Graphics by Channen Hipolito
Hello stranger.
How were your travels? Your arrival must be a will of the many gods, for you are just in time to listen to a story passed down to me by a mother to a son, who then tells this story to damaged men, who then told their children, who then told their friends, who then told people that passes the story along. And now, I will pass it to you.
Take a seat, rest, and lend me nothing but your ears.
—
The keeper, sometimes depicted as a man with a beautiful face, a snake’s tail in a shade of jade green, and hair so long that they tangle themselves with the trees in the forest he resides in. The strands stay stationary within the forest — where each strand of hair is like vines.
Each strand, however, holds a story in history; stories that have existed, are existing and will exist.
In the vast forest of the Keeper, he plays with his hair, twirling them in his fingers. Twisting, unfurling, and tugging them like threads attached to the beings residing in this world. He hears a rustle nearby, and upon laying eyes on his visitor, he makes a little bow.
“Hello, you.” He says, his voice smoother than any aged alcohol you will consume. “I rarely get personal visits from your kind. Especially you. The last time I saw you was your arrival.”
“I came here for my fortune to be told, Keeper.” The god said. “What lies ahead of me? What is my story? My creation, my little dreams, some of them are rebelling against me. Once one of them picked up a blade and turned against a god of their creation, many followed suit. They call themselves God slayers, they say. My dear sister, blessed are her eyes, and may it always guide the realm, received a prophecy of a warband being the end of us, but she cannot see whom and how we can prevent it. So, Keeper, humor an elderly god and tug the strands of your hair for my fortune.”
The Keeper finds the fear of the god amusing. After all, he knows it is no use refusing. This has always been bound to happen. He combs his fingers through his hair, carefully feeling each strand until he plucks four strands and lays them on his palm for the god to see.
“There are four strands that prophesy your future, Pontifex of the Three. Now listen well, but know that avoiding fate may be futile.”
𝟏
𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘯, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴.
𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯, 𝘢𝘴 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘬𝘦𝘥, 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦;
𝘈 𝘮𝘢𝘯-𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘨𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵-𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮.
𝘈 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭, 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥. 𝘏𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘺, 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.
𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴, 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦, 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴, 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦. 𝘐𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴 𝘣𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦.
"𝘐𝘧 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴," 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘎𝘰𝘥, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘦𝘹 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦, 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥, “𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.”
𝘛𝘩𝘶𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥, 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘭.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘢 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘯. 𝘔𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯, 𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘏𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥. 𝘏𝘦 𝘤𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘳, 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘯, 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘺. 𝘏𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘢. 𝘏𝘦 𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦. 𝘐𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘭, 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥, 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥, 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘯'𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦.
𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘦𝘯𝘥.
𝟐
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥, 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘭, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦'𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘺. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘨𝘰𝘥-𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦𝘯, 𝘱𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘢 𝘤𝘺𝘤𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘛𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘮, 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘭. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘥𝘶𝘦.
𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘭 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘤𝘺𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘛𝘰 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦, 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘵 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮, 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘭 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦. 𝘛𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘏𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘳𝘢 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘎𝘰𝘥𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴. 𝘏𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘥𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴, 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯'𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘢 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦. 𝘖𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵. 𝘠𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘵. 𝘜𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦, 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘥. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘩𝘦. 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘭, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘨𝘰𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴, 𝘸𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘺 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.
𝘊𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳, 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘮 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘥'𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘥𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥. 𝘈𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘶𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘥𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘪𝘭𝘦, 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘶𝘤𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘣 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘶𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦. 𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦, 𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘺 𝘤𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘮'𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘫𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯. 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘢𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘱𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘴 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘵.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦. 𝘛𝘳𝘢𝘮 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘙𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦— 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥. 𝘐𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘯.
𝟑
𝘈 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘖𝘶𝘳𝘰 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘨𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘉𝘰𝘳𝘰𝘴. 𝘈 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯. 𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘥 𝘦𝘺𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥. 𝘋𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘺𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘦𝘥𝘨𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸. 𝘠𝘦𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘖𝘶𝘳𝘰 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘣𝘺 𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘮𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘷𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥. 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘥, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘳.
𝘖𝘶𝘳𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘧𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘗𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘦𝘹 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦. 𝘏𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘗𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘦𝘹 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘪𝘳 𝘣𝘰𝘺. 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘏𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦, 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥 𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦. 𝘕𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯. 𝘖𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘥'𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘰𝘺'𝘴 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦.
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𝘈 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘺𝘣𝘪𝘭, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦, 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘳 𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘮𝘣𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘫𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘰𝘭𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦’𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘢𝘳. 𝘈𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘚𝘺𝘣𝘪𝘭, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘳𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘫𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘭𝘵𝘢𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘺𝘣𝘪𝘭. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘢𝘳, 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘢𝘻𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘭, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘷𝘦𝘪𝘭. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘺𝘣𝘪𝘭 𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘔𝘰𝘰𝘯𝘴. 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮.
𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥.
“This is what lies ahead of you, Pontifex of the Three,” says the Keeper. “Now leave. Your visit comes to an end. You are no longer welcome here.”
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Thank you for lending your ears to me, kind strangers. I do not wish to occupy any more of your time.
Before you leave, I ask for you to do one thing for a poor fellow like me. I ask you to tell this story to whoever will listen as the person before me had.
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