arm. When it hurt too much to ignore, she just switched arms.

And it wasn't helping. She needed something...more. She needed a target. Something to kill, and the sheer unfairness of the fact that there was no one left almost made her sob with her own helplessness to vent any of the rage that had been building up since the night she'd taken the blade to her own skin to make the pain stop, if only for a minute.

Nowhere to put it anymore, and no resolution for her. Kartane's blood spilled, and those who'd raped her purged, and there was no one left to extract vengeance from, but the rage and the pain were still there.

Rainier had been good to his word. He hadn't told the family about that night. He hadn't alerted anyone, and the scars were almost gone. Long sleeves hid them easily. He'd worked to heal other things since, but...centuries of rage and self-hatred didn't just go away. Somewhere inside she recognized that.

She couldn't do that here, anyway. Graysfang wouldn't understand he couldn't tattle. He'd run for help, thinking it was an accident. And they were all here. She couldn't...they'd see the blood. And she'd told him she wouldn't do it again, no matter that the temptation was almost overwhelming. The physical pain had blocked out the rest for a while.

She could spar, but she pitied anyone who picked up the sticks...though another part of her whispered that she'd let them win, just so something else would hurt. She pushed that thought away viciously. She wasn't weak. She wasn't...she was strong. She wouldn't give into it again. Not the weakness of hurting herself, not the weakness of tears, not the weakness of needing anyone.

The tree, however, wasn't working either. She wondered, almost idly, if Daemon was right that she wouldn't just kill for the pleasure of killing. Where did you put the rage, when there was no one left to hate?

She wanted her mother.

She pulled her knives out of the tree with a snarl, then threw them at another tree. Again and again and maybe the exhaustion would set in and then she could stop.
birthrightgreen: (Corset by mirrorqueen)
My father? He had no right to such a name. She denied it, and I never called him so. But all right, sugar. If that's what you want. Let's talk about the man who sired me.

Women rule in Terreille, and the whole concept of Protocol has been perverted. It used to be a balance. District Queens served Province Queens who served Territory Queens--the strongest and the best, chosen by the dark Jeweled Blood of the Territory. Males served the Queen their heart led them to. The Blood looked after the landen, and the land flourished and it was good. Caste, social standing and Jewel rank worked together, a triumvirate of power and position that kept our people always in a dance of power and protocol and in balance. The strong protected the weak.

Or so I have been told. It is not so, now. Males, even privileged ones, are no more than slaves. Frightened, weak males strip any weaker female of all her power and frightened females ring strong males before they can become a threat. A strong Queen could challenge and change this, but males bed them too young and they rise from their Virgin Night broken and useless. No threat to the SaDiablo reign.

Kartane SaDiablo. Only son of Dorothea SaDiablo, Red-Jeweled High Priestess of the Black Widow Coven and ruler of Hayll. Most of Terreille has fallen into Hayll's shadow, into Dorothea's shadow. She perverts everything she touches, and her son is no exception. Weak-willed, cowardly bastard, he took his ire out on the weak, the helpless. Darkness forbid that a Queen could rise, strong enough to challenge Dorothea's rule. Any such she saw broken, and her son soon became one of her favorite instruments.

He was a pretty boy, I've heard tell. A broken man when I finally saw him, caught in the web that Jaenelle wove around Briarwood, but a pretty boy. His mother thought so as well. He was naught more than a child when she took him to her bed to pleasure her. They say that sort of thing can break a man. He couldn't stop her, so he took it out on those weaker. Servant girls speared so viciously they had to send him away because the other men complained they couldn't use the girls. He hated whores. The gossip in the houses was that he could only rise to the occasion if he caused pain, and only the lower houses allowed the games he wanted to play. He was banned from houses before he found ways to just dominate the young girls without marking the goods. But houses had rules, and he didn't have absolute power.

So he took to playing his mother's game. Find a witch, young, still a girl. Spear her, hard and vicious. Break her web of power and drive her beyond herself. He'd keep them sometimes. Make them play his game until he seeded them. Sometimes they aborted spontaneously. Sometimes he gave them a brew to drink. When the child was gone, he tossed them out to go back to their families or a Red Moon House or the gutter.

My mother escaped his depraved games. She'd worn the Green when he broke her past herself. She couldn't use more than basic Craft when he was done the first night. She escaped and she whored for her keep so Kartane couldn't find her and destroy the child she gave birth to. His child.


His mother's pawn found her while I was at school. Slit her throat. I ran, so they wouldn't find me.

