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Tirlanolir/D'nemy's Tales of Turgos: The Heroes of Goldfire Glen (UPDATE 7/26)
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<blockquote data-quote="Canaan" data-source="post: 2820236" data-attributes="member: 40239"><p><strong>Chapter 2: In Exile</strong></p><p></p><p>The nadir of my standing in the religious order of Canaan, and, thus the Curia, is forever tethered to the beginning of my true spiritual quest. For many months I had been toiling over dusty tomes locked away in the most esoteric corners of the temple library in Soliel, the spiritual and political center of Canaanism. Unbeknownst to my superiors, I had been delving in forbidden lore. It was Archbishop Tagavarius, the skeletal, pale, heartless eyes of the Curia for the school I attended who discovered me. He brought me before the order. The trial was swift. I was to be banished. That evening, as I awaited extradition, kneeling in a frigid, rancorous, windless cell, my faith in Canaan blossomed. Ideas that long slumbered awoke and the Endlessness, the Eternal, the Boundless, poured into me like a bloated river pours over parched winter-scorched land in the first days of Spring. I was liberated from fear of the Curia. They were bound to the Rules of the Church. Not to Canaan. I also felt the presence of Canaan all around me. His miracles were not taken from me. All the ceremony of the earthly, pawing Curia that were meant to sever my bindings to His Almighty failed. Canaan had not abandoned me! </p><p></p><p>Deep in the embrace of His Most Profound, I knelt in sublime bliss. The hard stone of the floor dug into my knees, and I felt no pain. But as with all things save Him Who Must Be Adored, the bliss ended, abruptly. </p><p></p><p>I was shaken by the sound of keys digging into the lock of my cell. The large wooden door creaked open and I caught only a glimpse of the tongue-less, hunchbacked unfortunate that served as the Curia’s dungeon keeper. He swiftly stepped into a shadow beyond the door to allow four armored soldiers to enter. I knew by the Canaan Cross on their coats that they were Justicars, the muscle of the Curia. They stood in a square, each one taking up a corner, leaving space before me for the entrance of Archbishop Tagavarius. His white, lipless mouth was bent down in its usual deep scowl. </p><p></p><p>“Heathen!” he roared. “Stand!” </p><p></p><p>I obeyed. </p><p></p><p>“I thought I was to be….” I began, my eyes staring at his blue slippers. He was adorned in the typical conspicuous fineries befitting his standing in the Church. Gold and purple lacing that surrounded a brilliant cross the color of the sun at its zenith. </p><p></p><p>“Silence!” He commanded. I must say, despite my solid disdain for the man, he had a voice that demanded attention. His icy eyes bore into me. “Yes. There has been a change in the schedule. Despite my protests, the Curia has voted to allow you to begin your sentence as Soliel sleeps. They feel it is better for the city if your disgrace remains discreet. I feel your punishment is far too genteel. You forayed into the taboo without the wisdom or spiritual clarity to handle the knowledge you gleaned. Left unchecked, you could have lost your very soul with such dabbling! Worse yet, in your naiveté you could have summoned up Unspeakables that reside on the very edges of sanity itself!”</p><p></p><p>I stood quietly, listening to his shallow accusations. I heard them many times before in my arrest, my arraignment, my trial and my sentencing.</p><p></p><p>I knew this sudden change had nothing to do shielding me from scandal, but to prevent the city itself from asking questions about me being defrocked. If they were to answer with the truth, it would uncover the Curia’s most staunchly guarded secret, that such knowledge existed under their protection. Such a revelation would shake the foundations of the Curia and test their stranglehold over Turgos. </p><p></p><p>I was lead in silence to the gates of Soliel. By night, the looming, marble buildings seemed to soak up the darkness. Tall, implacable black monoliths looking on with scorn. The streets where quiet. The only sound was the soldiers’ gait and the click of the Archbishop’s staff striking the cobblestones. At last we arrived at the south gate. The ten foot tall doors yawned open. Archbishop Tagavarius silently passed me a small bag of gold and silver. He turned and walked away. The soldiers remained. They did not move until I cleared the gate and the doors portcullis fell behind me. </p><p></p><p>My path lay before me, and I was ecstatic. </p><p></p><p>In the month that followed, I journeyed south. I passed through many small villages where I used the money left for me to procure a suit of studded leather and a mace so I would have some means to defend myself. I also purchased a small donkey and various traveling sundries to survive my travels. I had nowhere in particular to go, and trusted in Canaan to lighten my path. </p><p></p><p>I even purchased a new Canaan Cross, blessed it one cloudless dawn and wore it even as I slept, as I do to this day. Canaan has never left me, nor shall he ever. Wherever I went, I introduced myself as a Priest of Canaan, and no one ever questioned my claims. My suspicions regarding the Curia’s reasons for keeping my crimes covert were only strengthened. </p><p></p><p>As I traveled, I had much time to reflect on the course of events that brought me to where I was.