the Kiras Maldi and the Streams
The 12 Kiras Maldi were created by the Builders to provide structure to the planet and even distribution of energy across the globe for the purposes of construction. In the ancient tongue of the Builders, Kiras Maldi literally means “retain shape”, but in modern times the locations are simply referred to as foundation stones.
Since the Builders left the world, the Kiras Maldi have largely stood idle. They are used infrequently by the 5 Builders left behind and their children. The condition of each stone has deteriorated over time. Some no longer function as they should or at all.
Each of the Kiras Maldi has a name:
· Foundation
· Hammer
· Peak
· Thrush
· Wolf
· Blossom
· Heaven
· Anvil
· Basin
· Mammoth
· Mouse
· Thorn
Between each stone and its neighboring stone flow invisible streams of potent energy. This energy was used in antiquity by the Builders to form mountains and oceans. Each stream can only flow in one direction at a time. However, the streams have a coronary effect, which allows some of their energy to leak into the surrounding area. Since these streams have remained in a sort of standby mode for 10 millennia, enough energy has escaped to form a low-level field the world over.
Because several Kiras Maldi are now defunct or malfunctioning, not all streams are flowing. In particular, two of Basin’s streams are faltering and a third is not flowing at all. One stream flowing into Blossom is not being received properly and the node is now diffusing a field into the surrounding area that is completely toxic to life.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
A New Creation Myth - A New World
The Builders never fought a war with the elements. There was no need to; the Builders were given dominion by the Creator over them. The chaotic minds of the spirits of earth, water, and wind were immediately bent to the will of the Builders.
The Builders were fifty feet tall and terribly strong. They had the cooperation of the elements, their own strength, machines of their own design, all the time they could ever want and the Breath of the Creator. They set about turning the world to which they had arrived into a place of wonder and beauty.
Pools of magma were pressed deep into the earth, creating a hard molten core. Stagnant pools of water were channeled together into enormous basins to form great bodies of water. The air was shaped to move continuously, and fashioned into a deep blue sky.
Soon, the elements began working together independent of the Builders. The earth showed the water where to run to meet the great bodies of water. The wind plucked the water from the great bodies and scattered it across the earth to begin the process anew. The Builders witnessed what these elements had done and they praised them, naming the process the Great Water Cycle.
The most complex and beautiful creations were composed by the artisans: those Builders who used the Breath of the Creator to inject life into plants and animals.
For millenia, this was the way things went. The Builders slowly labored and created. The sun rose and fell. Children were born to the creators. There was no sickness, no death, no evil. Work was a joy.
The power of the Breath of the Creator proved to be the downfall of this wonderful age. One injunction was made against its use; no Builder was ever to use the Breath to create a being in its own image. A group of 5 Builders, the great-great grandchildren of the first Builders to come to this world, were the first to attempt to create beings like themselves. Their creation was a mockery.
They became known as the Miasma. As they were not blessed in their creation, they lived short, violent lives. They reproduced rapidly and destroyed some of what the Builders had created. They tainted everything perfect that the Builders had made by their touch. Plants withered, animals died, lush springs were fouled.
The Builders cried out to the Creator. They could not stand to live in the soured place that their world had become. The Creator responded kindly by taking them away from the land that had gone so wrong. Except for the 5.
The lot of the 5 Builders that created the Miasma was to stay and tend as best they could to the shattered remnant of the world. They were instructed that because the Miasma was their doing, that they must look after them and try to redeem them. The 5 were allowed to keep their power and immortality, but found it difficult to breed amongst themselves. So it was that the 5 had children with their own creations.
Those children of mixed heritage were about a tenth the size of their Builder parents. They lived longer, were taller and more intelligent, and had a greater capacity for righteousness than their Miasman parents. These children became the ancestors of what are called humans today.
Pure Miasmans and humans could not live well together. They fought with one another for many years. The humans eventually broke the will of the Miasmans to fight and drove them out of human lands.
Humans have long since chosen to forget that the Miasmans are their relatives. Nor do they remember several offshoots of their race that developed over the centuries after the Miasmans were scattered.
The dwarves identified strongly with the determination and work ethic of the Builders. They dug deep into the earth and there sequestered themselves from the rest of the world. They have been long since forgotten or become legend.
