faderifting: (Default)
Fade Rift Mods ([personal profile] faderifting) wrote in [community profile] allthisshitisweird2019-01-22 11:09 pm
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TEST DRIVE MEME

TEST DRIVE MEME

While in some alternate, tidier timeline, the War against the Elder One ended years ago, you're not in that timeline. It's 9:45 and there's a war raging in northern Orlais between the Inquisition and its allies and the army of demon-bound Wardens, Red Templars, Venatori loyalists, and darkspawn Corypheus has amassed over the last four years. Rifts are still scattered across the continent, periodically spitting out strangers from strange worlds with green-glowing anchors embedded in their hands. There's no Herald of Andraste to save Thedas. Someone else is going to have to do it.

Under the leadership of the Herald's advisory council and Seeker Pentaghast, the Inquisition remains in Skyhold and manages an army of thousands. But you're not going to Skyhold. You've been assigned to the Inquisition's outpost in Kirkwall, one occupying an island fortress called the Gallows—formerly a Circle of Magi, more formerly a prison for slaves, but the Inquisition has done a good job removing the more grotesque reminders of that past and making the place livable.

Maybe it's an honor; they're doing important work. Maybe it's an insult; they're rumored to be a lot of weirdos and troublemakers. Or maybe you're a rifter and just going where the nice people with swords tell you that you need to go.


I. THE GALLOWS: Welcome to the Inquisition. Here's a broom, and there's a mess: a shattered window, a splintered pile of wood where a wardrobe was thrown out that window into the frost-encrusted courtyard, a whole shelf of jars containing rat hearts and deathroot and other miscellanea that exploded like firecrackers. The Gallows doesn't house much in the way of a cleaning staff, so it's up to whoever doesn't have anything better to do, and whether you like it or not, at the moment that person is you.

The source of the mess—an apparent invasion of ghostly spirits—has already been dealt with, but a door might still slam, and the shards of glass might still rattle. It's harmless, though. Probably.

II. KIRKWALL: The Marquis d'Lussard is very heavy, as you discover when it becomes your job to fetch him from the Hanged Man, where his sightseeing tour has ended in a drinking contest that he decidedly lost. Now he's swinging between unconsciousness and mumbled drinking songs, apparently a hugger when he has control of his arms, and heavy. He's also, diplomatically speaking, worth his weight in gold, so getting him back to the Gallows' guest quarters in one piece is worth the effort.

That means making your way through the streets of Lowtown and down to the Gallows at night, on ice-patched streets, with a masked Orlesian nobleman whose entire slumping, singing presence screams please rob me blind. Try to resist any and all urges to drop him into things, including ditches, uncovered drops into Darktown, and the harbor.

III. THE WAKING SEA: The island is too small to have a name, a dot of land off of Kirkwall's Wounded Coast that's traditionally only seen use by fishermen who wanted a guarantee they wouldn't be hassled for a few days. But in more recent years, it's been a permanent home to someone, people say, until the last few months, when the nightly fires stopped appearing. Nervous whispers from the coastal bandits and explorers who ventured out to see if its resident left anything worth stealing have reached the ears of Provisional Viscount Bran Cavin, and as a personal favor to him, the Inquisition is sending a couple of people to have a look.

And here's what you're looking at: a rocky, sandy stretch of land with a few dozen scraggly trees, each of them decorated with dolls in various styles, in various states of decay. All of them give off energy—some friendly, some malevolent, some despairing—and if you're very quiet, it's possible they whisper. Or maybe that's the wind through the masts of a nearby shipwreck. Either way, they're definitely home to bound spirits, and probably more than one spider.

There are more in the wooden hut at the island's center, which is also where the bones and tattered robes of the island's former occupant can be found. (There's no sign of blood magic or ill intent. Just a lot of dolls. Everyone needs a hobby.) Box them, burn them, have a funeral or don't. As long as someone can tell the Viscount that he doesn't have to add an island of possessed dolls to Kirkwall's list of tourist attractions/nightmare fuel, the mission will be a success.

IV. SEND A MESSAGE: Each member of the Inquisition (or rifter, or ally) is assigned a blue crystal, small enough to wear around the neck, that can transmit voice messages, as well as an enchanted book tied to that crystal that can be used to exchange written messages. They're secure enough to discuss the war, if you'd like to get down to business, but loosely controlled enough to ask a question or play a game with only a few rolled eyes from people who hate fun.