</p><p></p><p>My family was farmers. We all bore fiery red hair and light, sapphire hued eyes. We worshiped the Green.</p><p></p><p>Nestled in a Northern wilderness, protected on all sides by high mountains and thick forests, my earliest memories were collecting eggs in cramped, odorous chicken houses, dragging baskets laden with freshly shorn wheat, carrots and beans at Harvest, and helping my father mend holes in our thatched roof under heavy rainfalls. The smell of pitch instantly carries me back to those times and to that place. </p><p></p><p>My childhood was not easy, but it was pleasant, loving, safe, caring, and secure. But it never felt entirely whole. I silently harbored a deep longing. There was something missing from my life, something the tales and promises of the Green could not fill. </p><p></p><p>It was not until a group of strangely attired foreigners tread upon our land one cool autumn evening that I discovered my true calling. I was eleven years old and I recall my father’s rancor at that site of the men. I was stacking barrels of dried beans in our barn when I first heard their songs of praise dancing on a strong, northern wind that blew into the barn through the cracks in the boarded walls. </p><p></p><p>I was enraptured. The entire time they spent in our midst, I held close, learning the stories of Canaan, how He created the world from His love and how all he asked in return was that His Creation love him in return. </p><p></p><p>I converted. </p><p></p><p>Crushed by my new found certainties, my family privately disowned me, but in the presence of the missionaries, so as not to offend them and threaten the wrath of the Church, they remained placid, and even feigned joy when the missionaries announced my conversion.</p><p></p><p>I returned to Soliel with the missionaries and began my tutelage under the stoic glares of Father Donner. He was a round man, short and plain. Small eyes under thin spectacles that bridged an oblong, mole spattered nose, which twitched whenever he spoke not unlike a squirrel’s. He was an academic and made soft in frame from years of intellectual pursuits at the expense of fitness. His tales of the Will of Canaan were far different than those of the missionaries. He taught us that Canaan is a vengeful God, a jealous God, a God that demands strict adherents to the Law He set forth. This Law, the good Father claimed, was governed with Divine Authority by the Church of Soliel and the Curia, Canaan’s Eyes, Voice and Hand on Turgos.</p><p></p><p>The Arcane arts were forbidden. Their power was derived from the guidance of demons, devils and other unmentionables. Worshippers of the Green were heathens, wild and barbaric, performing blood rituals of sacrifice, just as evil and decrepit as any abomination. </p><p></p><p>Father Donner was speaking of my family. I could not believe what I was hearing. I began to question him, but was soon quieted with threats of punishment. I held my tongue. Over the years I studied dutifully. I excelled at every course and learned to channel Canaan’s Will through the power of prayer and perform simple miracles designed to aid those in need. But I quietly looked for any opportunity to refute the claims of the Church that all deviations from the Path of Canaan were to be unilaterally condemned. </p><p></p><p>It was then that I discovered the secreted store of hidden knowledge. Buried deep under the halls of the temple was a library filled with dusty tomes detailing the levels of Hell and the Abyss. The wastelands of Tarterus and the burning deserts of Gehenna. I read of the fates of those who were condemned to reside in such horrific abodes and the incessant wars demons and devils waged against one another. </p><p></p><p>I learned too a path that combined the Divine with the Arcane. Specialized Priests with the wisdom to bridge the powers and remain in the service of Canaan. They were called Urgic Mystics and I knew upon reading those words that there lay my fate. </p><p></p><p>And then I was discovered.</p><p></p><p>I traveled alone for many weeks, my donkey my only companion. I found myself along a tree covered forest path when my donkey let out a snarl. I turned to see he was walking with a limp. I stopped and examined his hoof to find that somehow he had managed to wedge a long, sharp stone into a hoof. Blood circled the edge of stone that jutted out from the hoof. It was in deep.