And then I trained. I killed. Planned men's deaths carefully and cruelly and sent them to it.

Dress rehearsal, sugar. For the right place. The right time. For my meeting with my father.


Jan. 4th, 2006 07:16 pm
birthrightgreen: (crashing)
The spa had helped a bit. Not a lot, not as much as Daemon had probably hoped when he set up the appointments. There were still knots in her shoulders that the masseuse had clucked over reprovingly, but finally had to give up on when, after she smoothed them away with Craft, they reformed before she'd finished with her lower back.

She couldn't help it though. Lu's words kept reeling through her head, so at odds with what Sam seemed to see and she felt caught in a very silky web of deceit and wondered if she was the fly. Already confused at their world, the mixed messages swirling around her made it so much worse. He'd seemed...last night he'd seemed...

But then Lu had said and everything she'd hoped had shattered with those two phrases.

Beloved. Life partner. Only not married because she didn't believe in the ceremony.

A man who hadn't yet decided who he wanted to build a life with, Surreal could handle. A man not ready to settle down, still playing the field, she understood.

It's not like she was certain she wanted to build her life with him, yet either. But she could see the possibility. She could see the chance of it, what their life could look like. But if he'd already made that choice...then she'd been right. There really was no place for her there.

It hurt, knife to the gut hurt and there seemed to be a permanent lump in her throat. The masseuse had tried to soothe her, seeming to sense her mood. Probably some sort of empathic talent. A Healer, definitely. It had helped. She wasn't fighting hysteria. It was colder than that. Numbness almost. A detached sense where she could look at her nails and smile at the manicurist with a smile that even got to her eyes. She could wiggle her now scarlet toes in the lush carpet with a luxurious sigh, and close her eyes and relish the cool tingle of the cucumbers resting over them.

She could manage small talk with the stationer, ordering calling cards. She could bow and nod in the streets as she passed people she recognized.

Ashes, ashes, they all fall down... )
birthrightgreen: (softly pretty)
Surreal woke up with a smile, for all the confusion and tears of the last week. Sam's party had been...not what she expected and mayhap she should have stayed, but it was Winsol, and she needed to be at the Hall today, especially if she was going to leave. Graysfang bounced on the bed. His nose was cold where he nudged her and she pushed at it with a half-hearted snarl. It really was hard to snarl now that she'd made sure he didn't have fleas and they'd reached their compromises on when he could sleep where.

*It's Winsol, Surreal, get up*

Prancing on the bed was a distinct no-no, and she fixed him with a far more impressive glare that did nothing to dim his excitement.

*Get up, Surreal, get up* He nudged at her. *You have presents...*

Presents likely weren't going to be until after dinner and before the Ball. It was barely dawn, and she'd been up so late...


"I'm up. I'm up. Mother Night, you are as demanding as any client I ever had." If for completely different things, but a demand was a demand. She did want to get her gifts below the Winsol tree before the day truly began, though, but she was not telling the wolf that. She debated between a shower and a bath, finally settling on a long, hot shower. Lots of bubbling soap, and a soft sigh as the water pounding down eased some of the tension out of her. She wasn't going to think about it today.

Today she was going to celebrate the glory of Witch--of their Jaenelle--with her...her family. She smiled a little at the word, the concept and the faint ache that leaving the madness of the Hall would bring. Not to get caught up in the cycle of everything of all of them. But the Circle should all be here today. Most of the Circles, really, for it was Winsol, and Witch walked the earth. Already, she could hear stirrings from below. The Hall was stuffed to capacity, rooms spilling over with people, and more arriving tonight for the festivities. Mrs. Beale was in heaven and barking orders at all of the temporary staff who were never quite up to her standards, despite that she took only the best of the best.

Surreal smiled, greeting people as she moved downstairs. She'd grab breakfast after she put her gifts down.

The Ballroom with it's tree reaching toward the ceiling was empty, and she smiled in relief, pushing her hair back and thinking maybe she should have put it up for today. It was just going to get in the way. She knelt by the tree, then called in her gifts, placing them there carefully.

Perhaps she hadn't shown a great deal of originality in the initial selection, but she had been so very careful, trying hard to match things up. The trip to the bookstore in the other world had been harrowing and a bit confusing with all of their different symbols of money. The rectangular card Samael had given her had simplified things greatly.