Elves were once humans that felt strongly linked to nature and its ephemeral qualities. They have since left for a far away wood and stream and never seen again. They too exist to the modern human only as a tale.
Pure Miasmans do not exist anymore on a large scale. They mostly killed one another, corrupted nature’s animals by breeding with them or corrupted human bloodlines to create races such as the orcs or goblins.
Without Miasman taint, the world began to recover. No Builder would ever want to come back, though. Those Builders that stayed are painfully aware of how wonderful the world once was and how miserable it is by comparison now. Over time, they managed to have a few children. Their number stands at 13 and has not grown in ten thousand years.
Some have given in to despair and hopelessness. These Builders are the gods that lead men to madness and destruction. Some plod ever forward, seeking to undo the mess they have made. These have become the gods of righteousness and hope. More of them fall somewhere in between, seeking their own purpose and no particular ideal.
The elements do not recognize the dominion of mortals.
The Builders were fifty feet tall and terribly strong. They had the cooperation of the elements, their own strength, machines of their own design, all the time they could ever want and the Breath of the Creator. They set about turning the world to which they had arrived into a place of wonder and beauty.
Pools of magma were pressed deep into the earth, creating a hard molten core. Stagnant pools of water were channeled together into enormous basins to form great bodies of water. The air was shaped to move continuously, and fashioned into a deep blue sky.
Soon, the elements began working together independent of the Builders. The earth showed the water where to run to meet the great bodies of water. The wind plucked the water from the great bodies and scattered it across the earth to begin the process anew. The Builders witnessed what these elements had done and they praised them, naming the process the Great Water Cycle.
The most complex and beautiful creations were composed by the artisans: those Builders who used the Breath of the Creator to inject life into plants and animals.
For millenia, this was the way things went. The Builders slowly labored and created. The sun rose and fell. Children were born to the creators. There was no sickness, no death, no evil. Work was a joy.
The power of the Breath of the Creator proved to be the downfall of this wonderful age. One injunction was made against its use; no Builder was ever to use the Breath to create a being in its own image. A group of 5 Builders, the great-great grandchildren of the first Builders to come to this world, were the first to attempt to create beings like themselves. Their creation was a mockery.
They became known as the Miasma. As they were not blessed in their creation, they lived short, violent lives. They reproduced rapidly and destroyed some of what the Builders had created. They tainted everything perfect that the Builders had made by their touch. Plants withered, animals died, lush springs were fouled.
The Builders cried out to the Creator. They could not stand to live in the soured place that their world had become. The Creator responded kindly by taking them away from the land that had gone so wrong. Except for the 5.
The lot of the 5 Builders that created the Miasma was to stay and tend as best they could to the shattered remnant of the world. They were instructed that because the Miasma was their doing, that they must look after them and try to redeem them. The 5 were allowed to keep their power and immortality, but found it difficult to breed amongst themselves. So it was that the 5 had children with their own creations.
Those children of mixed heritage were about a tenth the size of their Builder parents. They lived longer, were taller and more intelligent, and had a greater capacity for righteousness than their Miasman parents. These children became the ancestors of what are called humans today.
Pure Miasmans and humans could not live well together. They fought with one another for many years. The humans eventually broke the will of the Miasmans to fight and drove them out of human lands.
Humans have long since chosen to forget that the Miasmans are their relatives. Nor do they remember several offshoots of their race that developed over the centuries after the Miasmans were scattered.
The dwarves identified strongly with the determination and work ethic of the Builders. They dug deep into the earth and there sequestered themselves from the rest of the world. They have been long since forgotten or become legend.
Elves were once humans that felt strongly linked to nature and its ephemeral qualities. They have since left for a far away wood and stream and never seen again. They too exist to the modern human only as a tale.
Pure Miasmans do not exist anymore on a large scale. They mostly killed one another, corrupted nature’s animals by breeding with them or corrupted human bloodlines to create races such as the orcs or goblins.
Without Miasman taint, the world began to recover. No Builder would ever want to come back, though. Those Builders that stayed are painfully aware of how wonderful the world once was and how miserable it is by comparison now. Over time, they managed to have a few children. Their number stands at 13 and has not grown in ten thousand years.
