[Adrian] Adrian's 'home' - or, well, the first place that's more or less his own that he's ever lived, at any rate, and it feels strange to think of it as such. He knows, despite Kora not telling him, of some of what's been going on. He knows that two people he'd considered liking are no longer, at least not here and now, and this is a sad thing - but by way of making it somewhat easier to deal with, there are things to do.
There's calling Drew (who'd likely gotten his number from Moira) and letting her know he's back, there's calling Kora for the same. These things are necessary, however undesirable; not that he minds either of the women knowing he's in town, but he - like anyone else - wouldn't mind avoiding dealing with the fall out. Kora, of course, was invited to his flat when she said they needed to talk - at a meal time, because Adrian's spent the last most-of-a-week with Children of Gaia to whom such things are important. There's curry enough for both of them, set out on the table that's been cleared of academic trappings for this purpose, and the place is quite clearly that of a bachelor student. The walls are lined with built in shelves full of books, and amongst these are two clear cases full of antique weapons and tools (antique as in from a dig somewhere, pre-historic in some cases, not from the 1700s) displayed in quite an attractive manner. Over there, there's a foosball table. But mostly? There's the trappings of a man working on his masters thesis.
Kora knocks, and when Adrian answers the door, he looks as much the fashion plate as ever. "Hallo," he says, and there's a hint of a smile - pleased to see that she, at least, is alright perhaps. "Come in."
[Kora] This visit is different from the visits she made the weekend before. Then, she walked in from the either, smelling of blood and rain. Then, her name was Sorrow. Then, she had blood on her hands, not her own.
Today, she is clean. Her hair is pulled back from her face in the intricate interweaving of a French braid, which dovetails into a thick plait hanging down her back, doubled over so that the length is halved and the dark tips are tucked back up under the braid, secured with a handful rubber bands, blue and red, the sort one wraps around bundles of pencils or a stack of financial records, not the sort one finds, purposemade, in the store for securing hair.
She is dressed simply, in jeans that fit her well enough, and a pale green t-shirt, cotton shot through with something sateen, shiny. The boatneck reveals the architecture of her collarbones, though the spring colors are tempered by her black boots, the black belt cinched through the belt loops, around her hips, the braided black leather choker she wears around her neck, and the dark leather and suede bracelets she wears around either wrist.
"Adrian," - if there was an appointed time, she is either late, or early. Unless the appointed time was "sunset" or "moonrise" or something else that can be measured by movement of the celestial bodies, by the slant of light over the earth. She doesn't wear a watch. Her voice is rich and low, and her dark eyes are clear, intent. Still, the twist of her expressive mouth in response to Adrian's smile does not meet the definition of a smile, for all that it follows the fine curve of her mouth.
Just inside, she studies the apartment as she has - in the past - studied him. Takes in the cases of weapons and tools, the stacks of books. If he looks at her from the right direction, in the right light, he will see that she wears a charm that might well belong in there - chased iron, the length of a child's fingerbone, dangling from a heavy iron ring nipped through the inner cartilage of her left ear. "I trust you're well."
[Adrian] "Better than many," he says with a shrug, and his accent is a malleable thing - today, it's mostly London, with only hints of his prior upbringing. Which is, perhaps, to be expected given that he's only recently returned from time spent in England. The appointed time for this meeting was loose - 'around dinner' was all that he'd said, and 'if you get there before I do, I won't be long', though as it turns out the latter had been unnecessary. Now, the door is closed behind his guest and he nods at the table, where dinner for two is set.
It can't be particularly appetizing, this sort of conversation, and he knows it - but he also knows everyone needs to eat. Even Garou. Especially Garou. Who knows? Regardless, it is what it is.
"Time spent with family and friends was nice, and travel was uneventful. So yes, I'm well enough. Thank you." There's a pause then, and he watches her - he doesn't sit until she has, of course. It's only polite. "And I hope that you are, too. As much as can be, at least."
[Kora] Inside the apartment, Kora remains standing. Her hands are in the hip pockets of her jeans, her elbows out. The posture is easy and confident - there's nothing awkward about the way her elbows jut out, nor the way she stands in Adrian's apartment - not a stranger to him, but a stranger to the space - one who should not be confined within four walls and a ceiling. Take away the rage, though - take away that spark of vitality the kinsman can surely see, the shine of health, the faint thread of menace from the beast in her - and she could belong here. Another graduate student, maybe - in her t-shirt and jeans, in her worn black boots. Philosophy, or literature - something equally useless.