They were wrapped, oh so carefully, in brightly colored paper with symbols of a fat man in a red suit in a sleigh through the woods. Santa Claus. She could tell them about him if they asked. She'd made sure to get the stories straight last night. Other paper had men made of snow on it, wearing hats, and she wondered if she could convince Daemon to help her build one of these snow-men this afternoon. She wasn't quite sure what the mechanics of it would be, but it looked like it could be challenging and fun.

She didn't know the second and third circles well, so she had gifts only for family and First Circle and she did hope that was all right.

They were slim volumes, bound in leather. Plays, a single one per book. She'd chosen based on summaries Sam had given her, the ones she thought suited each person best.

For Saetan, she chose Henry V. Lucivar got Henry IV, Part I. Prothvar got Henry IV, Part II. Andulvar got Henry VI, Part I. Mephis got Henry VI, Part II.

She chose A Midsummer Night's Dream for Gabrielle and Chaosti, because it had fairies in it, of course, and apparently fairies and the Dea al Mon were related. She did hate to repeat herself and they would share, of course, but. She couldn't resist. She picked them up a book of the artwork of Brian Froud as well, so they had two still. For Morghann, As You Like It, because she thought Rosalind's spirit would amuse her. For Karla, Taming of the Shrew because it amused her to no end and the only person she'd met here who could match her tongue on a regular basis was Karla. Marian, Much Ado about Nothing, because all of the romance was sure to delight her.

Morton got Twelfth Night, because Viola and Sebastian just reminded Surreal so much of Karla and Morton. The other boys, she scattered the histories among, and then the comedies to the girls.

For Jaenelle, she couldn't decide between The Merchant of Venice or The Tempest, so she got both.

Daemon...was more difficult. The one she kept returning to, she finally placed firmly back on the shelf, picking up Macbeth instead. He would like something darker than the others. She slipped a copy of Hamlet in her own bag, to read, to share if she thought he might like it later. Sam's comments about insanity had made her wary.

Not that Macbeth seemed properly sane, but she thought he'd like the castles and witches and the riddles of their prophecies.

A bottle of yarbarah for Saetan as well. For Jaenelle, a necklace with a delicate silver spider--a Black Widow--on it's web. And a lambswool cable-knit sweater, a heather green to bring out the gold of his eyes, for Daemon from a store called...she tried to remember. Right. Macy's.

Her lips tugged in a smile, remembering their conversation. He'd understand. She wrapped a large red bow around that one. He'd understand that, too.

She sat back with a sigh when they were all placed and breathed in the scent of the pine. With a final look, she got up and made her way toward breakfast and the rest of the Winsol celebrations.

OOC: We've all been slow/not here lately, and it's a hectic week, but I wanted to put something up for the celebration. Any and all BJT muses feel free to hop in, drop by, chat, dance, whatever, as you like/have time/please. Blessed Yule and Happy Winsol! :-)

ETA: Added links to Jaenelle and Daemon's non-book gifts.
birthrightgreen: (feeling blue)
The morning was cold, with a fresh snowfall covering tracks that had been made yesterday and frosting the windows. She figured it had started to snow somewhere in the middle, but hadn't checked a timepiece to see exactly when. Instead she'd watched. Just watched. She hadn't moved from where she was curled under the covers. Hadn't unclenched her hand from the feathers, though now the muscles ached and were screaming at her to let go. It was only the insistence of her bladder that finally drove her from the nest she'd made in the bed. After she moved mechanically through her morning routine, she moved back to the bed, determined to try and get some sleep at least. But Graysfang was giving her a baleful look. He had his own way of getting out, so she just stared at him. He stared back.

"Oh, all right."

Boots and trousers, a sweater, coat, hat and mittens later, she felt distinctly unfeminine and ridiculous, but she had a happily prancing wolf at her side as they moved quietly outside. Lucivar would be up soon, if he wasn't already, but Surreal was rather determined to avoid practice this morning. Possibly even breakfast. With that thought in mind, she signaled to Graysfang and circled back around to the kitchen. Mrs. Beale was slightly more in charity with her today, since she'd been very careful to put the kitchen back to rights after making nutcakes yesterday. She grabbed the few that Daemon hadn't hoarded or devoured and tucked them in a napkin, then headed back outside where Graysfang was dancing the prancing dance of a male who needed attention. Now. Nevermind that she'd spent the night at home. In her bed. Alone except for him.

Bloody males.

Always springing things on you when you least expected it and least were prepared for it. Just when you thought you had figured out where you stood with them and were all right with that. You didn't expect more, because who would give more to a woman like you? She'd hoped for more once, only to have it borne home that she was what men wanted in the bedroom, but not elsewhere. Too difficult. Too competitive. Too strong. And now the two of them...