V. WILDCARD: From the Gallows' library to the pirate islands off the coast, from Hightown's high-priced market stalls to the frostbitten frontlines of the war, Thedas is yours to explore.

eternally: (pic#6047945)

Jack Frost (Rise of the Guardians) | NATIVE-AU | hello hi he is a spirit of fun

[personal profile] eternally 2019-01-26 12:44 am (UTC)(link)
some rift somewhere
The weather around the rift is intense, unseasonably powerful, fat hailstones dropping violently out of the clouds in the area and harrying the things crawling out... but curiously, only in the area. Everywhere else, though the wind is sharp and cold, it is simply snowing. Once any anchor bearers come in close enough to do the work of dispatching the demons that poured out of that green rip in the air, the suspicious storm lets up, and that (almost) seems like that.

But before the rift can be fully sealed, another person appears in the field — or was he always there? — a young man that is tall but whip thin, with bright white hair despite the fact that he appears quite young. His clothing looks terribly old and threadbare and wears no shoes, without heed for the fact that his toes are buried directly in snow, and there is a shepherd's staff covered in faintly glowing frost tucked into the crook of one elbow so that his hands are freed up to be gaped at.

In the center of one palm is a strip of glowing green light.

A bit absently, like he isn't talking to anyone but himself even though there are now people nearby: "What is this?"

gallows courtyard
Whoever tried to rope Jack into doing real, actual work clearly had never met him before, because after the initial shock of being handed a broom (the same surprise he regards anyone who addresses him directly with, for at least the first couple seconds), Jack has proceeded to do exactly zero cleaning up.

Instead, he keeps sweeping the frost around while keeping an eye on whoever got suckered into working alongside him, surreptitiously dropping the tip of his long, spindly shepherd's staff down to tap the ground whenever they get too close to sweeping up anything substantial, freezing the bit of whatever there to the cobblestones beneath it. When confronted he just grins brightly, spreading his hands in a very innocent totally clueless shrug. Weird, right?

"Hey, let's take a break." Absolutely nothing has been accomplished here. Minor details. "Want to do something more fun?"

Wildcard
[Does your character really need cheering up? To have some fun, even against their better judgment? Leave me one of those "come bother me!" starters and Jack will fix them right up or your money back!]
reshapes: ([045])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-26 12:49 am (UTC)(link)
Look who can't get a word in edge-wise now. She successfully bowls over a few sharp sounds of protest and one or two scoffs of disbelief - him? Tricked? Highly unlikely -, the result of which at least means that by the time she's done the long pointed teeth poking out of Bartimaeus's otherwise very human mouth have at least started to feel (and look) more silly than intimidating. He's still mad as a cat in a bag of course, but who wouldn't be? Never mind the harassment, the constant need for a very human guise, the intolerable drain of the rift shard on his honestly enfeebled essence, and the depressingly consistent backwards thinking on spirits and their ilk that evidently is a requirement for every version of the physical world. He's tired. And tipsy. And he just wants to take her by her long dark hair and--

"--Hold on," he blurts out around his mouthful of shark's teeth. It's loud in the otherwise abandoned stairwell despite the marble-mouthed syllables. For a rather long moment, he squints at her through the haze of the evening's activities and the halfway darkness. After the frankly relentless bout of talking, the silence is nearly intolerable.

Finally: "Shouldn't your hair be shorter?"
rathercommon: (unsympathetic (maybe sympathetic))

[personal profile] rathercommon 2019-01-26 12:53 am (UTC)(link)
"I - " Her hand comes up to tug at her hair. She had been thinking of cutting it short, back home - to change her appearance and all that. Easiest way to throw people off her trail. But she certainly hasn't here.

Of course, that incredulous question sends a puff of air in her face. She wrinkles her nose in disbelief. "Bartimaeus, are you drunk?" But that's beside the point. "No, my hair shouldn't be shorter. Look - " She lets out a breath. "I think the problem is that we've come here from - From different times."
reshapes: ([040])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-26 01:10 am (UTC)(link)
"You're drunk," he may or may not mutter. It's hard to tell around all the teeth.

