Jon Potter
First Post
[Realms #380] Raiding Davy Jones' Locker
Ayremac gripped the shell's edge, anxiously scanning the water's depth. He appeared ready to take flight again if more trouble was to come, but the waters remained calm. Small ripples lapped at the side of the shell, and there was an awkward moment of silence in which the truth of Karak's words sank in. Everyone's mind was on Lela, who had borne just such a predicament unto her untimely death. And no one had the heart to speak of such matters at the moment.
"You did good there, lass," Karak at last broke the silence. "You took the big baddie down by yourself and I am might proud of ye. I know ye can nae understan' me, but we'll get you healed up and feelin' better."
"I can assist with that," Ayremac moved forward gracefully, his wings keeping his real weight from unstabilizing the shell as he positioned himself to assist Ixin. "Huzair, can you let her know that I am going to attempt to cure her?"
Huzair spoke reassuringly to Ixin, and Karak turned to address the rest of the party. "Actually we all did good on that one," the dwarf said, looking at each of the others in turn. "We have to remember, it takes teamwork to fight these elementals." Morier made a guttural sound and looked away. It was evident that whatever had taken place between the albino and his sword had yet to be resolved.
Karak continued this time looking only at Morier as he did so. "You know when the sword took over your will, that be remindin' me of an old dwarven wives' remedy for what be a goin' on between you and your sword," he said. "You see if'n the husband be not listen' to what the wife wants. Well, she locks 'em up in a cave or mine for as long as it takes for him to see the light. If'n you be gettin my meanin'." Huzair and Shamalin exchanged a bemused look. Morier started as if to speak, and then changed his mind.
The dwarf went on with increased animation. "That's right... no chalaks, or ale, or even good food bein' allowed 'im until his mind's right, you see. Before too long that old stubborn dwarf, well, he listens now," he nodded his head as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "At least that is what they tell me for as ye can see, I like havin' me own mind and have me no wife." Karak's hearty laugh made the shell rock dangerously as he reveled in the humor of his tale.
"Indeed, it must be hard for the dwarven women to keep their hands off of you, Karak," Huzair remarked, lighting a cigar with his finger and savoring the taste of it. "I am not suprised that you are not fond of dwarven women." He puffed, contemplating the warrior a moment before adding, "I totally respect your choice. Nothing wrong with that... I even have some friends who follow your lifestyle."
Karak's face screwed up in consternation, but Shamalin interceded. "There's magic below. I could feel it when I was down there. I'll be the one to retrieve the key." Ayremac's head snapped up and the priestess shot him a look. "Stay," she insisted, "do what you can for Ixin. I have some lesser spells which can halt the advance of the disease if you can not cure her." She turned to Karak, who was eyeing Huzair menacingly. "I'll take Karak. We've been down before, and he can move more easily. Huzair, lend us your Haversack." The mage's eyes narrowed, but Shamalin held his gaze.
"It better come back just as full as it is now," he relented with a knowing look at the dwarf. Shamalin rolled her eyes.
"Fuller, I assure you," she said.
They found the sea bottom was much as they had first seen it - other than it was now littered with the dead bodies of three giant lobsters. The bizarre growth of the coral that had seemed to press in on them while they were fighting the lobster things was gone, another illusion conjured by the tentacled fish. Already small fish had begun to feed upon the carcasses and Shamalin knew they needed to act quickly, before the smell of blood and flesh attracted more unwanted attention.
Her return trip to the bottom left her buried to the knees, making every moment an exhausting labor. She struggled to maneuver toward the matching half of their clamshell boat. It had glowed strongly with the telltales signs of magic and was lying half-buried in the ocean floor. Karak dug for a few minutes with his hands, then gripped its edge and heaved the great shell over.
Once the water had swirled and settled, they could discern a trove of underwater treasure. Shamalin's fingers shook with excitement as she held up the Elemental Key of Water, and they marveled at it briefly. Then together they worked to add the remaining bounty into the Haversack. Once it was done, they activated the Levitation spell and rose easily to the surface where the party was eagerly awaiting their return.
No sooner had Shamalin climbed out of the water with the elemental Key than the runes around the shell's edge began to glow brighter and brighter. The portal back to the elemental hub activated at once and, given the fact that they were all tightly packed into the shell, there was little choice but for them to gate out of the water node.