</p><p></p><p>I struggled for some time in a futile attempt to dislodge the offending rock and only managed to make my already irritated beast of burden downright livid. He whinnied angrily at me and even tried to bite me, but I managed to stay out of reach of those big, raking teeth. </p><p></p><p>I had all but given up when out of the thick foliage on the side of the road came a tall, gaunt man dressed in a long green robe. His auburn hair lay about his face, framing large, quizzically calm brown eyes. </p><p></p><p>“I see you’re having trouble with your donkey.” He kindly uttered.</p><p></p><p>“Yes.” I answered, exasperated, exhausted and embarrassed. </p><p></p><p>“Hmm…” said the man as he came around and examined the damaged hoof on his own. “I see. That’s quite a rock he’s got in there.” </p><p></p><p>“I’ve tried everything short of cutting off the leg.” I said. The donkey huffed.</p><p></p><p>The man smiled. </p><p></p><p>“There will be no need of that.” He said and reached down, touched the hoof and all the green that surrounded me grew even more brilliantly verdant. The man quietly muttered some soothing words and my donkey remained still. </p><p></p><p>A moment later the man was standing in front of me, the stone in his hand.</p><p></p><p>“There we have it.” He said. “Best you do what you can to steer clear of sharp stones.” </p><p></p><p>“Yes.” I replied as he tossed the stone into the foliage. I was too appreciative to take offence to the criticism. He held out a hand. I took it.</p><p></p><p>“My name is Shale.” He said. </p><p></p><p>“I am Evora Faro. Priest of Canaan.” </p><p></p><p>“Ahh!” he answered and pulled his hand away. “A servant of Soliel, and of the Curia.” He voice did not mask his distrust.</p><p></p><p>“No.” I assured him. “A Priest of Canaan. And that is all. I serve no constructs of mankind.”</p><p></p><p>Surprisingly, he eyed me with even more suspicion. </p><p></p><p>“And you are a Druid.” I plainly said.</p><p></p><p>“Yes.” He replied and began to walk away. “You are in her realm.” </p><p></p><p>“Where are you headed?” I asked.</p><p></p><p>“To Goldfire Glen. I am delayed. I am meeting old friends.” </p><p></p><p>“May I accompany you? I feel I owe it to you. I have a mace. I can be of some use. You can never be too careful.”</p><p></p><p>It was a pitiful argument to be sure, and Shale stopped, turned back to me and smiled, knowing full well even I did not believe I would be of much use if there ever was trouble. Even so, he nodded and with a wave of a hand, signaled me over. I pulled my donkey to him and we walked down the path together. We discussed many things. I told him of my past, my family and how I am no longer welcomed in Soliel. He told me of his master and mentor, the great Baern, a high priest of the Green and the steward of a great forest to the North. </p><p></p><p>He told me the village of Goldfire Glen was two days travel from where we were and that the reunion with his friends was a celebration for one of them who had recently become a novice arcanist. </p><p></p><p>Naturally, I was intrigued. </p><p></p><p>By the end of the day we had cleared the forest and a wide, flat browning plain lay before us. He told me the path widened into a well traveled road some miles ahead, but with night’s spreading darkness we decided to make camp. </p><p></p><p>Shale told me he would keep watch for a while, allowing me time to rest. No sooner had I spread out my traveling blanket, lay down and closed my eyes that a violent stirring erupted from the forest behind us. </p><p></p><p>I grabbed my mace and sprang to my feet as rabid boars leapt from the trees and charged.</p><p></p><p>Without thinking I swung at one as it closed in on me. My mace struck its jaw. I could hear the bones shattering under the blow. The boar rolled to his side, screaming and snorting madly. It shook its head, reeling from the pain. Blood and bits of bone sprayed everywhere.</p><p></p><p>Shale was standing quite still. The grass upon which he stood curled around his feet, and despite it being in the thick of night, the blades of grass shimmered with the brilliance of the finest emerald. </p><p></p><p>Three other boars circled him. He was speaking calmly in a language I could not understand. </p><p></p><p>The boars seemed to be answering him with angry snorts and growls. Spittle dripped from their foaming maws. </p><p></p><p>The one I had struck barreled at me. I stepped aside at the last moment, evading its attack. I struck down with my mace, striking the head, and caving in its skull.