Anyway, that's not the point. The point is: "Really? That's what you're jumping to? Time travel? A second ago your theory was some magician posing as your doppelganger. Which I shouldn't have to tell you is absurd. No magician in their right, fat headed mind would ever stoop so low as to pretend to be a commoner like yourself. And for another thing--"

Here, he pauses. He'd been on the verge of saying that it couldn't be anyone but her. That the thing she's known from that wobbly pentacle had been too specific not to be. That he knew the strangeness of her aura. That no magician in countless centuries except one had ever even thought to ask about the guise of the Egyptian boy, never mind put so much thought into it.

But you know what? No. Come to think of it, he'd rather not talk about any of that. It's not as if she'd wanted to know for any good reason after all.

"F-for another thing, you shouldn't walk around with loose money in your pockets. You're practically asking to be robbed."
rathercommon: (ummm whatever though)

[personal profile] rathercommon 2019-01-26 01:15 am (UTC)(link)
"What?" God, he's simply so insufferable sometimes. And he's definitely drunk. She shakes her head - "Look. You've got one of these, right?" She lifts her hand to display the green mote smoldering there. "And you've had people calling you a Rifter. Right? Basically, it's like - " She frowns, struggling to articulate it.

"They've got this thing here, the Fade, that's the realm of dreams. And I guess, back home, on Earth, we dreamed about ourselves, and because of magic, the dreams became reality. So that's what we are. Dreams made into reality. And probably you were further along in time than I was when you dreamed, or something - or maybe you were from some sort of parallel world, like mine, but where I'm summoning dem- spirits or something - but basically what I'm trying to say is that everything here's different and the things you're assuming, you probably shouldn't just assume."
reshapes: ([025])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-26 01:37 am (UTC)(link)
Cue another round of trying and failing to interject. Eventually: "Yes, I've heard all that." The boy raises his hand and waggles his talon ended fingers. The pulse of the rift shard winks from the center of the palm. "And ignored it, because it's not possible. Spirits don't dream. We don't even sleep."

Or they're not meant to. Strangely enough, he keeps finding his attention wandering so far and for such long stretches of time that he could almost swear-- but that's not the point either.

"I'm not like you. I don't belong in places like this. I can't be here if someone hasn't dragged me kicking and screaming. It sounds to me like whatever they've told you is true can't be. And if you're here, and I'm here, there's nothing to say you're not what's shackling me here whether you remember anything about it or not."

So maybe she isn't the Kitty Jones who summoned him. Maybe something strange happened to them both on the way to this place. But she is still some kind of Kitty Jones and maybe the laws of nature and magic that link spirits and their summoners are just doing the best they can in a confusing situation. Who hasn't been there, right? Which means... --which means!

A sudden light finds the boy's dark eyes. His clawed hands surge forward like he might snatch at her shirt collar or grab her by the shoulders, then stop halfway to it.

"You need to dismiss me!"
rathercommon: (scared)

[personal profile] rathercommon 2019-01-26 01:44 am (UTC)(link)
The claws come at her. It's instinct that takes over more than anything else - a hand going down for her knife, stepping back to get out of his reach -

Stepping back. The problem is that there isn't anything behind her. The ball of her foot hits flat stone, but the heel drops out into nothingness - and she stands, teetering on the arch of her right foot, the left jutting into the air, inscribing circles as it tries to help her find her balance and to help her find her balance forward. But gravity wins; with a shriek issuing from her mouth, she starts to tip backwards, into the emptiness that leads to the harbor a deadly distance below.
reshapes: ([009])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-26 03:40 am (UTC)(link)
That's one way to cook an egg.

If he's right (and he usually is) and she's what's keeping him here, it doesn't really make much difference does it? The death of the magician that summoned him sends him packing just as quickly as a few words properly arranged. Honestly? It might be faster.

So after a split second's hesitation, Bartimaeus watches Kitty Jones disappear off the edge of the stairs and into the darkness of the open air beyond them.

And why shouldn't he! There's no reason at all not to let her fall to her very ridiculous death. Serves her right, acting like such a know it all around a powerful djinni who's only in the rescuing business when it's convenient or by a demand he quite literally can't refuse.

A groaning sound at his feet draws his attention. Bartimaeus finds the Marquis squinting up at him in confusion.