Not that there was a lot of desire to linger there.
"Three down," Karak said, grinning at Shamalin and the glowing cube she held in her fist. "Stick it in, lass. It's your turn." Shamalin looked at the dwarf and then at the Key.
"Is that really in the group's best interests?" she asked, her voice sounding frightfully small. Karak screwed up his face in surprise.
"Eh?" he grunted.
"Is it really in the best interests of our party to have me try to become a heavy hitter?" she asked, and there was such naked earnestness in her face that even Karak paused to consider. "I certainly don't mind taking the sword; I am next in line to have one. But, in all honesty, I don't aspire to wield one." The dwarf harrumphed.
"Swords can be used for more than combat if they have special powers," Huzair reminded, and Flameblade swelled momentarily at his belt, filling the chamber with crackling orange light.
"Shamalin, can we speak for a moment... aside?" Ayremac asked, moving toward the furthest point in the room and beckoning her to follow. The cleric's brow furrowed in confusion and she glanced momentarily at the others then shrugged before following the holy warrior.
Once they were both out of earshot, Ixin tapped Huzair's arm. "Ayremac renthisj. Shamalin?" she asked, a note of frustration in her voice.
"Huzair othoroshkent," he replied with a shrug.
"Ixin tuor othokent! Mroshith caex Ixin, Arivexoth, Ixin renthoshisj! Ixin othoroshkent! Ixin dartak!" her voice grew louder and louder with each word until by the end she was very nearly shouting and a bit of acrid smoke curled dangerously from her nostrils. Karak grabbed Huzair by the upper arm and pulled him in close.
"What's she on about, wizard?" the dwarf growled in a too-loud whisper that, of course, he needn't have bothered with since Ixin couldn't understand a word of what he was saying anyway.
"I'm not sure. She says she misses her sword," the mage replied in the common tongue. "That without it she can't speak or understand what's going on." Karak nodded.
"Aye! She had a sword what allowed her to speak an' understand any language," the dwarf explained. "That'd come in a might handy right about now."
Ixin looked painfully at Karak. She pointed at Stoneblade then at the empty spot on her own hip. Then she indicated her ears and mouth and shrugged helplessly. The dwarf stepped closer and patted her arm reassuringly.
"Aye, lass," he said. "I ken ye. We'll suss somethin' out."
"What is it, Ayremac?" the cleric asked once they were out of easy earshot. "You have some counsel for me regarding the Key?" The Officer shook his head at that.
"Shamalin, I can't really counsel you on whether or not to take an elemental blade," he admitted and his expression grew pensive as he continued. "The fact is, I really want to wield one. Maybe it's the warring man in me, or just the eager adventurer... but such a powerful weapon... I feel like I could use it to do great things."
"So you wish to draw the next blade?" the cleric asked, trying to get at the heart of Ayremac's argument.
"No. That's not it," he countered. "If you honestly feel that you can't wield its power to the greatest benefit of the group, then maybe it's a sign. I, however, believe that you can do it. You're creative. You're smart. And not every weapon is at its best slicing through the air towards the enemy." Shamalin looked at the man and then at the Key in her hand.
"Thank you," she said, simply. "You've made the decision easier." Then she turned and walked over to the socket corresponding to water and placed the Key within it. The center shaft began to glow with blues and greens and she thrust her arm in, drawing forth a moment later a dirk that glistened and dripped with moisture.
"I AM WAVEBLADE, SCION OF WATER, MIGHTIEST OF THE ELEMENTAL BLADES!" the dagger roared in a voice like the ocean breaking against a cliff face.
"This isn't a weapon at all; it's a Rod of Withering," Huzair told them, holding up the device so that its metal head, fashioned into the shape of a skeletal fist, thrust into the air in an obscene manner. "Pretty potent magic."
"Pretty evil, too," Ayremac said, his gaze threatening.
"Not intrinsically," Huzair countered, putting the Rod into the growing array of Identified magic items on his left. "It is Necromantic magic though."
"And therefore evil," the Officer of Umba said. His voice was calm and even, but it concealed a sharp, flinty edge. The wizard just shrugged.
"Whatever you say, fly boy," he snorted. "I'm not making value judgments, just reading the magic." He picked up the Goblet of Life and filled it with water from a skin. "Give me wine," he said, holding the cup in both hands (mostly to prevent its contents from sloshing over the side). "And something with a little more kick to it this time."