Some have given in to despair and hopelessness. These Builders are the gods that lead men to madness and destruction. Some plod ever forward, seeking to undo the mess they have made. These have become the gods of righteousness and hope. More of them fall somewhere in between, seeking their own purpose and no particular ideal.
The elements do not recognize the dominion of mortals.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
December 10, 2008
"No! No! No!" Gust punctuated his belowing protest by rapping his spanner on the workbench in front of him. All the tools on the bench jumped with each strike and on the last, an old baby food jar with tacknails bolted from the top shelf and crashed on the floor.
Gust pretended not to notice the mess as he continued rebutting Rudolph's point. "If membership in the Guild Union is optional, then there will not be a Guild Union. This is not an attempt to protect worker's rights. The company just wants to be rid of he Guild Union."
Gust pretended not to notice the mess as he continued rebutting Rudolph's point. "If membership in the Guild Union is optional, then there will not be a Guild Union. This is not an attempt to protect worker's rights. The company just wants to be rid of he Guild Union."
Friday, June 20, 2008
Lost
Avraham rapped twice at the door to his brother’s room. It was not long before he heard the latch thrown and the door cracked open. A chain catch allowed the door to open only so far. The air that rushed from the room into the hall was an overpowering mix of incense and sulfur. Avraham struggled to maintain his composure. Odimm’s face was seen in the opening.
“I need to speak to Crandal, Odimm,” Avraham stated. His voice was flat.
“Can’t help you. Crandal is off sorting some scrolls for me. He’ll be busy for quite some time. You know how compulsive he’s become lately.”
Avraham fixed his eyes on Odimm’s. “What are you doing in there?”
Odimm met his gaze, unflinching. “It’s none of your concern. Now move along. Crandal will send for you when he is ready.”
Avraham considered Odimm’s words for a moment. “No. I don’t think so. You may hold sway over Crandal, but you have nothing I want. Let me in, now.”
Odimm tried to snap the wooden door shut, but the toe of Avraham’s left boot was already in the way. The catch chain slackened a bit, but the door could not be closed.
“I have something you want. Your brother.”
Avraham took a small step back, unblocking the door. Odimm believed that Avraham was giving up and began closing the door.
The paladin’s placed his booted foot flat on the middle of the door, down low, and kicked with great force. If the catch chain had been taut, the door may have held and what followed would never have occurred. As it was, the chain was slack and the door almost closed. The force of Avraham’s kick forced the door inward. It’s arc paused only briefly when the catch snapped at it’s end and gave way with a sound like wood snapping and metal pinging.
The edge of the door struck Odimm in the forehead and knocked him sprawling to the floor of the drawing room of Crandal’s inn suite.
Avraham surveyed the room. All looked as it should be, except for a deep purple veil that covered the doorway to the suite’s bedroom. Through it’s translucence, Avraham could see several dark shapes moving. Their forms and movement seemed unnatural.
The feeling of being watched beset him immediately. It was a sign of something. Something he had felt before whenever specific beings were present. He spun on his heel to face Odimm, towering over him. Odimm was still recovering from his knock to the head. He was using the sidetable to try to stand again.
“Are you involved in demonology again? What am I going to find on the other side of that veil?”
Odimm only glared at him from the floor. He would not answer.
Avraham took two steps to the doorway. He grabbed a fistful of the fabric and pulled down hard. The veil dropped to the floor.
The room’s furniture was all pushed up against the walls, leaving the center of the room for the dark work, Avraham saw before him. Three men in black robes lay dead on the floor around a circle. The circle was composed of runes that had been burned into the floor, still glowing with a faint light that was not fueled by normal fire. Over the runes was a malevolent patch of darkness that hummed constantly. As Avraham approached the portal, he faintly heard voices. They spoke in whispers, barely audible and in a language unknown to him. Somehow, he understood them anyway. They spoke of madness, bondage, and murder. They were seductive with promises of ancient knowledge and the answers of existence. Under all of this muted cacophany, there was a driving compulsion to obey and be rewarded.
Avraham was immediately revulsed, and turned away. Odimm had already recovered and was holding his head in his hand at the doorway.
Avraham was still taken aback by the sight, but managed to ask, “what do you hope to gain from all this. The Legion lies. You will never get what they have promised.”
Odimm replied in one word. “Discord.”
Avraham had a moment to consider what this meant, before he he sensed that someone was standing behind him. He spun in time to see the an axe swinging at his head, and only just in time to duck out of the way.