Then, her dark eyes drift from the books lining the walls (head canted to read the titles on the spines) to the table, laid out for two. The corner of her mouth quirks.
"You aren't required to feed me, Adrian." Kora says, cutting a direct look back at him, there, as he lingers, waiting for her to sit. She does move, at last, circling the cases, cutting past a stack of books, pulling out one of the chairs and taking a seat at last. " - but thank you. I'm glad your trip went well. I - " she cuts a glance down at the dishes set out, the scent of curry distinct in the air. " - I'm not sure whether you spoke with Moira, but let me tell you this before we eat."
[Adrian] "I haven't yet, no. A . . . Drew? . . . phoned me while I was in London, after you did, but she told me similarly little, other than that Moira was upset. Understandably so, from what I've gleaned."
He's a smart enough young man - it doesn't really take all that much to figure out why Moira is upset, what must have happened. From there, it's not all that difficult to guess at to whom these things happened. But then, a brief return to the other subject.
"I know I'm not required to. But I am required to eat, and it's dinner time. And my manners are hardly so atrocious as to eat in front of you." It's wryly amused, this, but that show is fleeting - soon, his face is schooled back to simple polite concern. He's full of that, this boy, even when he'd really rather not be. It's so much easier when one doesn't care about the Garou around one - for all their strength and power, for all their potential to be nearly immortal, far too many of them die, or disappear.
[Kora] Kora dips her pale head; the expression is minute, brief. Her fine features are still, then. The polite curve of her smile never reached her eyes, and now it filters from her mouth as she looks back over the neatly set table at Adrian, dressed - as ever - in the latest styles.
"My Alpha died." She is clear and dry-eyed, but there are shadows there, deep and lingering - sharpening with the words, the raw edge of her grief flashing again when she offers them to him - in her usual tone, which is rich and low and quiet. There's no hitch in her voice tonight. The roughness has been smoothed over, and she says the words without hesitation. "Kemp," she clarifies then. " - the Jarl.
"He and Moira were close. She also lost her mate, recently, and I want to be sure that she is safe. That she has the support she requires to find her strength again."
[Adrian] "I knew about Connor," he says with a nod, and if he were more like the family he'd just been visiting, he would be moving to enfold Kora in a hug - dangerous as that might be - but he does not. Still, there's sympathy in his eyes, even a limited empathy. He will never know what it's like to lose an Alpha, though he has lost family and friends, lovers too, to this war. He doesn't ask how it happened - Kemp was [is] Fenrir. There is little doubt in his mind that he went with the glory (and Glory) that all of their tribe should . . .
. . . which doesn't do anything to make it easier to bear, in the end. He hadn't known the Rotagar long, or well, but he'd seemed rather likable for a Get. Even aside from the part where he hadn't belittled or berated Adrian the way so many other Fenrir have, it had seemed that Adrian could well become friendly with him in time, much as he has with Kora (as much as anyone can with a beast of war).
"I'll do everything I can," he says, and then hesitates briefly before adding, "Lonna's gone too, isn't she?"
Pieces fall into place, and some of them fit together with ease.
[Kora] Lonna's gone too? Her features still; and then - she nods, tips her head forward in a microgesture of affirmation.
Kora holds her body in neat control, her shoulders and spine straight in the hair, her hands on her lap, not on the table. She sits squarely there, her spine as close to the midpoint of the back as a human could hope to be. There is a faint cant to her chin, though, enough that the light catches the strands of her hair, pulls out the subtle variation of color in the pale locks, emphasized by the weave of the braid.
"Joe War-Handed will answer for our kin until there is a new Jarl. He's my Alpha, now."
She says this intently, as if they were not sitting across from each other at a well-set kitchen table, the scent of curry hanging warm in the air. "I'll give you a number where you can reach him if you've need. If someone wants to claim you. If you require add. If another Garou insults your honor, injures you, or does you wrong.
"You won't be able to attend the rite, but if you have something you wish to give for Kemp's pyre, I'll take it on your behalf. I think Moira will go." Kora pauses, looks down. Her shadow, only, is reflected in the plate set before her. The movement of light and shadow captures her eye before she lifts her chin again. "I would appreciate it if you would stay with her; or if she could stay here, the night after, at the least."
[Kora] Also!
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 3, 6, 7, 9 (Success x 2 at target 8) [WP]
to Adrian
[Kora] And!
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 5, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 3) [WP]
to Adrian
[Adrian] [witnessed!]
to Kora
[Adrian] The bit about Joe gets a nod, and Adrian's face is unreadable following the news - what he thinks of it is anyone's guess, though it hardly matters. Really, all he can do is hope that he continues to lack in reasons to call upon the Jarl; he's been lucky thus far in his Fenrir acquaintances, but as he sees it, he can hardly expect that luck to hold out indefinitely. Eventually, one or more of them is going to think as his father and first sept had: that he's worthless, and unworthy. Whatever he thinks of himself (and he knows he's far from worthless, and that unworthy is a rather subjective matter), it's not exactly easy to hear that sort of thing, and deal with the sort of punishment that comes from it.
Really, there's nothing he can say on any of that, so he doesn't - there's simply a new [old] set to his shoulders and face, walls falling back into place far more easily than they'd been parted.
The bit about Moira, though, is different. "Of course she can stay here. I can miss class for a few days if needs be." Something to add to Kemp's pyre gets a thoughtful frown. As stated, he hadn't know the Rotagar well, or long, though he'd been pleased with what he had known. A glance goes to the cases - the things he holds most valuable, though what they're worth monetarily has little to do with it - and he nods. "I'll send something, yes."
[Kora] "It isn't necessary, Adrian - " her dark eyes track the cut of the young man's glance toward the glass cases, the old, valuable things. Her expression, as always, is still and attentive; she watches him more steadily than a human ever would. More steadily than most Garou would. If he catches her watching him, she does not look away. " - I want to emphasize that. I won't judge you by what you give or whether you give. I'm performing the rite, and I want to ensure that all our kin have the chance to contribute; but only if you wish it."
Her voice is soft; her eyes are dark and opaque now. There is a certain attenuation about her, evident only as the seconds tick by, fold themselves into minutes, knit themselves into moments, weave themselves into pieces-of-hours. "If you need something, as well, you can always come to me. I hope that that is clear."
[Adrian] "I know it's not necessary, and that you won't judge." He does, in fact, catch her watching - and for a brief moment holds her eyes. "Except that it sort of is. As it will be when," not if, it's one of those inevitable, inalienable truths, "we lose you." As it will be if and when a similar rite is performed for Max. It's just the way it is in Adrian's mind - while a great many Garou deaths, Get and otherwise, have gone by unmarked by the kin, it's different for the ones he knows. And even more different for the ones he likes.
"Thank you," he says of the intimation that he can call on her - it's infinitely preferable to calling some unknown Fenrir. "I suppose it's lucky that I'm low maintenance and tend to stay out of trouble, hmm?" Not that Max would have agreed about the latter - goodness knows, the kin's been in enough of it since he came to Chicago. It's simply been trouble he could handle on his own, for the most part. "And I hope you know the same is true for you. And not just where it applies to Moira."
He, too, is folding in on himself, tapering; there's a shrug though, and a nod towards Kora's plate. "I wasn't sure what you'd like, so I got my favorite. Comfort food, you know." Because in some ways, his homesickness has been sated by the trip to London, and in other ways, it's been drawn to the fore - so, like many, he gravitates towards the things most familiar, held most dear.
[Kora] Kora's expression does not alter measureably when Adrian remarks on the inevitability of her death. There is only this, the faint cut of a wry look, direct as she always is. Easily, she tips her pale head forward when the young man remarks on how low maintenance he is. This remark, too, is acknowledged and then folded away with the slantcast of her pale head.
The meal continues, then. Kora helps herself to Adrian's favorites. She listens to whatever stories he has about the dishes, if he has them. She sticks to the easiest topics - British food, the best beers, what makes a decent pub, how hot a curry should really be. She may tell him - passingly - of the kebab shop in Berlin where she worked, once, for three days. She doesn't say when that was, or why she was there, or where she went when she left. Or how she came to be here, in Chicago, sitting in the apartment of a young man who was born of a line of heroes in her tribe, who has been to London and back, and is homesick, and is eating curry and breaking papadum and drinking beer with a young woman who is also a young werewolf and who will die, like the rest of them, someday soon.