Both of them reducing her, her, to tears in one day. She'd blame her moontime, except it had just passed. She never cried. And if tears did escape some nights in the dark when the nightmares she'd never admit to having were too strong, she never let anyone see.

Graysfang was jumping around, throwing up snow at her. With a sigh she snagged a stick from a drift and hurled it for him, watching him run off after it, like it was the world's greatest treasure.

A new toy, a new plaything. If she moved to the Tower, moved in with Sam, one would come along. He'd grow used to her, or become irritated when she questioned things. And there'd be a new toy to go running off after, and she'd be left alone, waiting for him to come home, never knowing whose bed he was in. There'd be screaming and threats and a sincere desire to rip him into pieces that she would keep to herself because if her family found out...if Daemon found out...

She couldn't bear the shame of that twice. To be the tossed aside toy twice. To have to return home to them in shame, twice.

But it was becoming more and more clear that she couldn't stay here. It hurt too much, laced with a bittersweet joy that she'd never thought to know. Dreams she hadn't acknowledged in decades were poking their heads out in a most annoying fashion. She had to go before it got worse. Before she broke and begged. Before she abandoned everything she held dear and asked for the one thing that would damn her as the whore she knew she was. They didn't see her as that here, and she couldn't bear for them to. It galled her to admit how much their opinions meant, how much their love and affection meant.

She had to leave before she lost it. If not to Sam's, if she couldn't bring herself to take that step, if when they talked they couldn't work things out, then maybe to the townhouse in Amdarh. Society and the Season. There would be plays and balls and entertainments, and the Sa Diablo name would open doors, even if eyebrows were raised behind painted fans. Distractions. Maybe Sam would visit and they could go on as they were, if they couldn't go forward. Maybe in time they'd figure something out. It was selfish of her anyway, to always want what she couldn't have. She should be better than that, and be grateful for what she did have. It was more than she deserved.

Amdarh held welcome possibilities. It wasn't like she'd be abandoning the family. She could serve Jaenelle there. Move through the throngs and see what whispers there were of Dorothea and what might be coming to Little Terreille. People always talked in front of her. They liked to pretend she was invisible, and forgot themselves in the game. She could be useful in Town in a way she wasn't here. She wasn't a country girl, she thought, even as she hurled the stick for Graysfang again, much to his wriggling delight. She needed something to do. And the social intrigue of the city suited her. Being of some use would give her a purpose again.

After Winsol then. After they danced to the glory that was Jaenelle, when truly she would see that...maybe someday but not now. No matter how much it hurt. She wouldn't let them see. Couldn't. And so she'd go.

She rubbed her temples, the lack of sleep and repeated floods of tears leaving her with a headache.

After Winsol, she'd figure out where to go. And then maybe things would make sense again.
birthrightgreen: (I see you live by your charm)
It's time to let you go
It's time to say goodbye
There's no more excuses
No more tears to cry
There's been so many changes
I was so confused
All along you were the one
All the time I never knew

I want you to be happy
You're my best friend
But it's so hard to let you go now
All that could have been
I'll always have the mem'ries
She'll always have you
Fate has a way of changin'
Just when you don't want it to

Throw away the chains
Let love fly away
Till love comes again
I'll be okay

Life passes so quickly
You gotta take the time
Or you'll miss what really matters
You'll miss all the signs
I've spent my life searching
For what was always there
Sometimes it will be too late
Sometimes it won't be fair

I won't give up
I won't give in
I can't recreate what just might have been
I know that my heart will find love again
Now is the time to begin...

I'll be okay
I'll be okay
I can't hold on forever baby
I can't hold on forever baby
I can't hold on forever baby
Yeah, yeah
I'll be okay

Amanda Marshall, "I'll be okay"

OOC: Nothing to do with Sam, so don't let him freak out when he comes back to life.
birthrightgreen: (putting up hair)
She changed her dress three times. Then a fourth. Then went back to the second one she'd been wearing. She'd never worried about wearing anything too revealing out with Daemon before, but if he was going into protective mode...

Well. She hadn't anything dowdy and were she to wear something dowdy he might not go with her because she'd look so wretched. Daemon could be so particular about his clothes. She eyed the pile on the bed. Apparently that was another lesson he'd passed on. She settled on a simple gown, elegant and flattering of her slender figure and her coloring. Alluring but not a dress that she would have worn to work in.

Hair half up, half down, though she considered putting it all up to discourage errant fingers, but then couldn't do that. She liked those fingers far too much.