The Felguard on the other end of the axe was massive, towering at least a foot and a half over the paladin. Thick, curved spines stuck out of it’s shoulders and head, formeing something that looked like a clawed hand grasping for the sky. It’s head was protected by a helm that allowed the fel light from it’s eyes to shine out. It’ smiddle was bare but well muscled. It’s waist, legs and feet were shod in red steel plates that made it extremely heavy and hard to injure.
The Felguard’s swing was long and deliberate. When it missed Avraham’s head, it continued on into a large wardrobe, shattering it into splinters and spilling it’s contents onto the floor.
Avraham was quick to react. He brought his hand up and let fly a jolt of pure holy energy. He was attempting to sever the demon’s connection to the world, which would send it back into the Twisting Nether. His attempt was strong, but the demon recovered both it’s axe and it’s fortitude.
Avraham as running out of options. He had come to this place neither armed, nor armored. He was not expecting to have to fight in his brother’s room. He knew that eventually the one of the demon’s swings would connect. That would be it for this man of the Light.
The Felguard struck out again, this time with his fist. This blow caught Avraham in the shoulder as he attempted to dodge. He staggered to the floor. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
Out of the portal stepped three imps. Their noses and ears were overly long and grotesque. They spoke in shrill voices, taunting him and calling out for the Felguard to kill him.
The Felguard took a heavy booted step toward Avraham. It grabbed him by the back of his shirt and picked him up in the air. Then it threw him across the room where he landed in a stunned heap in front of the portal.
The imps had to move out of the way to avoid being hit by the paladin as he landed. They cackled with glee. Each of them grabbed a leg and wrestled with the now kicking Avraham.
More imps came through the portal. They overpowered Avraham, restraining his arms and standing on his back. Slowly they dragged him back to the portal.
Avraham fought them, but could do little to stop them. The voices in the portal became louder. They made promises and threats, spoke of things that Avraham had spent his life fighting against. As they pulled him into the portal, Avraham spoke one last time.
Before the portal swallowed him, he said, “Ian is going to Northrend. Tell Crandal.”
Then he was gone.
“I need to speak to Crandal, Odimm,” Avraham stated. His voice was flat.
“Can’t help you. Crandal is off sorting some scrolls for me. He’ll be busy for quite some time. You know how compulsive he’s become lately.”
Avraham fixed his eyes on Odimm’s. “What are you doing in there?”
Odimm met his gaze, unflinching. “It’s none of your concern. Now move along. Crandal will send for you when he is ready.”
Avraham considered Odimm’s words for a moment. “No. I don’t think so. You may hold sway over Crandal, but you have nothing I want. Let me in, now.”
Odimm tried to snap the wooden door shut, but the toe of Avraham’s left boot was already in the way. The catch chain slackened a bit, but the door could not be closed.
“I have something you want. Your brother.”
Avraham took a small step back, unblocking the door. Odimm believed that Avraham was giving up and began closing the door.
The paladin’s placed his booted foot flat on the middle of the door, down low, and kicked with great force. If the catch chain had been taut, the door may have held and what followed would never have occurred. As it was, the chain was slack and the door almost closed. The force of Avraham’s kick forced the door inward. It’s arc paused only briefly when the catch snapped at it’s end and gave way with a sound like wood snapping and metal pinging.
The edge of the door struck Odimm in the forehead and knocked him sprawling to the floor of the drawing room of Crandal’s inn suite.
Avraham surveyed the room. All looked as it should be, except for a deep purple veil that covered the doorway to the suite’s bedroom. Through it’s translucence, Avraham could see several dark shapes moving. Their forms and movement seemed unnatural.
The feeling of being watched beset him immediately. It was a sign of something. Something he had felt before whenever specific beings were present. He spun on his heel to face Odimm, towering over him. Odimm was still recovering from his knock to the head. He was using the sidetable to try to stand again.
“Are you involved in demonology again? What am I going to find on the other side of that veil?”
Odimm only glared at him from the floor. He would not answer.
Avraham took two steps to the doorway. He grabbed a fistful of the fabric and pulled down hard. The veil dropped to the floor.