There's calling Drew (who'd likely gotten his number from Moira) and letting her know he's back, there's calling Kora for the same. These things are necessary, however undesirable; not that he minds either of the women knowing he's in town, but he - like anyone else - wouldn't mind avoiding dealing with the fall out. Kora, of course, was invited to his flat when she said they needed to talk - at a meal time, because Adrian's spent the last most-of-a-week with Children of Gaia to whom such things are important. There's curry enough for both of them, set out on the table that's been cleared of academic trappings for this purpose, and the place is quite clearly that of a bachelor student. The walls are lined with built in shelves full of books, and amongst these are two clear cases full of antique weapons and tools (antique as in from a dig somewhere, pre-historic in some cases, not from the 1700s) displayed in quite an attractive manner. Over there, there's a foosball table. But mostly? There's the trappings of a man working on his masters thesis.
Kora knocks, and when Adrian answers the door, he looks as much the fashion plate as ever. "Hallo," he says, and there's a hint of a smile - pleased to see that she, at least, is alright perhaps. "Come in."
[Kora] This visit is different from the visits she made the weekend before. Then, she walked in from the either, smelling of blood and rain. Then, her name was Sorrow. Then, she had blood on her hands, not her own.
Today, she is clean. Her hair is pulled back from her face in the intricate interweaving of a French braid, which dovetails into a thick plait hanging down her back, doubled over so that the length is halved and the dark tips are tucked back up under the braid, secured with a handful rubber bands, blue and red, the sort one wraps around bundles of pencils or a stack of financial records, not the sort one finds, purposemade, in the store for securing hair.
She is dressed simply, in jeans that fit her well enough, and a pale green t-shirt, cotton shot through with something sateen, shiny. The boatneck reveals the architecture of her collarbones, though the spring colors are tempered by her black boots, the black belt cinched through the belt loops, around her hips, the braided black leather choker she wears around her neck, and the dark leather and suede bracelets she wears around either wrist.
"Adrian," - if there was an appointed time, she is either late, or early. Unless the appointed time was "sunset" or "moonrise" or something else that can be measured by movement of the celestial bodies, by the slant of light over the earth. She doesn't wear a watch. Her voice is rich and low, and her dark eyes are clear, intent. Still, the twist of her expressive mouth in response to Adrian's smile does not meet the definition of a smile, for all that it follows the fine curve of her mouth.
Just inside, she studies the apartment as she has - in the past - studied him. Takes in the cases of weapons and tools, the stacks of books. If he looks at her from the right direction, in the right light, he will see that she wears a charm that might well belong in there - chased iron, the length of a child's fingerbone, dangling from a heavy iron ring nipped through the inner cartilage of her left ear. "I trust you're well."
[Adrian] "Better than many," he says with a shrug, and his accent is a malleable thing - today, it's mostly London, with only hints of his prior upbringing. Which is, perhaps, to be expected given that he's only recently returned from time spent in England. The appointed time for this meeting was loose - 'around dinner' was all that he'd said, and 'if you get there before I do, I won't be long', though as it turns out the latter had been unnecessary. Now, the door is closed behind his guest and he nods at the table, where dinner for two is set.
It can't be particularly appetizing, this sort of conversation, and he knows it - but he also knows everyone needs to eat. Even Garou. Especially Garou. Who knows? Regardless, it is what it is.
"Time spent with family and friends was nice, and travel was uneventful. So yes, I'm well enough. Thank you." There's a pause then, and he watches her - he doesn't sit until she has, of course. It's only polite. "And I hope that you are, too. As much as can be, at least."
[Kora] Inside the apartment, Kora remains standing. Her hands are in the hip pockets of her jeans, her elbows out. The posture is easy and confident - there's nothing awkward about the way her elbows jut out, nor the way she stands in Adrian's apartment - not a stranger to him, but a stranger to the space - one who should not be confined within four walls and a ceiling. Take away the rage, though - take away that spark of vitality the kinsman can surely see, the shine of health, the faint thread of menace from the beast in her - and she could belong here. Another graduate student, maybe - in her t-shirt and jeans, in her worn black boots. Philosophy, or literature - something equally useless.