</p><p></p><p>I then turned my attention on Shale. The other three boars had stopped their circling. They kicked up dirt as they hurtled themselves at the Druid, but he did not move. He gave a quick flicker of his hand and a group of trees suddenly bent down, the branches reaching out like great arms that wrapped around the boars. They screamed and howled, but to no avail. They were <em>entangled</em>. </p><p></p><p>Shale turned to me, took note of my blood soaked mace, and sadly uttered with a tear in his eye, “Please. Put them out of their misery.”</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Canaan, post: 2820236, member: 40239"] [b]Chapter 2: In Exile[/b] The nadir of my standing in the religious order of Canaan, and, thus the Curia, is forever tethered to the beginning of my true spiritual quest. For many months I had been toiling over dusty tomes locked away in the most esoteric corners of the temple library in Soliel, the spiritual and political center of Canaanism. Unbeknownst to my superiors, I had been delving in forbidden lore. It was Archbishop Tagavarius, the skeletal, pale, heartless eyes of the Curia for the school I attended who discovered me. He brought me before the order. The trial was swift. I was to be banished. That evening, as I awaited extradition, kneeling in a frigid, rancorous, windless cell, my faith in Canaan blossomed. Ideas that long slumbered awoke and the Endlessness, the Eternal, the Boundless, poured into me like a bloated river pours over parched winter-scorched land in the first days of Spring. I was liberated from fear of the Curia. They were bound to the Rules of the Church. Not to Canaan. I also felt the presence of Canaan all around me. His miracles were not taken from me. All the ceremony of the earthly, pawing Curia that were meant to sever my bindings to His Almighty failed. Canaan had not abandoned me! Deep in the embrace of His Most Profound, I knelt in sublime bliss. The hard stone of the floor dug into my knees, and I felt no pain. But as with all things save Him Who Must Be Adored, the bliss ended, abruptly. I was shaken by the sound of keys digging into the lock of my cell. The large wooden door creaked open and I caught only a glimpse of the tongue-less, hunchbacked unfortunate that served as the Curia’s dungeon keeper. He swiftly stepped into a shadow beyond the door to allow four armored soldiers to enter. I knew by the Canaan Cross on their coats that they were Justicars, the muscle of the Curia. They stood in a square, each one taking up a corner, leaving space before me for the entrance of Archbishop Tagavarius. His white, lipless mouth was bent down in its usual deep scowl. “Heathen!” he roared. “Stand!” I obeyed. “I thought I was to be….” I began, my eyes staring at his blue slippers. He was adorned in the typical conspicuous fineries befitting his standing in the Church. Gold and purple lacing that surrounded a brilliant cross the color of the sun at its zenith. “Silence!” He commanded. I must say, despite my solid disdain for the man, he had a voice that demanded attention. His icy eyes bore into me. “Yes. There has been a change in the schedule. Despite my protests, the Curia has voted to allow you to begin your sentence as Soliel sleeps. They feel it is better for the city if your disgrace remains discreet. I feel your punishment is far too genteel. You forayed into the taboo without the wisdom or spiritual clarity to handle the knowledge you gleaned. Left unchecked, you could have lost your very soul with such dabbling! Worse yet, in your naiveté you could have summoned up Unspeakables that reside on the very edges of sanity itself!” I stood quietly, listening to his shallow accusations. I heard them many times before in my arrest, my arraignment, my trial and my sentencing. I knew this sudden change had nothing to do shielding me from scandal, but to prevent the city itself from asking questions about me being defrocked. If they were to answer with the truth, it would uncover the Curia’s most staunchly guarded secret, that such knowledge existed under their protection. Such a revelation would shake the foundations of the Curia and test their stranglehold over Turgos. I was lead in silence to the gates of Soliel. By night, the looming, marble buildings seemed to soak up the darkness. Tall, implacable black monoliths looking on with scorn. The streets where quiet. The only sound was the soldiers’ gait and the click of the Archbishop’s staff striking the cobblestones. At last we arrived at the south gate. The ten foot tall doors yawned open. Archbishop Tagavarius silently passed me a small bag of gold and silver. He turned and walked away. The soldiers remained. They did not move until I cleared the gate and the doors portcullis fell behind me. My path lay before me, and I was ecstatic. In the month that followed, I journeyed south. I passed through many small villages where I used the money left for me to procure a suit of studded leather and a mace so I would have some means to defend myself. I also purchased a small donkey and various traveling sundries to survive my travels. I had nowhere in particular to go, and trusted in Canaan to lighten my path. I even purchased a new Canaan Cross, blessed it one cloudless dawn and wore it even as I slept, as I do to this day. Canaan has never left me, nor shall he ever. Wherever I went, I introduced myself as a Priest of Canaan, and no one ever questioned my claims. My suspicions regarding the Curia’s reasons for keeping my crimes covert were only strengthened. As I traveled, I had much time to reflect on the course of events that brought me to where I was. My family was farmers. We all bore fiery red hair and light, sapphire hued eyes. We worshiped the Green. Nestled in a Northern wilderness, protected on all sides by high mountains and thick forests, my earliest memories were collecting eggs in cramped, odorous chicken houses, dragging baskets laden with freshly shorn wheat, carrots and beans at Harvest, and helping my father mend holes in our thatched roof under heavy rainfalls. The smell of pitch instantly carries me back to those times and to that place. My childhood was not easy, but it was pleasant, loving, safe, caring, and secure. But it never felt entirely whole. I silently harbored a deep longing. There was something missing from my life, something the tales and promises of the Green could not fill. It was not until a group of strangely attired foreigners tread upon our land one cool autumn evening that I discovered my true calling. I was eleven years old and I recall my father’s rancor at that site of the men. I was stacking barrels of dried beans in our barn when I first heard their songs of praise dancing on a strong, northern wind that blew into the barn through the cracks in the boarded walls. I was enraptured. The entire time they spent in our midst, I held close, learning the stories of Canaan, how He created the world from His love and how all he asked in return was that His Creation love him in return. I converted. Crushed by my new found certainties, my family privately disowned me, but in the presence of the missionaries, so as not to offend them and threaten the wrath of the Church, they remained placid, and even feigned joy when the missionaries announced my conversion. I returned to Soliel with the missionaries and began my tutelage under the stoic glares of Father Donner. He was a round man, short and plain. Small eyes under thin spectacles that bridged an oblong, mole spattered nose, which twitched whenever he spoke not unlike a squirrel’s. He was an academic and made soft in frame from years of intellectual pursuits at the expense of fitness. His tales of the Will of Canaan were far different than those of the missionaries. He taught us that Canaan is a vengeful God, a jealous God, a God that demands strict adherents to the Law He set forth. This Law, the good Father claimed, was governed with Divine Authority by the Church of Soliel and the Curia, Canaan’s Eyes, Voice and Hand on Turgos. The Arcane arts were forbidden. Their power was derived from the guidance of demons, devils and other unmentionables. Worshippers of the Green were heathens, wild and barbaric, performing blood rituals of sacrifice, just as evil and decrepit as any abomination. Father Donner was speaking of my family. I could not believe what I was hearing. I began to question him, but was soon quieted with threats of punishment. I held my tongue. Over the years I studied dutifully. I excelled at every course and learned to channel Canaan’s Will through the power of prayer and perform simple miracles designed to aid those in need. But I quietly looked for any opportunity to refute the claims of the Church that all deviations from the Path of Canaan were to be unilaterally condemned. It was then that I discovered the secreted store of hidden knowledge. Buried deep under the halls of the temple was a library filled with dusty tomes detailing the levels of Hell and the Abyss. The wastelands of Tarterus and the burning deserts of Gehenna. I read of the fates of those who were condemned to reside in such horrific abodes and the incessant wars demons and devils waged against one another. I learned too a path that combined the Divine with the Arcane. Specialized Priests with the wisdom to bridge the powers and remain in the service of Canaan. They were called Urgic Mystics and I knew upon reading those words that there lay my fate. And then I was discovered. I traveled alone for many weeks, my donkey my only companion. I found myself along a tree covered forest path when my donkey let out a snarl. I turned to see he was walking with a limp. I stopped and examined his hoof to find that somehow he had managed to wedge a long, sharp stone into a hoof. Blood circled the edge of stone that jutted out from the