"What? It's not like I pushed her." And then-- "Fine! But I'm only doing this so I'm not responsible for you."

With a sigh, the boy falls into the darkness after the girl. But what snatches her out of the air is a griffon, a sickly green rift light oozing out from between its talons.
seaboard: (but will not lift you)

[personal profile] seaboard 2019-01-26 09:44 am (UTC)(link)
When she turns back to face him, she has a bundle of bones in her apron. Clattering about, hollowed-eyed and brittle. A skull that stares out from amongst the pieces. But mercifully, all free of spiders.

"Well, I have you with me - it is very hard to be scared all alone, and with a brave soldier." She thinks, at least, from the garments, the bearing, venturing a soft gaze over him somewhat hopefully that she has been correct. It comes to a quick realisation that she has never seen many soldiers up close. Only on ships passing through. "... And they are spirits. Their matters are their own, if they wanted to speak with us, I am sure they would, and if they wanted to hurt us, I cannot think a single spirit that would not have struck us down already."
seaboard: (hang you like a lullaby)

[personal profile] seaboard 2019-01-26 11:02 am (UTC)(link)
[ That is an awful thing to sing to a baby!! ]

Should that be sung to a babe?
rathercommon: (stressed)

[personal profile] rathercommon 2019-01-26 12:10 pm (UTC)(link)
The fall is long enough that Kitty has time to think. And what she thinks is: God, what a stupid way to die. After everything she's survived, the impossible odds, the battles, everything - her grand ambitions will come to an end because she wasn't watching where she put her feet. What was it even all for, if she's just going to -

A sudden impact. And now she's dead, she supposes. But - well - her mind seems awfully active for death. Is this what death is like? Getting trapped to think and think without ever getting to act? That's really...No, hold on, it's -

She grabs at the legs of the griffon, trying to steady herself, trying to make sure she doesn't fall. Her limbs are shaking, and she's gasping for breath; tears prick at the edges of her eyes. But something saved her - But Bartimaeus saved her, she realizes. In between the numbness of terror, other emotions creep in: gratitude, and embarrassment, and confusion, and a bit of shame.

"All right," she gasps, "put me down - " And then, because he might very well fly up high and drop her out of spite over being told what to do - "Please."
reshapes: ([007])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-26 03:01 pm (UTC)(link)
So here's the thing.

The real trouble with Thedas isn't learning to keep his mouth shut when someone says 'But luckily we've all already agreed to think Rifters aren't demons', or having to trot around in an inoffensive guise all day. It's the part where he has, inexplicably and for the first time in his very long existence, something tied to him.

You'd think it'd be the same as being bound to something, or stuck inside it. And oh that happens all the time. Say something a little too smart or demolish the wrong ancestral tomb when they actually meant to raze the hillside next to it3 and suddenly you're playing the role of cheeky spirit confined to the table vase for the next year. Or you're bound to a carpet. Or you're trapped in an obelisk for so long that the literal sands of time bury and forget you. These things happen.

But in all those cases, the spirit is the same. Worse off? Sure. No one likes slowly wasting away with their knees around their ears. Meanwhile, in this one?

This is something altogether different. This is a girl clinging to his legs while the reality of the rift shard rooted in his essence feeds from the effort of the change, its constant appetite for him turned suddenly ravenous. This is a devouring millstone around his neck. It drags him down, down, down.

"I'm-- trying," says the griffon through its grit beak.

Which is how, after one fantastic backwing to slow their fall, they plummet together into the freezing black water of the Kirkwall harbor.
3. Not his fault. The plans were extremely unclear.
Edited 2019-01-26 15:04 (UTC)
rathercommon: (discombobulated)

[personal profile] rathercommon 2019-01-26 03:31 pm (UTC)(link)
The water takes the breath out of her, like a punch to the stomach. She flails, swallows water - it's salty and sour and has the taste of things she doesn't want to think about - But the pirates, they've taught her how to swim. And thank God for that; a year ago, she didn't know how to so much as tread water - but now she has the instincts. More than the instincts - she knows to let out a burst of bubbles and follow them upwards until her head bursts forth into air.