The room’s furniture was all pushed up against the walls, leaving the center of the room for the dark work, Avraham saw before him. Three men in black robes lay dead on the floor around a circle. The circle was composed of runes that had been burned into the floor, still glowing with a faint light that was not fueled by normal fire. Over the runes was a malevolent patch of darkness that hummed constantly. As Avraham approached the portal, he faintly heard voices. They spoke in whispers, barely audible and in a language unknown to him. Somehow, he understood them anyway. They spoke of madness, bondage, and murder. They were seductive with promises of ancient knowledge and the answers of existence. Under all of this muted cacophany, there was a driving compulsion to obey and be rewarded.
Avraham was immediately revulsed, and turned away. Odimm had already recovered and was holding his head in his hand at the doorway.
Avraham was still taken aback by the sight, but managed to ask, “what do you hope to gain from all this. The Legion lies. You will never get what they have promised.”
Odimm replied in one word. “Discord.”
Avraham had a moment to consider what this meant, before he he sensed that someone was standing behind him. He spun in time to see the an axe swinging at his head, and only just in time to duck out of the way.
The Felguard on the other end of the axe was massive, towering at least a foot and a half over the paladin. Thick, curved spines stuck out of it’s shoulders and head, formeing something that looked like a clawed hand grasping for the sky. It’s head was protected by a helm that allowed the fel light from it’s eyes to shine out. It’ smiddle was bare but well muscled. It’s waist, legs and feet were shod in red steel plates that made it extremely heavy and hard to injure.
The Felguard’s swing was long and deliberate. When it missed Avraham’s head, it continued on into a large wardrobe, shattering it into splinters and spilling it’s contents onto the floor.
Avraham was quick to react. He brought his hand up and let fly a jolt of pure holy energy. He was attempting to sever the demon’s connection to the world, which would send it back into the Twisting Nether. His attempt was strong, but the demon recovered both it’s axe and it’s fortitude.
Avraham as running out of options. He had come to this place neither armed, nor armored. He was not expecting to have to fight in his brother’s room. He knew that eventually the one of the demon’s swings would connect. That would be it for this man of the Light.
The Felguard struck out again, this time with his fist. This blow caught Avraham in the shoulder as he attempted to dodge. He staggered to the floor. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye.
Out of the portal stepped three imps. Their noses and ears were overly long and grotesque. They spoke in shrill voices, taunting him and calling out for the Felguard to kill him.
The Felguard took a heavy booted step toward Avraham. It grabbed him by the back of his shirt and picked him up in the air. Then it threw him across the room where he landed in a stunned heap in front of the portal.
The imps had to move out of the way to avoid being hit by the paladin as he landed. They cackled with glee. Each of them grabbed a leg and wrestled with the now kicking Avraham.
More imps came through the portal. They overpowered Avraham, restraining his arms and standing on his back. Slowly they dragged him back to the portal.
Avraham fought them, but could do little to stop them. The voices in the portal became louder. They made promises and threats, spoke of things that Avraham had spent his life fighting against. As they pulled him into the portal, Avraham spoke one last time.
Before the portal swallowed him, he said, “Ian is going to Northrend. Tell Crandal.”
Then he was gone.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Confluence
Avraham Maccabeus stood at the edge of Aldor Rise and surveyed the land around him. Shattrath was below his feet. An ancient city, with an eternal quality. Stone bridges and buildings swept in arcs from flat concourses and rough dirt as though the ground itself had thrust upward to grant the faithful a place to shelter. On the parade ground, anchorites drilled and marched. Their cadent footfalls created a rhythm that the whole city followed in the morning without realizing. In the Lower City, refugees of a half-dozen conflicts coagulated into groups according to race and geography. Those groups didn’t always get along well. Frequently, fights broke out among them over territory and resources. Well fed by the Naaru, they were still poor and displaced.
The vista that the city and Terrokar forest beyond afforded was merely a distraction. If Avraham cleared his mind and focused only on what he saw, he was spared the tightness in his chest and the icy thread of fear that laced his way through his gut. For a moment, he didn’t have to consider the note in his hand.
An anchorite had brought it a few moments ago, as Avraham conversed with his companions in the Inn atop the rise. Avraham had thanked the anchorite, giving a small token of monetary appreciation. The seal on the rolled parchment was bright red. Scryer wax. It’s imprint was that of his brother, a flame in prominence over a snowflake in the background.