Loved them even.

Loved. She tried the word out mentally a couple of times. Loved. She loved his fingers. She loved his smile. She loved. Him.

She loved him.

"I love him."

And now Daemon was finally going to meet him. Jaenelle had gotten to, briefly, but Daemon...

She nibbled at her nail, then stopped, horrified at herself. Daemon first. Then, if that went well enough, Saetan. Lucivar.

But Daemon worried her most. Slipping her shoes on, she took a deep breath and reviewed the evening's plans.

She'd made arrangements for dinner in Amdarh at one of Daemon's favorite restaurants. Dinner was superb there and their wine list impressive. She thought Sam would approve.

Now, if she could just keep the two men civil and calm for the evening, things would be well. She cursed the Darkness for growly males in general, and Warlord Princes specifically and went in search of Daemon.

ooc: *g* we still need to play out Surreal telling Sam about the plans, but I figured I'd get this up if nothing else after Surreal and Daemon's chat tonight, as we're all playing a bit slow, and I have work tomorrow. :)
birthrightgreen: (B&W soul's pleading)
Have you ever experienced something you couldn’t explain? Write down your brushes with the mysterious.

Experienced, no. But observed...yes.


I live in a world where magic, Craft, reigns supreme. The Blood rely on their Craft, their power for almost everything, even things that landens seem to find simple like cooking and putting on shoes.

My family is considered by many to be mysterious, but there are not unexplainable. They are as they are. Where once I may have balked at the name of the High Lord, and far more at the Priest of the Hourglass, he now is just Uncle Saetan. He is a deep well and complex and the tiers of his soul extend deeper into the Darkness than I care to plunge, but I seen nothing unexplainable there.

But love. Love I find I do not understand. Not as it is in Kaeleer.

I understand friendship. I am beginning to understand family. Slowly.

I understand love in it's familial form. I love Daemon. I love Jaenelle. I love Titian and Tersa. I am coming to love Uncle Saetan and even Lucivar and Marian and the coven. I would die to protect any of them.

But it is not this love I'm speaking of. The love between Daemona and Jaenelle. That between Lucivar and Marian. Between Morghann and Khary. The love that...binds people together...

I see it. I can see how they react to each other, how they are torn apart when they are separated or fighting. How they feel the others' highs and lows. So much of what I know about relationships between females and males, however, comes from my other observations. How females belittled males, and males, in turn, belittled the whores with no status to make them bow. The simmering resentment. The jealousy, that was over favor, not love. Terreille carries a poison that Kaeleer has only felt the faintest taste of. Yet despite that, Daemon and Lucivar have found it in them to love.

Despite centuries of mistreatment at the hands of Queens, they now kneel willingly to serve. And yes, Marian and Jaenelle are more than worthy of being served. I am honored to be in Jaenelle's service. But it is more than Protocol.

They love. Love with a fierceness I never knew Daemon was capable of. A devotion I would have laughed had someone told me of it a mere two decades ago.

I don't understand this power. This feeling. This...desperation for the touch, the presence of another. A specific other. It doesn't make sense. Where does it come from? How can you feel it when all you have seen is the baser part of the nature of the opposite sex? I have...the things I allowed...what my profession demanded...

And yet, to have a...a lover. To take him as such. To play with the possibility of...more to come than the physical exhilaration of pleasing and being pleased, of excellence in bedroom games...

It is frightening. And daunting. And I do not understand it.

But I want to.
birthrightgreen: (headache)
She's restless. Worried. Confused. So many things she doesn't understand and not understanding is making her want to scream. She's not one for giving into hysterical screaming though, so she kicks the furniture instead. Hard. Graysfang had loped in from the woods when he sensed she was back, and now stands in the doorway to the balcony watching her, worried.


She snarls at him slightly before she checks herself. It's not his fault.

"Don't. Fuss." Clear warning in her tone. He ducks his head.

She doesn't want to be fussed over. She wants...she doesn't know what she wants. Frustration prickles under her skin as if trying to drive her mad. Only two things she can think of to drive that feeling away, and one of them is unlikely for Darkness knows how long. So the other.

She changes swiftly into Lucivar-approved training clothes. She's still not as skilled as she'd like to be with the fighting sticks. She's likely to be bruised and battered and sore in all the wrong places by the end of it.

At least if the Darkness is merciful she will be.

She goes in search of one of the Eryiens to train with, or anyone else foolish enough to cross her path and agree to it.


birthrightgreen: (Default)

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