The Beginning of the End (Flashback) (Private, Adalard)

A dull thud as her head hit the wall.



Mia Sauer, a small girl of age seven. She was, again, small for her age, not of notice to some, ignored by others. What good was a girl that couldn't even think right? It was of no use, isn't that right, Mia? Of. No. Use.

A dull thud as her head hit the wall.

Mia Sauer, a small girl of age seven. Nobody actually liked her, she was shunned by everybody she knew. She didn't know many people, but she didn't like them either. Maybe she had no friends because you are a fucking unlovable psychopath. Nobody will ever love you, Mia.

A dull thud as her head hit the wall.

Mia Sauer, a small girl of age seven. Tears streamed down her face, along with a small trickle of blood. How fucking pathetic and sad of her, to be beaten down into this state by her own mind. You deserve all of this, Mia.

A dull thud as her head hit the wall.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.



Mia Sauer, a small girl of age seven.

She spent some time in the bathroom, wiping the blood away... Sometimes she would lick it too, just to taste. Sometimes she'd find herself licking it in a strange way, one she didn't quite understand, but she knew it was wrong.

A few hours minutes later and she carefully made her way down the stairs of her house. Were ❍̷̢̹̹̦̭̗̜̖̠̋̉̌̃̿̊̒̓̓͊̓̏̚̚︎̵̛͚̱͊͒̔̄̓̈̄̅̀̕͝□̶̨̞̤̥͎̭̣͓̪͎͂͗̚︎̸̡̧̛̥̰̞̙͐̓͑̏̍̑͊̎͛͐͑̚̕⧫̸̧̪͈͖̰̭̖̗̜͖̣̪͉̃̅̒̾̂̈́͑͜͝︎̶̥̗̘͕̩̈́̈́͑̍̑̀́͑͐̚͝͝︎︎❒︎ and ︎︎⧫̷̧̡̨̨̻͙̝͖͉̮̗̯̹͓̂̐︎̴̧̛̳͔͎̹̟͈̗̹̭̹̔̒̾͛̀̚͝︎︎❒︎ ︎︎︎︎⧫̶̮̌̇̿̊́︎̴̨̛̱͕̻͕͔̣͕͖̥̗̟̘̼︎■̷̛̼̦͉̼̫̀̑̓̈́͐̃͑̉̈́̃̓̕͘︎̸̢̺̲̩̮̤̖̪̹̫̫͔̟̗̺̈̾͘︎ again? The child felt her brain suddenly racked with thoughts, desires, uncontrollable fantasies that she had to go fufill immediately! Oh, oh oh ohohohoh! She couldn't take it, control it, stand it, fathom it, understand it, comprehend it, endure it, decipher it, it was all a mess, a mess, a mess, a mess, a mess, a mess, a mess, a mess, a mess, a mess, a mess, a mess, a mess, a mess, a mess! She gripped her head, her body twitching spasmodically, violently, throwing itself back and forth, this way and that, until she was sick from the movements.

Mia closed the door behind her.  