She gasps for breath; coughs; retches; and then swipes an arm across her eyes, not managing to clear any water at all with her sopping sleeve. Her eyes burn with the salt, but there's no time to dwell on it. Because -

"Bartimaeus! Bartimaeus!"
reshapes: ([003])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-26 04:18 pm (UTC)(link)
The sound of her voice carries then is swallowed by the push and pull of the jet dark, bitter cold water. It isn't quiet, it isn't still, but even the nearby lights of the stepped city seem remote. A frigid wind blows across the waterway. There is no call in return and no sign at all of the griffon.

There is, however, one of the boy: surfacing now with a gasp of air some distance to Kitty's left before a new wave slaps him in the face. He disappears again with a ragged gurgle.
Edited 2019-01-26 16:18 (UTC)
rathercommon: (not sure what's happening but not good)

[personal profile] rathercommon 2019-01-26 04:27 pm (UTC)(link)
Kitty lets out a curse. Of course he's no good at swimming. - Why would he be? It's clear that his powers are reduced in some way. Previously, he could no doubt turn into a fish quick as blinking, but here, now - he's hardly shifted his form even once, when before, he'd flick through them almost compulsively. He'd have no reason to learn to swim with human limbs, but now, he's stuck with them.

She's not such a strong swimmer herself, yet, but - But she sets off for him. There's no sign of him on the surface, but she thrusts her hand downward - and her fingers hit against something living. She gropes blindly and finds cloth, uses it to haul him up above the surface. Her arms scoop beneath his armpits, and she leans back to pull his face away from the waves. Her legs kick frantically to support herself and him.

"Breathe - " She urges him. And - "Are you all right?"

They sit low in the choppy water; the waves push at the sides of their heads. But there's a sort of equilibrium now, where they're not sinking and not in (immediate) danger of being pushed below.
valosatredum: (FtcOi8R)

[personal profile] valosatredum 2019-01-26 05:15 pm (UTC)(link)
The Tevinter flavoring of his name doesn't go unnoticed, but nor does she seem to mind. The Hanged Man sees all types, and that of an easygoing merc is common enough not to to raise any red flags on its own. "I like 'Krem', it's faster." Short and to the point, like a certain dwarf.

She chuckles dryly at the question in between sips, unwinding a little more with each one. "What, you haven't heard that we get a mansion each in Hightown? Complete with a swimming pool filled with the gold coins, for when mere water isn't enough. It's an easy life, I tell ya.

...nah, the pay sucks for all the hours and amount of shit we have to put up with. I think the nobles expect the Inquisition to deal with the worst problems; and fair enough, I wouldn't know what to do about demons and whatever. But we still have plenty of smaller problems and most of them don't just go away because of what's happening in the wider world."
reshapes: ([037])

[personal profile] reshapes 2019-01-26 05:22 pm (UTC)(link)
"I don't--" He's spluttering objections the instant he's plucked from under the water. "Need to-- breathe."

Never you mind that he's panting for air while hanging like a sack of mud in her arms, twisting his face to keep it above the lap of water. That's irrelevant after the effort he'd spent floundering his way back out of the depths. Griffons, as it turns out, aren't meant for swimming. They're awfully dense. Sink like stones.

And somehow the moment after a change is always the most difficult one. Already the effort takes all his concentration, all his intent, but the moment after sparks some flash of confusion and alien panic. It's a bit like wrestling with himself knowing that the next second he'll be duking it out with the shard's demands. And while he'd never say that a few millennia of easy shapechanging have left him flabby (it does take skill, you know), the added difficulty certainly raises the stakes. Makes things like not making a fool out of yourself a little tricky.

Under the water, he kicks his feathered and furred legs until they sort themselves out. It takes a few seconds but eventually Kitty should find herself with an armful of sea lion, its down-soft pelt oil slippery in the sea. Sure, he might feel more like a giant sturgeon fish or a shark right about now, but the proximity of the rift shard in any guise without a sizable limb to keep it contained makes him a little queasy. Flippers might not be very dignified, but they get the job of dredging the pair of them toward the city's walled banks just fine.
rathercommon: (more chatting)

[personal profile] rathercommon 2019-01-26 05:30 pm (UTC)(link)
She gives out a startled noise of dismay when he starts to feel slimy - but it's just a trick of the fur that he sprouts. He's not, as she thought, turning into an octopus or an eel or something else horrible. Which is doubly fortunate, because this new form is big enough that she can hold onto him to get back, which...She probably could have made it back, but she's not completely sure. So. This is good.