The water in the Goblet changed at once to a deep red beverage into which the mage dropped some more of the pearls that Karak had crushed with his warhammer. Then he took his owl feather and began to stir the concoction.
"Boss, you're going to need a new feather when this is all over," Sparky twittered into his ear and Huzair drew the feather out and looked at it critically (which was a challenge given the number of wine draughts he'd consumed already). It was severely bedraggled, darkening from snowy white near the quill to a sopping burgundy at the tangled end.
Ixin looked at it too and the sight stirred something within her. She'd seen such feathers before, she felt sure. The draconic word for peace drifted up from some dark and hidden depth within her. "Martivir," she whispered and the word brought with it a flash of snowy wings and kind, wise eyes. Her familiar. She'd kept him safe within her Cloak of Many Pockets and-
She paused with her hands half-way to the cloak that was not there. It had been destroyed when she failed the Test of Fire. And Martivir with it, no doubt. But if that was the case then why did she feel no loss? She knew - or thought she knew, anyway - that the loss of a mage's familiar always ill-effected the bonded mage. Was the owl somehow still alive somewhere? No. That didn't seem right. She felt no bond either. If the familiar yet lived, she would be able to sense a connection to it, but there was none. It was as if Martivir had never existed - as if she'd never called a familiar at all.
She knew that was wrong too, though. She'd had him with her when she'd left the Dragon Isles. She could vaguely remember performing the ritual to call him just after finding out that she was to be sent to the the human lands as an emissary to the holdings of Skrazargul the Green. He had been her companion for a long while, making that pampered prison tolerable. Hadn't he? She could recall a sense of him, but no specifics, as if he'd existed only as an idea and not a real, solid thing.
She felt a momentary sense of floating at that, as if she'd come unmoored within her own skin and was about to go spiraling off once more into whatever hell she'd been rescued from. She reached out a hand to steady herself and it fell upon the hilt of one of her borrowed scimitars. Her hand closed desperately around it and at once she settled back into herself.
And with it came other memories.
She turned the sword over in her hand, looking at the bears snarling from the hilt and pommel and marveling that such an unassuming weapon could stir such feelings within her. It had belonged to Ruze, she remembered, as had its twin. The last time she'd seen the man alive he'd been engaged in battle with the matched pair against... what? A giant? That seemed right, but she remembered fire and spiders and rats as well. The memory was tenuous. It seemed like a very long time ago indeed.
That was troubling to her. The time between failing the Test of Fire in the Grove of Renewal and being saved in the Test of Fire in this place had done something to her. Aged her perhaps, or drawn out her awareness impossibly, stretching her senses until events of half a year ago now seemed to have a gulf of epochs between them and her present self. She was like a strand of gum arabic drawn between two fingers that were slowly moving away from one another, pulling her consciousness ever thinner as they went.
But she remembered Ruze. And the scimitars were a physical tie to what had gone before. They felt right in her hands and for the moment she was content to ignore the part of herself that wondered what would happen when the gulf widened far enough that the strand connecting the Ixin of then and the Ixin of now finally snapped.
"Ixin?" she heard the fairy-born say and looked up. Shamalin was there, divested of her massive plate armor and looking very tiny as a result. She settled herself on the floor before the drakeling. "Mag ich sitzen?"
Ixin just looked at her, confused and the priestess smiled gently.
"Ich möchte Ihnen helfen, unsere sprache zu erlernen," she said, pointing to her own mouth and then moving her hands between herself and Ixin in a back-and-forth gesture. "Wurde sie mögen das?"
The drakeling supposed that she was asking to have a conversation, but that would only lead to frustration and Ixin shook her head. "I cannot speak your tongue," she said in Castillian. "It's pointless."
"Ich kann sie unterrichten, unsere Sprache zu verstehen und zu sprechen," Shamalin replied. She pointed again to her own mouth and then to Ixin's ear and the drakeling began to think she might be offering to teach her to speak their language. She nodded hesitantly.
"Gut," the fairy-born told her. For a moment, Shamalin's eyes hunted about, settling finally on the scimitar in Ixin's lap. She pointed at it and said, "Klinge."
"Klinge?" Ixin asked, raising the weapon a bit and Shamalin nodded, smiling.