Then, her dark eyes drift from the books lining the walls (head canted to read the titles on the spines) to the table, laid out for two. The corner of her mouth quirks.
"You aren't required to feed me, Adrian." Kora says, cutting a direct look back at him, there, as he lingers, waiting for her to sit. She does move, at last, circling the cases, cutting past a stack of books, pulling out one of the chairs and taking a seat at last. " - but thank you. I'm glad your trip went well. I - " she cuts a glance down at the dishes set out, the scent of curry distinct in the air. " - I'm not sure whether you spoke with Moira, but let me tell you this before we eat."
[Adrian] "I haven't yet, no. A . . . Drew? . . . phoned me while I was in London, after you did, but she told me similarly little, other than that Moira was upset. Understandably so, from what I've gleaned."
He's a smart enough young man - it doesn't really take all that much to figure out why Moira is upset, what must have happened. From there, it's not all that difficult to guess at to whom these things happened. But then, a brief return to the other subject.
"I know I'm not required to. But I am required to eat, and it's dinner time. And my manners are hardly so atrocious as to eat in front of you." It's wryly amused, this, but that show is fleeting - soon, his face is schooled back to simple polite concern. He's full of that, this boy, even when he'd really rather not be. It's so much easier when one doesn't care about the Garou around one - for all their strength and power, for all their potential to be nearly immortal, far too many of them die, or disappear.
[Kora] Kora dips her pale head; the expression is minute, brief. Her fine features are still, then. The polite curve of her smile never reached her eyes, and now it filters from her mouth as she looks back over the neatly set table at Adrian, dressed - as ever - in the latest styles.
"My Alpha died." She is clear and dry-eyed, but there are shadows there, deep and lingering - sharpening with the words, the raw edge of her grief flashing again when she offers them to him - in her usual tone, which is rich and low and quiet. There's no hitch in her voice tonight. The roughness has been smoothed over, and she says the words without hesitation. "Kemp," she clarifies then. " - the Jarl.
"He and Moira were close. She also lost her mate, recently, and I want to be sure that she is safe. That she has the support she requires to find her strength again."
[Adrian] "I knew about Connor," he says with a nod, and if he were more like the family he'd just been visiting, he would be moving to enfold Kora in a hug - dangerous as that might be - but he does not. Still, there's sympathy in his eyes, even a limited empathy. He will never know what it's like to lose an Alpha, though he has lost family and friends, lovers too, to this war. He doesn't ask how it happened - Kemp was [is] Fenrir. There is little doubt in his mind that he went with the glory (and Glory) that all of their tribe should . . .
. . . which doesn't do anything to make it easier to bear, in the end. He hadn't known the Rotagar long, or well, but he'd seemed rather likable for a Get. Even aside from the part where he hadn't belittled or berated Adrian the way so many other Fenrir have, it had seemed that Adrian could well become friendly with him in time, much as he has with Kora (as much as anyone can with a beast of war).
"I'll do everything I can," he says, and then hesitates briefly before adding, "Lonna's gone too, isn't she?"
Pieces fall into place, and some of them fit together with ease.
[Kora] Lonna's gone too? Her features still; and then - she nods, tips her head forward in a microgesture of affirmation.
Kora holds her body in neat control, her shoulders and spine straight in the hair, her hands on her lap, not on the table. She sits squarely there, her spine as close to the midpoint of the back as a human could hope to be. There is a faint cant to her chin, though, enough that the light catches the strands of her hair, pulls out the subtle variation of color in the pale locks, emphasized by the weave of the braid.
"Joe War-Handed will answer for our kin until there is a new Jarl. He's my Alpha, now."
She says this intently, as if they were not sitting across from each other at a well-set kitchen table, the scent of curry hanging warm in the air. "I'll give you a number where you can reach him if you've need. If someone wants to claim you. If you require add. If another Garou insults your honor, injures you, or does you wrong.
"You won't be able to attend the rite, but if you have something you wish to give for Kemp's pyre, I'll take it on your behalf. I think Moira will go." Kora pauses, looks down. Her shadow, only, is reflected in the plate set before her. The movement of light and shadow captures her eye before she lifts her chin again. "I would appreciate it if you would stay with her; or if she could stay here, the night after, at the least."