Avraham only read the first five words before he dismissed himself. He found a place with the previously mentioned view to finish reading the letter. To contemplate.
Dear Brother,
It is time.
Avraham’s peace could only last a few precious moments. Possibilities began to crash into his placidity like a wall of water that would not be denied by a mere sandbag dam. How had Ian left? Could he catch up to him? What did Ian mean to do once he got there?
He estimated that it would be a week’s travel through Terrokar, and another week to reach Honor Hold and the Dark Portal. Another month would see him through Khaz Modan and to the Plaguelands. From there…well, it was really pointless.
Ian hadn’t left by horse or even gryphon. He had simply been there one minute, and gone the next. Without having seen it, Avraham knew it to be true. Were he allowed on the Scryer’s Rise, he would speak to the man running the boarding house Ian used. He would find that Ian’s tab and bill had been settled. If his room had not been cleaned yet, he would find a light powder coating everything. Ephemeral evidence, concrete proof. In a hair’s breadth of time Ian could be well on his way to anywhere he wanted to be.
I feel the pull. It cannot be denied.
Whatever happened, whatever you could not tell me, whatever drove Crandal out of his mind, it calls.
I will join up with the Shattered Sun Offensive. As will you, when you have resolved your qualms. By the time you arrive, I will have been gone for some time.
Don’t follow. The time for your help has passed.
I am going North.
Old debts will soon come due.
Ian.
The vista that the city and Terrokar forest beyond afforded was merely a distraction. If Avraham cleared his mind and focused only on what he saw, he was spared the tightness in his chest and the icy thread of fear that laced his way through his gut. For a moment, he didn’t have to consider the note in his hand.
An anchorite had brought it a few moments ago, as Avraham conversed with his companions in the Inn atop the rise. Avraham had thanked the anchorite, giving a small token of monetary appreciation. The seal on the rolled parchment was bright red. Scryer wax. It’s imprint was that of his brother, a flame in prominence over a snowflake in the background.
Avraham only read the first five words before he dismissed himself. He found a place with the previously mentioned view to finish reading the letter. To contemplate.
Dear Brother,
It is time.
Avraham’s peace could only last a few precious moments. Possibilities began to crash into his placidity like a wall of water that would not be denied by a mere sandbag dam. How had Ian left? Could he catch up to him? What did Ian mean to do once he got there?
He estimated that it would be a week’s travel through Terrokar, and another week to reach Honor Hold and the Dark Portal. Another month would see him through Khaz Modan and to the Plaguelands. From there…well, it was really pointless.
Ian hadn’t left by horse or even gryphon. He had simply been there one minute, and gone the next. Without having seen it, Avraham knew it to be true. Were he allowed on the Scryer’s Rise, he would speak to the man running the boarding house Ian used. He would find that Ian’s tab and bill had been settled. If his room had not been cleaned yet, he would find a light powder coating everything. Ephemeral evidence, concrete proof. In a hair’s breadth of time Ian could be well on his way to anywhere he wanted to be.
I feel the pull. It cannot be denied.
Whatever happened, whatever you could not tell me, whatever drove Crandal out of his mind, it calls.
I will join up with the Shattered Sun Offensive. As will you, when you have resolved your qualms. By the time you arrive, I will have been gone for some time.
Don’t follow. The time for your help has passed.
I am going North.
Old debts will soon come due.
Ian.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
The Tunnel to Kharanos
Whitebeard was satisfied that he could accurately report the trogg situation to Ironforge. Lorich was an obvious courier, much to his chagrin. When pressed into the service of the Bronzebeards, he was never one to shrink from duty.Mountaineer Thalos didn't want to let Lorich through because of the trogg infestation. He relented upon hearing the importance of the information Lorich carried. This did not make Lorich feel any better as he stared at the last fire before the tunnel would be dark. He had faced down troggs before, in the open. It was troggs in the dark he was not so sure about.
In the Cave of the Frostmane
Grelin Whitebeard only sent Lorich Flatiron onto the cave to clear out some of the Frostmane trolls as a show of force. Lorich sensed there was more there than just trolls. There was treasure, Lorich could feel it in his bones and smell it in the air. Lorich did not seek out it's secrets merely for the monetary gain, although that was nice. He relished the search and eventual discovery.
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