They make it to a little dock jutting out into the water. She grabs hold and yanks herself up (treading only once on his bewhiskered head, which gets him a muttered sorry), then holds her hand down to him to help him onto solid ground. She's shivering powerfully, teeth clacking in her head. The night was chilly, but not unbearable when dry - but with the both of them drenched in the harbor's water, the cold might be enough to kill them.

"We'll need to find an - an inn, or someplace of the like. Quick as we can."
inkindled: (01)

[personal profile] inkindled 2019-01-26 07:43 pm (UTC)(link)
"What!" It's a yelp. Panic and irritation. Matthias' voice rises in pitch, climbing toward the upper stratosphere of his register. "That's extortion! That's extortion! You're extorting me with your-- creepy-- nghk--"

In the grand register of magic words, nghk is not very good or dramatic. But Matthias isn't trying to be dramatic, or cast any magic. The tingle of heat that flushes through his body is more like an inside-out sneeze. No visible flames, just the heat, a warmth that nosedives quickly to burn, crashing past subtler layers.

Matthias feels the spell huff out through his skin, and the flash that follows, the bowels-deep weightless high that comes after magic has been cast. Suddenly, briefly, he is an iron panhandle left too close to a fire, and Nub Arm is both bare-hands gripping and flagellating the hot pan with his nubby arm. And--

"Piss off!" --Which is little too close to a shriek, but is better, as far as magic words go.
meds4sale: (Silly silly me.)

[personal profile] meds4sale 2019-01-26 09:51 pm (UTC)(link)
"There is no need for repayment," he said in that slow, even tone of his. Emoting was something that happened to other people.

He closed the lid on the box, and stowed it back in the medicine pack. He felt no real attachment to more than a handful of his belongings and they accumulated quickly. If she didn't pick out the comb, it would have probably sat in there for decades - or even centuries.

He gave voice to none of this, but rather lightly tapped the side of his head to indicate the veritable mass of hair he kept tucked away under the bandanna.

"I know such struggles very well."
meds4sale: (Telling it like it is)

[personal profile] meds4sale 2019-01-26 10:18 pm (UTC)(link)
It wasn't the first time the Medicine Seller's credentials were called into question - after all, he was rather dodgy with his makeshift set-up heavily contrasting the elegance of his wares. And there wasn't exactly a Thedosian equivalent to Yelp reviews for various merchants and peddlers.

"Healers in the Inquisition have frequently purchased my wares," he said in that same cold monotone, "and I have heard no complaints. However, if you would prefer a sample, that would be agreeable."

Worst case scenario is that Krem would find he didn't like the remedy and it would have cost neither of them much of anything.
inkindled: (06)

[personal profile] inkindled 2019-01-26 10:19 pm (UTC)(link)
To a baby with a sense of humer.
wont_be_me: (pic#12313731)

[personal profile] wont_be_me 2019-01-26 10:43 pm (UTC)(link)
I find something to amuse myself with.

[ Or someone whatever. ]
wont_be_me: (056)

[personal profile] wont_be_me 2019-01-26 10:45 pm (UTC)(link)
Puerile.
inkindled: (12)

[personal profile] inkindled 2019-01-26 10:48 pm (UTC)(link)
"Matthias," he corrects, as if perhaps champ was an assumption of his name. He's not going to take offense to some overly-familiar and could-be-maybe-slightly-patronizing nickname, chiefly because there seems to be the possibility of a meal it for him. And also it doesn't feel genuinely patronizing. Just a little, in the thoughtless way that a lot of adults accidentally put on. "I had lunch, yeah."

And then dinner. But that was small, and a little while ago, and the waitress is walking over, and free food is dancing tantalizingly near to Matthias' grasp, so he goes for another gulp of ale rather than admit to his dinner.

"I just got here," he says, once he's downed that sip. "We sort of joined up at Ghislain. The others that made it sodded off elsewhere afterward, but I think it's brilliant, what the Inquisition's trying to do. How's it work for mercenaries, anyways? You're paid for it and all, but you've some say in the people you work for, right? You can not take the work and look for another job if you don't like the offer or the cause or some part of it."

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