hoof. It was in deep. I struggled for some time in a futile attempt to dislodge the offending rock and only managed to make my already irritated beast of burden downright livid. He whinnied angrily at me and even tried to bite me, but I managed to stay out of reach of those big, raking teeth. I had all but given up when out of the thick foliage on the side of the road came a tall, gaunt man dressed in a long green robe. His auburn hair lay about his face, framing large, quizzically calm brown eyes. “I see you’re having trouble with your donkey.” He kindly uttered. “Yes.” I answered, exasperated, exhausted and embarrassed. “Hmm…” said the man as he came around and examined the damaged hoof on his own. “I see. That’s quite a rock he’s got in there.” “I’ve tried everything short of cutting off the leg.” I said. The donkey huffed. The man smiled. “There will be no need of that.” He said and reached down, touched the hoof and all the green that surrounded me grew even more brilliantly verdant. The man quietly muttered some soothing words and my donkey remained still. A moment later the man was standing in front of me, the stone in his hand. “There we have it.” He said. “Best you do what you can to steer clear of sharp stones.” “Yes.” I replied as he tossed the stone into the foliage. I was too appreciative to take offence to the criticism. He held out a hand. I took it. “My name is Shale.” He said. “I am Evora Faro. Priest of Canaan.” “Ahh!” he answered and pulled his hand away. “A servant of Soliel, and of the Curia.” He voice did not mask his distrust. “No.” I assured him. “A Priest of Canaan. And that is all. I serve no constructs of mankind.” Surprisingly, he eyed me with even more suspicion. “And you are a Druid.” I plainly said. “Yes.” He replied and began to walk away. “You are in her realm.” “Where are you headed?” I asked. “To Goldfire Glen. I am delayed. I am meeting old friends.” “May I accompany you? I feel I owe it to you. I have a mace. I can be of some use. You can never be too careful.” It was a pitiful argument to be sure, and Shale stopped, turned back to me and smiled, knowing full well even I did not believe I would be of much use if there ever was trouble. Even so, he nodded and with a wave of a hand, signaled me over. I pulled my donkey to him and we walked down the path together. We discussed many things. I told him of my past, my family and how I am no longer welcomed in Soliel. He told me of his master and mentor, the great Baern, a high priest of the Green and the steward of a great forest to the North. He told me the village of Goldfire Glen was two days travel from where we were and that the reunion with his friends was a celebration for one of them who had recently become a novice arcanist. Naturally, I was intrigued. By the end of the day we had cleared the forest and a wide, flat browning plain lay before us. He told me the path widened into a well traveled road some miles ahead, but with night’s spreading darkness we decided to make camp. Shale told me he would keep watch for a while, allowing me time to rest. No sooner had I spread out my traveling blanket, lay down and closed my eyes that a violent stirring erupted from the forest behind us. I grabbed my mace and sprang to my feet as rabid boars leapt from the trees and charged. Without thinking I swung at one as it closed in on me. My mace struck its jaw. I could hear the bones shattering under the blow. The boar rolled to his side, screaming and snorting madly. It shook its head, reeling from the pain. Blood and bits of bone sprayed everywhere. Shale was standing quite still. The grass upon which he stood curled around his feet, and despite it being in the thick of night, the blades of grass shimmered with the brilliance of the finest emerald. Three other boars circled him. He was speaking calmly in a language I could not understand. The boars seemed to be answering him with angry snorts and growls. Spittle dripped from their foaming maws. The one I had struck barreled at me. I stepped aside at the last moment, evading its attack. I struck down with my mace, striking the head, and caving in its skull. I then turned my attention on Shale. The other three boars had stopped their circling. They kicked up dirt as they hurtled themselves at the Druid, but he did not move. He gave a quick flicker of his hand and a group of trees suddenly bent down, the branches reaching out like great arms that wrapped around the boars. They screamed and howled, but to no avail. They were [I]entangled[/I]. Shale turned to me, took note of my blood soaked mace, and sadly uttered with a tear in his eye, “Please. Put them out of their misery.” [/QUOTE]
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Tirlanolir/D'nemy's Tales of Turgos: The Heroes of Goldfire Glen (UPDATE 7/26)
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