"Ja," she grinned. "Klinge."
Ayremac gripped the shell's edge, anxiously scanning the water's depth. He appeared ready to take flight again if more trouble was to come, but the waters remained calm. Small ripples lapped at the side of the shell, and there was an awkward moment of silence in which the truth of Karak's words sank in. Everyone's mind was on Lela, who had borne just such a predicament unto her untimely death. And no one had the heart to speak of such matters at the moment.
"You did good there, lass," Karak at last broke the silence. "You took the big baddie down by yourself and I am might proud of ye. I know ye can nae understan' me, but we'll get you healed up and feelin' better."
"I can assist with that," Ayremac moved forward gracefully, his wings keeping his real weight from unstabilizing the shell as he positioned himself to assist Ixin. "Huzair, can you let her know that I am going to attempt to cure her?"
Huzair spoke reassuringly to Ixin, and Karak turned to address the rest of the party. "Actually we all did good on that one," the dwarf said, looking at each of the others in turn. "We have to remember, it takes teamwork to fight these elementals." Morier made a guttural sound and looked away. It was evident that whatever had taken place between the albino and his sword had yet to be resolved.
Karak continued this time looking only at Morier as he did so. "You know when the sword took over your will, that be remindin' me of an old dwarven wives' remedy for what be a goin' on between you and your sword," he said. "You see if'n the husband be not listen' to what the wife wants. Well, she locks 'em up in a cave or mine for as long as it takes for him to see the light. If'n you be gettin my meanin'." Huzair and Shamalin exchanged a bemused look. Morier started as if to speak, and then changed his mind.
The dwarf went on with increased animation. "That's right... no chalaks, or ale, or even good food bein' allowed 'im until his mind's right, you see. Before too long that old stubborn dwarf, well, he listens now," he nodded his head as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "At least that is what they tell me for as ye can see, I like havin' me own mind and have me no wife." Karak's hearty laugh made the shell rock dangerously as he reveled in the humor of his tale.
"Indeed, it must be hard for the dwarven women to keep their hands off of you, Karak," Huzair remarked, lighting a cigar with his finger and savoring the taste of it. "I am not suprised that you are not fond of dwarven women." He puffed, contemplating the warrior a moment before adding, "I totally respect your choice. Nothing wrong with that... I even have some friends who follow your lifestyle."
Karak's face screwed up in consternation, but Shamalin interceded. "There's magic below. I could feel it when I was down there. I'll be the one to retrieve the key." Ayremac's head snapped up and the priestess shot him a look. "Stay," she insisted, "do what you can for Ixin. I have some lesser spells which can halt the advance of the disease if you can not cure her." She turned to Karak, who was eyeing Huzair menacingly. "I'll take Karak. We've been down before, and he can move more easily. Huzair, lend us your Haversack." The mage's eyes narrowed, but Shamalin held his gaze.
"It better come back just as full as it is now," he relented with a knowing look at the dwarf. Shamalin rolled her eyes.
"Fuller, I assure you," she said.
They found the sea bottom was much as they had first seen it - other than it was now littered with the dead bodies of three giant lobsters. The bizarre growth of the coral that had seemed to press in on them while they were fighting the lobster things was gone, another illusion conjured by the tentacled fish. Already small fish had begun to feed upon the carcasses and Shamalin knew they needed to act quickly, before the smell of blood and flesh attracted more unwanted attention.
Her return trip to the bottom left her buried to the knees, making every moment an exhausting labor. She struggled to maneuver toward the matching half of their clamshell boat. It had glowed strongly with the telltales signs of magic and was lying half-buried in the ocean floor. Karak dug for a few minutes with his hands, then gripped its edge and heaved the great shell over.
Once the water had swirled and settled, they could discern a trove of underwater treasure. Shamalin's fingers shook with excitement as she held up the Elemental Key of Water, and they marveled at it briefly. Then together they worked to add the remaining bounty into the Haversack. Once it was done, they activated the Levitation spell and rose easily to the surface where the party was eagerly awaiting their return.
No sooner had Shamalin climbed out of the water with the elemental Key than the runes around the shell's edge began to glow brighter and brighter. The portal back to the elemental hub activated at once and, given the fact that they were all tightly packed into the shell, there was little choice but for them to gate out of the water node.
Not that there was a lot of desire to linger there.