[Kora] Also!
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 3, 6, 7, 9 (Success x 2 at target 8) [WP]
to Adrian
[Kora] And!
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 5, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 3) [WP]
to Adrian
[Adrian] [witnessed!]
to Kora
[Adrian] The bit about Joe gets a nod, and Adrian's face is unreadable following the news - what he thinks of it is anyone's guess, though it hardly matters. Really, all he can do is hope that he continues to lack in reasons to call upon the Jarl; he's been lucky thus far in his Fenrir acquaintances, but as he sees it, he can hardly expect that luck to hold out indefinitely. Eventually, one or more of them is going to think as his father and first sept had: that he's worthless, and unworthy. Whatever he thinks of himself (and he knows he's far from worthless, and that unworthy is a rather subjective matter), it's not exactly easy to hear that sort of thing, and deal with the sort of punishment that comes from it.
Really, there's nothing he can say on any of that, so he doesn't - there's simply a new [old] set to his shoulders and face, walls falling back into place far more easily than they'd been parted.
The bit about Moira, though, is different. "Of course she can stay here. I can miss class for a few days if needs be." Something to add to Kemp's pyre gets a thoughtful frown. As stated, he hadn't know the Rotagar well, or long, though he'd been pleased with what he had known. A glance goes to the cases - the things he holds most valuable, though what they're worth monetarily has little to do with it - and he nods. "I'll send something, yes."
[Kora] "It isn't necessary, Adrian - " her dark eyes track the cut of the young man's glance toward the glass cases, the old, valuable things. Her expression, as always, is still and attentive; she watches him more steadily than a human ever would. More steadily than most Garou would. If he catches her watching him, she does not look away. " - I want to emphasize that. I won't judge you by what you give or whether you give. I'm performing the rite, and I want to ensure that all our kin have the chance to contribute; but only if you wish it."
Her voice is soft; her eyes are dark and opaque now. There is a certain attenuation about her, evident only as the seconds tick by, fold themselves into minutes, knit themselves into moments, weave themselves into pieces-of-hours. "If you need something, as well, you can always come to me. I hope that that is clear."
[Adrian] "I know it's not necessary, and that you won't judge." He does, in fact, catch her watching - and for a brief moment holds her eyes. "Except that it sort of is. As it will be when," not if, it's one of those inevitable, inalienable truths, "we lose you." As it will be if and when a similar rite is performed for Max. It's just the way it is in Adrian's mind - while a great many Garou deaths, Get and otherwise, have gone by unmarked by the kin, it's different for the ones he knows. And even more different for the ones he likes.
"Thank you," he says of the intimation that he can call on her - it's infinitely preferable to calling some unknown Fenrir. "I suppose it's lucky that I'm low maintenance and tend to stay out of trouble, hmm?" Not that Max would have agreed about the latter - goodness knows, the kin's been in enough of it since he came to Chicago. It's simply been trouble he could handle on his own, for the most part. "And I hope you know the same is true for you. And not just where it applies to Moira."
He, too, is folding in on himself, tapering; there's a shrug though, and a nod towards Kora's plate. "I wasn't sure what you'd like, so I got my favorite. Comfort food, you know." Because in some ways, his homesickness has been sated by the trip to London, and in other ways, it's been drawn to the fore - so, like many, he gravitates towards the things most familiar, held most dear.
[Kora] Kora's expression does not alter measureably when Adrian remarks on the inevitability of her death. There is only this, the faint cut of a wry look, direct as she always is. Easily, she tips her pale head forward when the young man remarks on how low maintenance he is. This remark, too, is acknowledged and then folded away with the slantcast of her pale head.
The meal continues, then. Kora helps herself to Adrian's favorites. She listens to whatever stories he has about the dishes, if he has them. She sticks to the easiest topics - British food, the best beers, what makes a decent pub, how hot a curry should really be. She may tell him - passingly - of the kebab shop in Berlin where she worked, once, for three days. She doesn't say when that was, or why she was there, or where she went when she left. Or how she came to be here, in Chicago, sitting in the apartment of a young man who was born of a line of heroes in her tribe, who has been to London and back, and is homesick, and is eating curry and breaking papadum and drinking beer with a young woman who is also a young werewolf and who will die, like the rest of them, someday soon.
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