"Three down," Karak said, grinning at Shamalin and the glowing cube she held in her fist. "Stick it in, lass. It's your turn." Shamalin looked at the dwarf and then at the Key.
"Is that really in the group's best interests?" she asked, her voice sounding frightfully small. Karak screwed up his face in surprise.
"Eh?" he grunted.
"Is it really in the best interests of our party to have me try to become a heavy hitter?" she asked, and there was such naked earnestness in her face that even Karak paused to consider. "I certainly don't mind taking the sword; I am next in line to have one. But, in all honesty, I don't aspire to wield one." The dwarf harrumphed.
"Swords can be used for more than combat if they have special powers," Huzair reminded, and Flameblade swelled momentarily at his belt, filling the chamber with crackling orange light.
"Shamalin, can we speak for a moment... aside?" Ayremac asked, moving toward the furthest point in the room and beckoning her to follow. The cleric's brow furrowed in confusion and she glanced momentarily at the others then shrugged before following the holy warrior.
Once they were both out of earshot, Ixin tapped Huzair's arm. "Ayremac renthisj. Shamalin?" she asked, a note of frustration in her voice.
"Huzair othoroshkent," he replied with a shrug.
"Ixin tuor othokent! Mroshith caex Ixin, Arivexoth, Ixin renthoshisj! Ixin othoroshkent! Ixin dartak!" her voice grew louder and louder with each word until by the end she was very nearly shouting and a bit of acrid smoke curled dangerously from her nostrils. Karak grabbed Huzair by the upper arm and pulled him in close.
"What's she on about, wizard?" the dwarf growled in a too-loud whisper that, of course, he needn't have bothered with since Ixin couldn't understand a word of what he was saying anyway.
"I'm not sure. She says she misses her sword," the mage replied in the common tongue. "That without it she can't speak or understand what's going on." Karak nodded.
"Aye! She had a sword what allowed her to speak an' understand any language," the dwarf explained. "That'd come in a might handy right about now."
Ixin looked painfully at Karak. She pointed at Stoneblade then at the empty spot on her own hip. Then she indicated her ears and mouth and shrugged helplessly. The dwarf stepped closer and patted her arm reassuringly.
"Aye, lass," he said. "I ken ye. We'll suss somethin' out."
"What is it, Ayremac?" the cleric asked once they were out of easy earshot. "You have some counsel for me regarding the Key?" The Officer shook his head at that.
"Shamalin, I can't really counsel you on whether or not to take an elemental blade," he admitted and his expression grew pensive as he continued. "The fact is, I really want to wield one. Maybe it's the warring man in me, or just the eager adventurer... but such a powerful weapon... I feel like I could use it to do great things."
"So you wish to draw the next blade?" the cleric asked, trying to get at the heart of Ayremac's argument.
"No. That's not it," he countered. "If you honestly feel that you can't wield its power to the greatest benefit of the group, then maybe it's a sign. I, however, believe that you can do it. You're creative. You're smart. And not every weapon is at its best slicing through the air towards the enemy." Shamalin looked at the man and then at the Key in her hand.
"Thank you," she said, simply. "You've made the decision easier." Then she turned and walked over to the socket corresponding to water and placed the Key within it. The center shaft began to glow with blues and greens and she thrust her arm in, drawing forth a moment later a dirk that glistened and dripped with moisture.
"I AM WAVEBLADE, SCION OF WATER, MIGHTIEST OF THE ELEMENTAL BLADES!" the dagger roared in a voice like the ocean breaking against a cliff face.
"This isn't a weapon at all; it's a Rod of Withering," Huzair told them, holding up the device so that its metal head, fashioned into the shape of a skeletal fist, thrust into the air in an obscene manner. "Pretty potent magic."
"Pretty evil, too," Ayremac said, his gaze threatening.
"Not intrinsically," Huzair countered, putting the Rod into the growing array of Identified magic items on his left. "It is Necromantic magic though."
"And therefore evil," the Officer of Umba said. His voice was calm and even, but it concealed a sharp, flinty edge. The wizard just shrugged.
"Whatever you say, fly boy," he snorted. "I'm not making value judgments, just reading the magic." He picked up the Goblet of Life and filled it with water from a skin. "Give me wine," he said, holding the cup in both hands (mostly to prevent its contents from sloshing over the side). "And something with a little more kick to it this time."
The water in the Goblet changed at once to a deep red beverage into which the mage dropped some more of the pearls that Karak had crushed with his warhammer. Then he took his owl feather and began to stir the concoction.
"Boss, you're going to need a new feather when this is all over," Sparky twittered into his ear and Huzair drew the feather out and looked at it critically (which was a challenge given the number of wine draughts he'd consumed already). It was severely bedraggled, darkening from snowy white near the quill to a sopping burgundy at the tangled end.
Ixin looked at it too and the sight stirred something within her. She'd seen such feathers before, she felt sure. The draconic word for peace drifted up from some dark and hidden depth within her. "Martivir," she whispered and the word brought with it a flash of snowy wings and kind, wise eyes. Her familiar. She'd kept him safe within her Cloak of Many Pockets and-
She paused with her hands half-way to the cloak that was not there. It had been destroyed when she failed the Test of Fire. And Martivir with it, no doubt. But if that was the case then why did she feel no loss? She knew - or thought she knew, anyway - that the loss of a mage's familiar always ill-effected the bonded mage. Was the owl somehow still alive somewhere? No. That didn't seem right. She felt no bond either. If the familiar yet lived, she would be able to sense a connection to it, but there was none. It was as if Martivir had never existed - as if she'd never called a familiar at all.
She knew that was wrong too, though. She'd had him with her when she'd left the Dragon Isles. She could vaguely remember performing the ritual to call him just after finding out that she was to be sent to the the human lands as an emissary to the holdings of Skrazargul the Green. He had been her companion for a long while, making that pampered prison tolerable. Hadn't he? She could recall a sense of him, but no specifics, as if he'd existed only as an idea and not a real, solid thing.
She felt a momentary sense of floating at that, as if she'd come unmoored within her own skin and was about to go spiraling off once more into whatever hell she'd been rescued from. She reached out a hand to steady herself and it fell upon the hilt of one of her borrowed scimitars. Her hand closed desperately around it and at once she settled back into herself.
And with it came other memories.
She turned the sword over in her hand, looking at the bears snarling from the hilt and pommel and marveling that such an unassuming weapon could stir such feelings within her. It had belonged to Ruze, she remembered, as had its twin. The last time she'd seen the man alive he'd been engaged in battle with the matched pair against... what? A giant? That seemed right, but she remembered fire and spiders and rats as well. The memory was tenuous. It seemed like a very long time ago indeed.
That was troubling to her. The time between failing the Test of Fire in the Grove of Renewal and being saved in the Test of Fire in this place had done something to her. Aged her perhaps, or drawn out her awareness impossibly, stretching her senses until events of half a year ago now seemed to have a gulf of epochs between them and her present self. She was like a strand of gum arabic drawn between two fingers that were slowly moving away from one another, pulling her consciousness ever thinner as they went.
But she remembered Ruze. And the scimitars were a physical tie to what had gone before. They felt right in her hands and for the moment she was content to ignore the part of herself that wondered what would happen when the gulf widened far enough that the strand connecting the Ixin of then and the Ixin of now finally snapped.
"Ixin?" she heard the fairy-born say and looked up. Shamalin was there, divested of her massive plate armor and looking very tiny as a result. She settled herself on the floor before the drakeling. "Mag ich sitzen?"
Ixin just looked at her, confused and the priestess smiled gently.
"Ich möchte Ihnen helfen, unsere sprache zu erlernen," she said, pointing to her own mouth and then moving her hands between herself and Ixin in a back-and-forth gesture. "Wurde sie mögen das?"
The drakeling supposed that she was asking to have a conversation, but that would only lead to frustration and Ixin shook her head. "I cannot speak your tongue," she said in Castillian. "It's pointless."
"Ich kann sie unterrichten, unsere Sprache zu verstehen und zu sprechen," Shamalin replied. She pointed again to her own mouth and then to Ixin's ear and the drakeling began to think she might be offering to teach her to speak their language. She nodded hesitantly.
"Gut," the fairy-born told her. For a moment, Shamalin's eyes hunted about, settling finally on the scimitar in Ixin's lap. She pointed at it and said, "Klinge."
"Klinge?" Ixin asked, raising the weapon a bit and Shamalin nodded, smiling.
"Ja," she grinned. "Klinge."