Her family life used to be different. Her motȟ̷̭͕̚͜︎̷̛͕̤̗͙̃̀̑❒̷͇̼̮͓̈͒͗̀̃︎̵͈̰̘͓̥̒̅͌͐ ̴̷̨̜̯̯͖̏̒̈́͊̔̎͛̓̉͝ͅ︎̷̨̜̻̻͇͋̊̌̊■̵͈͔̓͋̎̀̈︎̸̶̟̣̩͈̻̬̤́̊̆̏̽́̐͗͐︎̶͙̬̝̀̾͗̆̒̂ ̷̴̟̮̩͔̩̪̍͊̉͒︎̴̵̧̦̝͚̲͓̪͈͖̣̈́̊̐̇́͠ͅ︎̷͇̤͓̱̾̏ͅ⧫̷̦͛̐︎̶̸̛͕̼̲̠̺̗̄̈̾͂︎̷̷̧̱͎͔͉̺̙̃͛́̆͆̓̎̂͜͜︎̵̧͍͖̘̌̅͊❒̵̣̤̝̺̭̀̋́̃︎̵̭͈̭̯̾̽ ̶̨̢͍̮̿̌̈́■̷͓̖̣͌̈́̃̀︎̷̵̧͔̼̘̥͉͎͍͉̟̤̀̿̆͌̀͝︎̴̝̳͎͙̎̑̌̕͝͝❖̴͇̫͔́̀͒̈́̕︎̸̸͍̰͉̣̈̌̋̓̀̌̅̕︎̸̰͇̫͙̒͌ͅ❒̴͂̀ͅ︎̷̨͚̦̟̬̬̾ ̷̝̱̩̇͝◆̴̧͖̬̑̄͛̑̐̿͜ͅ︎̵̛͔̪̳͍̤͆̈̾͐̉⬧̸̫̪͍͇͓̠̔͆̂̎︎̶̶̨̡̨̠̟̣̪̙͖̓̉̏̿͗͑̕͝ͅ︎̴̴̧̝̞̰̙͓̺̼͊́̆̀̉̿́︎̴̛̣̱͑ ̸̹̩̹̼̔̃̓̈́⧫̸͔͑̇͜͜͝︎̶̛̬̜͓̠̤□̸̔͐͘͝ͅ︎̶̧̥͎̣͓̖̇̈̒̚ ̶̴̨̬̟͚̰̪̹̗̐̏̈́̽́̈́͑︎̴̷̲̹̣̭͗̎͆̑̅̚̕͘︎̵̸̺̳̠̼̩͔̦̮̒̈́̒͊̀̏̍́͒͠︎̸̵̢̞͎͇̪̗̦͓͕̘͓͑̈́︎̷̢̧̜̜͌͛͐͌͝⧫̸̢̢̧͖̬̲͊͌̚︎̷̧̯̗̦̱̦̊ ̴̢̨̼̞̂⧫̵͚̞̟̖̐̒̌͑︎̴̴͉̼̥̍͆̌͂̐̇̎̕͝︎̴̸̣̹͍̞̤̟̜̟͇̺͚̉͊̑̉͒̽͘︎̵̡̛̦̬̤̆͌̀̚⬧̴̛͕̼̽͒͝︎̶̬̗̘͉̱̈́͊́̎́͘ ̷͖̥̬̤̝̈́̅̍ͅ⬥̵̧̧͕̰͌̊̓͂͜͠︎̷̷̢̫͇̖̘͚̓̍̑͊̅̋̚͘︎̶̱̞͈̙̹̠̇⍓̵̖͂̄̒̈́︎̶͚̫̥̋͊̄͘͝�̶̧̢̼̻͇̹̄̿͘�̵̛̞̼̻̞̥̈́︎̵̡̅͘ ̴̺̪̹̠̃̐⬧̷̗͚̜͍̱̏︎̶̶̢͎̲̗͓̖͊́̿͠︎̷̵̡̭̜͙̬̣̙͉̰̮͙̲̒̎̆̏͌︎̴̨͇̥͒̋͗ ̶̦̦͋͆͛◆̶͉̘̐̀̔︎̵̜͗̐͛̎̊̚⬧̴̣̜̩̤͙̋︎̵̴̨̜͙̰̝̍̓́︎̷̵͕͉̫̝͚̤̦̔̀̏̿̔̾͌͜︎̶̩͖͉̖͉̻̚ ̵̰̣̝͖̬̦́̿̓̕⧫̴͉̰͇͗̑̈͆̎̂︎̷̹̱̯͊□̴̻̩̮̞͈̌̿́̾︎̴̨̾̉͆͂ ̵̶̻̙̝̱̖̱̟̬̥̮́̐̊̍̚̚͝︎̷̴̢̝͖̀̓́͑̅︎̵̼̞̱̮͉͋́̑͛̓̚ ̵̵̜̝̲̠̥̣͂̈́̄̕︎̸̵̹̟̫͉͎͈͙̟̎́̏̽̈́͆︎̵̷̩̖̮̰̝͍̲̇͋̑̍̀̒̿̀ͅ︎̴̵̧̡̝͓̗̣̀̆̾͌̓̕︎̵̝̮̃⍓̵̢̥̞̖̱͌̍︎̸̰̟̞̜̾̽̀̕�̵̣̣̈̃̎�̸̢̟̝̪̂̽̅̒̾̎ͅ︎̵̢͔̹̯͆̃͘ ̵̡́̉̄̌⬧̵̢̫̄̈︎̴̸̨̫̭͇̪͇͓͒̇̂︎̵̷̠͕̰̳̱͗̀̍̽̌︎̸̺͇̣͓̘͊̀ ̵̡̰̼̳̭̖̈́̅̓̇́◆̸͔̔͂︎̶̪̟̄̚⬧̵̢͉̼̫͚̋̆͊̓︎̸̸̨̨̛̰̩̯͓͛̉̈́̂̓̎́̊͋̚︎̷̴̹̘͍̱̫̺̟̂̀̊̔̔̽̄︎̵͕́̏ ̷̝̱͓̯̉⧫̶̝̳͕̌︎̷͉̹̤͇͛̆□̸̘̝͖͍̇̂︎̸͕̱̊̀͝ ̸̷̢̧̞̭̭̻̹͖̃̓̎̅̆̿̈́ͅ︎̷̷̢̢̨̰̥̰̳͂͐́̌̈́̃̄͠͝︎̸̝͚̟̱̈́́͒́͜͠ ̸̴̯͉̙͚̦̘̘̃͛̈́̃̌̈́̓̇̇̎︎̸̵̖̮͈̺̂̋͛̽́︎̵͔͍̠̻̈̀͑̀͗͠●̵̩̩̬̣͎̓͐͒͒́͝︎̵̸̡̢̡̯̞̦̟̬̒͌̈́́̔͒͘︎̷̛̭̘͎̘͖̙̽̈ ̵̡̪̅⧫̸̻̝̞͉̱̂̐̚͜︎̸̹͂̿͘□̷̢͕͆̋̅︎̵̨̯̗̖̞̲́ ̵̖̰̻̫̯̇͒̆̌̆͌⧫̵͚͈͖̂͜︎̴̵̣̯̃̃͗̈́̈︎̶̴̫̜͓̰̖́̒̒̓͆̓͘︎̴͉͖͎̩̲̹̊̉̕͠͝■̶̨̡͕̟̇̅͛͜︎̴̗̦̆̃̄̾̕�̷͉͎̯̜̼̳̍́̇̏�̵̧͈̠̰̂̆̈́͛͘ ̴̖͈̮͛̈́̔̾̕͝⬧̴̠̹̭̼̯͑͜︎̷͎͔̰̒́̆⧫̵̟̺̠̦̱̆̍͋̏︎̵̢̙̠̥͋ͅ❒̵̛̘͉̾︎̵̸̢͚̣̪̘͇͎͖̲͈̱̖̏͘͝︎̸̶̢̧͇̬̱̝͇̈́̀̀̅͊̓̉͜͝︎̵̷̤̳̹̤̭̩̭̈̀̈́̃͋̽̆̀̈́̈́͜͜͝︎̵̶̡̮̫̬̝̟̹͒͊̀͑͛͛̍͘̚͜͝︎̷̧̘̯͇͖̊⧫̷̢̛̖̬̑̾͐︎̶̦̭͌�̵͔̭͔̣̭̔̑͋̍̚͝�̶̛͍̇̽̀̉̐︎̵̧̰̜͖̿͋͠ ̸͚͍̣̳͖́́̄͂̑⧫̷̛̲̔̽͋͘︎̷̘͆□̶̪̊̎͛̊︎̷͚͍̼̰̌̆̏̿͌̕ ̷̷̱̣͉̟̖̲͕̼̇́̅̈́̏͠ͅ︎̸̸͓̬̞͍͇͖̘̐̈́̑̈́̏̈́͛̾͗︎̷̡͎̞͂❖̶͖̮̱̮͎̀̒͛̌̇̕︎̴̵͎̪̐̊̓︎̸̭̈̇̅̽ ̸̵̛̳̣̜̍͒̽̂̈̆̎̿̌͝͝︎̴̨͇̗͎̟̐̀❒̴̬̥̞̋︎̴̴͈͕̭̝̯̏͋̓̑͊̽̈︎̴̶̡̻͎̝͈̟̮̟͔̿͐̈́̉͋͌̆̚͝ͅ︎̶̞̖͆͘■̸̜̗͔̃̅͋̔͌︎̷̵̟̻̼̫̜̣̳̬̍̓̔͋͒͒͐̓͗︎̴̛̦͚̅͠⬧̸̯̲͆̆̃̅︎̸̖̥̦̓͛͊͜͠�̵̖̗͚́̐͘�̷̡̞̝͉̫̞͛︎̷͉̬̣̻̊̈́͘ ̵̬̦͇̄̃͑⧫̸̡̼̺̫̍︎̸̼̇̋□̴̢̡͍̟͇̺̾̉͐̆̈́̕︎̵̨̢̙͕͚̂̀͠ͅ ̴̦̓●̴͍̼̀͆̈́͜ͅ︎̷̸̗̬̣̋̊︎̵̖̲̦̽◆̸̧̦̝̼͔̐̔̓͑̓͘︎̴̵̡̙͇͇̻̯̥̗͎̖̿͋́̈̋︎̵̵̧̠̭͉̦̗͇̈́̎͌̊͑̀͒͛͝︎̷̡̤̼͕̝̍ͅ ̴͓̺̔̋̇͐͜❒̶̡̝͔̥̜̾́̊͑͂͋︎̵̸̡̧̗̖̲̯̥͕͍̼̙͂́̌̈́̕︎̷̸̹̬͋̋͒̑̕︎̷̷̨͔̜̭̜̰͍͍̳͂̏̆̽̽̕͠︎̷̗̻͕̪͖̹̇́̌⧫̷̧̛̋̍̕͠︎̷̢̼̻̘͈̒̔̂̑́�̶̭̼̪̻͊͑͑̈́̑̚�̷̩͙̞̱͈͐̈́̃̏̓͐͜︎̷̢̭͙̭̑͒ ̸̡͈̳̣̱̕͠⧫̴̢͖̅̑͊︎̴̛͈̠̞͚̿̑̀̈́̚□̸̡̛͈̭̱̰̒̔̏̆͊ͅ︎̷̧͓̱̯̖̬̓̒̍̿͋͘ ̴̵̡̼͖̺͔̙̱̦͎̓̈́̑̆́̃̚︎̸͚̰̠̾̕̕͜͝❒̸̧̝̲̾͋̍︎̴̢͓͍̪͆⍓̴̗̞̮̈̄︎̷̫͛̌͋͗͝͝ ̷̜̮͒̒❒̸̡̹͈̦͔͕̄͗̋͋́́︎̵̸͉̠̯̹͙̖̣̆̄̌͝͝︎̸̸̝̰͓͈̭͕̈́̽̓̎͛͜︎̵̸̨̧̮͕̙̥̳̿͒̀̎́͘͝︎̴̢̬̻̗͔̯͑̀⧫̸̲͆︎̸̦̖̊̀̿̐͒�̵̰͖̲͚̥̩͛́�̵̘̫͆︎̷̛̘̬̘̆̾̿͜ ̸̣̞̜͉̑͋̈́͂͜⧫̷͈̼͍͎͙͖̏̑︎̸̰͙̱̦̅□̶̺͋̽̓︎̷͖̰̣̺̫̼͊̅̈́̊ ̷̡͔̥͋͋͝⬧̶͉͕̭̥̲́͐̅́͋̚͜︎̸̢͙͇̩̈́͐❍̵̫̥̬̀̋̃̒͘︎̷̸͔͎̗̪̻̘̭̿̀̅͒̒͌̇͌͜︎̸͓̥̤͙̣̽●̶̟͆̽͊̈́︎̶̸̹̼͖̞͛̑̌̎͠︎̶̠̈́̔̋̂ ̵̢̢̻̲̟̣̿̎́❒̵̫̆̽̈́︎̵̸̨͔̲͓̊́́̂͑̌́̀͝︎̸̶͔͓͖̫̈́͑͋́͗̽͊ͅ︎̴̶̢̬̗̤͙͑̈́̏̇̌͑̆͑͘̕︎̷̀͑̏̍̒͘͜⧫̷̡͚͕̫͙́︎̶͎̪̹̺̒̈͛̈́̅ͅ�̶̡̢̝̻͎̭̿̓͂̑͌͝�̵̧̀︎̸̙̳͌͐̈́ ̸̰̻̔̇͌⧫̵̖̙̗̜͊̀͑͛̂͜͝︎̸̦͇͛̄̈́̈□̷̠̭͍̹̥́͌̕͜︎̴̠̜͔̖̞̄͆̇̚̕ ̸̴̢͔͓̮̼̼̖̤̰̳̭̆̆͆̆͒͌̚︎̸̛̰̭͎͇͇͑̇❒̵̧̺̦̩̭͗́̓̚︎̶͕̐□̸̨̛̬︎̷̲̀̋̏̌͝⬥̵͚̓̇̈̿̚︎̵̣̝͕̑̔͆̔́͘■̷̞̭͍̩͍̋̅͋͌︎̶̞̔̕ ̴̡̢͉̟̿❒̷̗̭̼̰͐̓̓︎̷̸̨͙̱̰̯́̃̾̀͐ͅ︎̴̷̩̭̟̠͔͓͕͌́︎̷̸̝̪̰̮͙̌̈́̀︎̸͙̙̫̆̒̽⧫̸͓̙̍̇̍̒̕︎̶̭̠̋̑͑̏̑�̵̳̉͒͒̍̒̈�̷̱̐︎̷̝̥̽͂̓̾̎ ̶̶̬̹̹̲͙̪̾̀̔͆ͅ︎̵̩̫̭̪͚̈̽◆̶͈̒︎̶̘͍̯̙̫̽͠⧫̶̰͉̍́͠︎̴̢̝̒̎̏̊̕ ̶̬̰́̄͒͘■̸͖͍͎̤̗̹̏͘͠︎̵̧͚̹͔͆̎̊̒͝͝□̵̻̳̂ͅ︎̶̙͌⬥̶̳̄͂͝︎̶͕̰̹̭͑̆̂ ̴̭̬̠̌⬧̴̨̝̤̜̰́̐̊︎̴̷̢͔̠̽̄̀͆︎̶̵̨̲̱̃̔̔̌͐̈́͝︎̴̱͎͉̼̆̀͝ ̵̜̞̬͑͊̚⬥̶̙̯͊͆̾̀︎̵̴̙͓̝̮̝͂̏̈́̀̚͠︎̸̡̱̞̬̦̒͂͑⬧̷̦͎̹̻̈͆͜︎̵͕͇͝ ̶̖̩͚͈͓͑̿̎̋�̴̘̝̘̣̓͌�̸̝̥̖̽̔͗̅̿͝◆̷̧͕͕̟̄͝︎̴̤͚̰̃⬧̸̥̏͗̀̎̈̚︎̴̢̯̯̐̋̆͑⧫̴̻̇͛̽ͅ︎̴͙͓͓̱͆͐̈̇ ̷̶̧͙̞̳̫͔̪̇̆̽̓̍̒͌̓︎̸͓̜͔̙̊͊͂̌̈́͝ ̵̵̖͈͉̻̽̏̒͊̈͐̅̚︎̸̡̺͉̦̜̀⬧̵̬̘̲̍̅͊̊̾︎̵̬̚⍓̴͔̓︎̸̶̡̡̲͚͇͖̱̳̮̊͂̓̕͜͜︎̸̵͔̝̦̺͊̇̈̋̔̊͠︎̷̠͍͔̤̃̓̏̇̾̋□̸̞̈́̄︎̷̶̫̻̙̖̳̎̈́̿̀͋̊̈́́̀͑͘͝︎̶̴̛͕͙͖͍͉͉͉̥̼̽̀͛̓͗̔̀̈́́͜͝͠ͅ︎̷̡̦͎̱͒͆̈́̔͠⧫̵̢̌︎̷̵̢̛̛̮̝͇͕̺̲̿̋͊͒̀︎̸͉̩̃͐͑͝�̵̩̋͘̚�̷̻͚̦̥̎͆͜͝︎̸̡͍̲̊́̑̕͝ ̴̴̢̧̛̪̭̭͉̳͛̎̓̆̾͗͛̽̓̚︎̴͍̖̳͛̂̽͆̚ͅ ̴̷̨͉͕̠̈́̎͒̈́̄̈́ͅ︎̶̤̤̎̊͐͝⬧̶̐̂̀̍̽͜︎̶̧̩̳̯͎͐̅̓͒̚̚⍓̴͎͔̻̥͋͒̈̓̕̚ͅ︎̷̶̛͇̣̮̯̦̄̄͗͌̊̀︎̵̶̧̢̭̠͚̺̱̺̩̎̎̽͂̃̈︎̴̨̹͎̱̃͂̈͛̆□̴̧̰͇̑̃̉͝︎̵̶͓͔̈́̂́́︎̴̴̧͇͎͎͚͉̠̄͌͋̅̀̎ͅ︎̵̡̢͚̹̪̫̆̎̆⧫̸͖̎͐︎̴̶̝̬͛̾̄̓͊͗̂͐ͅ︎̵̺̰̳̮͊͛͛̈́̂ ̸̟̂̽̍̚⧫̸̨͈̽͊͆́̎̉︎̷̸̡͉̦̼̤̗̘̤̋̓̓̓̊̎̔̋︎̴̸͕͚͖̯̲̃̈́͐̔͗︎̸͓̗͓̖̇̏͛͊́⧫̴̗̦̩̤̺̾́̐̂︎̵̛͙͍̱͆̊̒͛̏ ̸͓͙̟̭̗̈́̄́͘■̸̰̺̾͜︎̸̯͆̈́͑̑̕□̷̫͋̇̀̈́͛͠︎̷̸̲̘̈́̋̔̋̀̚︎̸̦̝̯̜̘͌̓̊͊̆͝□̸̖̬̙̲̈̍͋͒͘͘︎̸̷̝̰̲͖̝̩͆̃̿͒̄︎̵̜͌͆͠⍓̴̝̩͒͌͜︎̶̮̎̓̈́͘͠͝ ̵̰͚͙̏͗̾̏̿͜͝⬥̶͈̟̏͆̈́̄̓ͅ︎̵̝̦͍̫͍̪̈́̀́□̴̛̖̹̳̼̟︎̴̮̥̐̔͐̚◆̶̺̻̄͝︎̵̛͉͇●̶̨͍͌︎̷̷͙̤͎̝͓̟̳̥̼͐͆̅͐̀͝͠͠ͅ︎̶̛̰̣͉͊̏̈́̓͆ ̵̵̱̘̗͚͊̂̆̓̈́̍̎ͅ︎̷̙̬̻̋́̀̿❖̶̖͌͑︎̶̴̡̛̹̦̩̜͖̗̏̔̃͗̐͋͝︎̸̝̯̝̉̆̀̃̚͝❒̴̨̛̪̻̮͙̰͊︎̸̰̞̩͌̈́́̚ ̴̼́̄̑͝●̵̞̟̏͗́︎̸̛̛͙̺̖̗̜͌́͂□̴̟̼̻̜͒̔̈́͜︎̴̣̘̫̗̈̈̎❖̴̡͇͚̔͒̒̑͝︎̴̸̡̯̝̳͙͎̟͙͚̙̱̆̃̓̋́̆̕︎̶͇͕̻̪͖̇̐̊̓̈́͜ ̶͖̻͔̞̫̑⬥̸̳̩̯̄͐︎̴̶̢̗͇̬̈́̄̽͊̕͝͠︎̷̴̡͎̬̞͎̫̝̘̗̳̌͐̏̅̿̀͆̈́ͅ︎̷̢̭̹́̎͌̌͝⧫̷̭̳̜̙̪̓︎̴̧̔͝⬧̸̘̎͂͑͌͌̚͜︎̶̟̝̓͊͐͌̂͗�̵̻̘͚͈̳̋�̴̺̼̫̫̬̿̋︎̶͈̳̠̞͊̔ ̷̟̟͓̫̾̽̌̓͠͝⬥̷̨̹̣͈̞̠̆̈̾︎̵̸͚͕̙̹̺̠̻̮̘̯̭̎̈́̎̇͆͠͝︎̵̵̫̲̠͇̩͉̞̹̅̓͆̊̔̑̈́̏͝︎̶̖̣͕͋̍̈́̕⧫̴̡͈̗̀̔︎̸̡̭͈͑⬧̴̲̳͈̗̓̄̚︎̴̨̣̮͉̂̈́́͝�̵͈́̉̀̍�̶̩̲̑̅̍̂̆︎̶̢͙̙̺̼̯̈́͒̆͘ ̸̼̝̫̩͓́͊⬥̷̢̛̞̈́̚͘͜︎̴̶̨̖̭͕̬̫̣͍́̋̿̅̊͗̈́̕͠︎̴̶̢̹̠͙͎̗̠̪̓̂̄̆̍͗̈́͑̈́̄︎̴̱̮̲̝̗͔̿̓̐̚͝⧫̶̩̗̣͋̽̈̋̈́͊︎̷̧̮͍̒⬧̷͖͚͚̌͗̄͘͝͝︎̴̶̙͔̭͈͂̕͝︎̶̶̨̡̮̥̉̐͋͗̚͝�̷͖͚̬́̉̒︎̷̱́̀ ̸̨̣͎̱̻́͛͌͑͐̚⬥̶̢̺̙̌̿̒͂︎̸̴̥̣͓̰̥͈̉́͛͘︎̴̷̩̯͇̯̃̄̎̿̄̌͌︎̴̫̤͋̕⧫̶̛̻͈̆̒̎̑̑︎̵̳̑̌⬧̷̧͔̱̺͛͌̽̄︎̷͔̟̜͕̔́͊̐͊̑�̷̛̬͔̤̇̀�̸̡͐͝︎̴̧̻͓͉̮͒͝ ̸̳̱̻͔̼̗̄̓̍́⬥̴̱̍͛̑̕͘︎̶̷̢̮̼̙̰̞̫͓̻̍͑̊̒̾̕︎̷̴̭̱̣̙̱͕̹̤̔͗̒̈̄̍̔͜︎̷̞̯̹̦̬̗̋͆̒͘⧫̸̢̤̞̜̐̾̃︎̴̞̩͒⬧̷̞̣̟̿̽̃̅︎̵̢͚̱́�̸̡̛̼͈̬͙̮͆͝�̵̧̪̩́̾̊̚̚︎̸̟̣̺͓̇́͛͠ͅ ̶̴̻̰̲͕͍̹͆̾͛́̓̚︎̷̦̝̌̂̒■̷͍͖͇̺̓̀͜︎̴̴̨̨̛̼̹̮̲̭̹͚͋́͋͆̈́̚︎̵̪͙̌́͠ ̶̡͎̯̋̑̅⬥̸̝̙̗̠̖̔͂͗︎̴̸̨̭̪̻̦̗̋̅̑̕͜︎̷̴̲͎̲͍̱̳̤̮̥͊͊͊͒̿̓̈́̽̒̀̾ͅ︎̵͕͙͎͇̈͒͠⧫̵͎̽͆̍̓͝︎̷̼͉̩̱͋́⬧̴̭͇̙̮̊̇ͅ︎̶̯͍̘͎͚̓͗̈̊̔ ̷̳̰͉̝̫͋̎̔͂͛̚◆̴̙̼͇̑̍́̕︎̶̹̘̈́̂■̴̰̞̩͘︎̸̫͎̟̔̍̌̄͋̄⧫̴͔̊̕︎̸̴͉̩̗̦̥͚̻͈̅̋̂͠︎̸̱̀͊̀●̶͚̜͉̱̺̒̄͠︎̶̡̫̬̠͕͐͗͝ͅ ̷̵̨̳̮͚̖̞̫͓̣͎̝̹̍͗͒͛͗̈́̑̔̈́̄͠︎̶̸̮͎̦̯̺̺̈́̈͋̅̇̐́͘̕̕ͅ︎̶̸̢̨͍̦̹̳̹̥̘̮̮̊̅︎̷̰̤̗͗̀ͅ⧫̸̢̨̼̫̺̥̂̀︎̶̷̙̞͎̞̌͑́͂̃̓͂̄͠︎̴̧̮͆͘ͅ ̵̷̧͇̟̉̍̈̅̾̑͜︎̸̶̡̹̩̮̪̗͙̜͇̐̃͆̐̍̍͜︎̴̱̓̊̎͋͠■̴̨͕̣̃︎̴̸̯̯͖̺̫̳͚̈́́̄͐́̃͂︎̴̧̱͕̐̍̈̈́⬧̶̪̞̓̈︎̵̣̙̅ͅ ̴̸̙͔͇̖͉̿̽͝︎̸̶̢̦̼̰͇͇͇̲̍͒̀͌̒͆̕͠︎̶̹̯̍̿̅͑͂❒̸͍̥͇̤́̕︎̵̧͚͎̩̎̅͝ ̵̸̢͖͓̭̺̝̌̊̾ͅ︎̴͚̲̲̪̰̹͋̾̓͑■̸̢̝̗͍̚︎̸̢̛̺̥͓̆̈́͒̈͋ͅ⬧̸̢̧̭̜̺͑̉͋̓̓︎̴̢̲͓̥̈́⧫̴̡̭̻͙̥̆̈́͌̒ͅ︎̴̵̨̳͓̼̈́͗͊͒̒̽̉̆︎̸̷̩̱͇̻̻͇̀̽̋͛̔̏̚͜͠︎̴̶̨̱̪̭̱̝̬̀̽̿̋͆̚︎̴̨̨̦̩̭͘�̴̡̜̻̪̹̃͛̈̔̕�̵̡̲̐͜͜︎̸̭͗̇̇̋̐̑ ̴̹͇̯̗̜͇̄̑͋̿□̷̘̳̃͝︎̷̛̱͜❒̴̻͈̤̉̎̄͊̈́͝︎̴̨͕̲̭͍̘̽ ̷͎̖̲̟͚̥̇̈́̔̿̂⬧̸͎͇͚̤͙̈́ͅ︎̵̷͔̘̯̳͎̩̗̤̦̤̗̽̀̾̓̈̏̇͝͝͠︎̴̴̺̮̺̺͉̩̄̈́̔̚︎̵̗͍̔̀́ ̶̤̙͍̚●̵͙̀︎̴̡̫͌̍̈́̒̍͊ͅ□̸̟̱̀̚͝︎̶̣͉̮̜͍̪̐̅̋͌̚⬧̸̞̯͔̽̑̀̋̽︎̷̶̨̳̳͇͉̬̳̳̂̈́̇͜͜︎̵̻͈̙͍̪͆͌͘⬧̵͕̙͓̰̮̫̑͑͐̓͝͝︎̴̡̯͈͓̞̭̅ ̶̶̡̭̮̙͎͍̳͈̣̀̊̇̃̕͝︎̷̵̧͖͓̩͎̺̘̮̉̐̋︎̶̙̪̮̙̪̈́̒̏͘❒̶͕͚͇̇͠︎̷̼̪̭̥̈́͋̀̀͒⬧̶̧̄︎̴̸̨̡̛̛̻͚̼̗̹͕̬͉̠̝͐̍͘͝︎̶̆̓͂͜●̵̧̡̪̲͍͐︎̶̸̛̪̼̰̣̃͆̈́͒͜︎̶̤̙̤͐̔̿̀̆ ̴̶͓̱̜̤̗̩̒̌̀̑̽̄͛̒͆︎̸̞̱̃̈̈́̈̃ͅ■̶̧̭͔̫͒͛͠︎̴͉̏̇̈́͘͝ ̸̧̺͓̼̓̂̂̏͒⧫̵̨̤̻̘̤̐̆́͆̍̃͜︎̷̴͍͎̞͓̗̳͚̮̐̔̇͌̈́͌̔︎̷̴̨̹̯̘͎͖͑͋̓͌̄́̕︎̸̹̺̥̊ ̷̖͇̙͚̩̦̓̑͒͘❍̸̢̺̘͉͎̍̔̅̓︎̵̴̨͖̲̮͙̤͓̉̈́̊̋̋́̚̚︎̷̶̯͖̦̗̤͒̎̾͆̐͂̌̚͝ͅ︎̵̼̼̞̻̺͈̃̓̀■̶̰͉͒̉̒́̕͠︎̴̵̲͎̲̟͔͎̱̖̦͇̏̅͌̋̑̋͐̚︎̵̧̧̺͇̯̃⬧̵̡̛͔̦͇︎̶̳̯͙̓̂̓̔⬧̸̡̗̈́̍͋̓︎̴̡̙͇̪̫͚̾͆́͋̕�̴͍̦͕͐̊̾͝�̶͖͑͝︎̷̭͔̲̻̲͑̓͑̊͠ ̷̶̨͈̪͇̗͔̫͚̗̳͒͑̈́︎̷̧̲͆̊̌̕̕❒̶͍̳̈́̒︎̵͓̜̎̓̂̽̈́̚□̷͇̠̣͌̓̐̎̀̕︎̵̡̝͉͕̒̒̎̓̚͝⬥̵̘͖̯̠̰̯̅͆̐͗͝͠︎̴͌ͅ■̶̡̨̼̲͓̃︎̶̴̬͍̩̭̦̘̞͒̃̌̌̉̒̎̑̏︎̵̩̰̮̟̀́̇̇͠■̴̲̙̱̱͊̊̽̍︎̴̸̟̲̪̟͇̼̖̩̜͈͒̐͋̀͋͑̇̔̂︎̷͕̽̇ͅ�̴̝͇͍̙̪̄͌͑�̴͍̞̼̭͎̌︎̶͍̺̝̝̞̾̀̿͛ ̶̶̫̼͙̗̱̺̜̜̼̇͆̄̄͘︎̴͉̻̝̑̿❒̵̛̫̻̺̓͐̕͘̕ͅ︎̵͈̯̳̻̱̐̾̃͠□̸̡̛͉̪͕̟̽̆︎̸̢̱̩̎͋̕ͅ⬥̵͉͊͂︎̸̙̜̝͋͋͛̀̓̚ͅ■̸̛͚̙̝̠̖̃͒͜︎̵̶̫̫̗̜͚̎̊͂͜͝︎̷͔͇͈̜̱̂̓́̊̚̚■̶̝̣̠̪̭̭̃͛︎̴̸̧̦̜̙͙̪̔̀̎̈́͋͘͝︎̶̞̩̐͛̕�̶̩̟͚̣̪͒̀̊̽̚�̸̦͗̑͆̀͗͝︎̸̥̱́̽ ̶̸̠͉̦͙̝̺̤͇̪̀̂̌̋̑̍ͅ︎̵̵̨̢̧̢̗͖̬̏̇̀̈̉̈́̓̚͘︎̵̸̛̛̘͍̩̮̼̪̬̙͗̆̂̍ͅ︎̴̴̻̞͍̠͈͙́͂́̄̅͜︎̶͍̓͋͝�̵̯̤̇̄�̷̖̜͇̓̾̈́̒̿︎̵̡̛̛͎̖͖͍͋̐̍͝ ̵̸͎͈̦̙͖̰̻̂̌̈́̃̔͆͑̓̾̋͘͝︎̶̟̈́ ̷̶̛̖̞̦̹̯̥͕̞̮͓̓͗͋̂̿̽̕︎̶̡̼͍̓̊̄̊͌̐❒̵͉͖̼̈́̑̕︎̸̴̻̘̘͔̰̑̐̿͛̏̈́͒̕͘︎̶̴͓̳̳͈̆̈̄̃̄͗̾̏̇̏͊̀︎̸̛̫͓̺̫̻̼͛̑̌̕͝⧫̷͍͛͛̄̚︎̷̵̛͓͉̣̩̗͕̅̒͂̔̂̃̀͜͝︎̸͇͕̙̊̔●̸̥͍̙̥͍̐̓̄̌︎̶̢̪̤̓̕ ̴͉̺̯̙͔̉̀̎͑□̸̢͈̫̾̂̋͑̋͘︎̵̶̮͈̦͎̫̂̉͜͜͠︎̴̡̧͈̘̤̻̿̅̑̌͗͝ ̵̶̰̦͖̼̠͕͕̰́̈́͝͝︎̶̴̡͎̮̼̪̯̘̻̤̮̓̇̅́̇̕͝︎̵̛̘̼̞͖̗̯̀͆̆̍̇❒̸͖̫͉̝͓͊̅̓̅͘͘︎̷͕̦̰̦̫̂͋͐̍̓͑͜ ̷̙̥͍͗͊͌̄͂̆⬧̸̖̝͒̒͑̕︎̶͙̐͊͂̓ͅ□̶̧̨̖̭̅͆͑̄︎̸̛͍̫̮̲́̈̊͂̕◆̷̬͓̫̄̑̿̚͘︎̷̡̹̭̉̇●̷̢̣̥̟͕̌︎̴̡̺͙͖̋̃͘͜�̵̤̺͕͍̐̌̓͗͐�̶̠̬̂͌̍̃̀̾ͅ︎̴̨̩̳̹͉̂͌͂̔̀͠ ̸̖̗̓̐⧫̶̳͊̄︎̸̷̯̻͕̟̰͓̪͉͊̓͝︎̷̶̢̢̡̲̮̭͉͔̤̂̃͝︎̸̨̯͈̖̰̻̓͆͐̚̕͘ ̵͓͔͕͆̎̈́●̴̳͍͊́͂︎̷̴͓͔̥͎̩̰̦̳̃̂̑͋̕̚͠͝︎̴̥̘̱͙̣̅̎̎⬧̴̛̼̤͕́̀︎̶̤̈́̉⧫̵͓͑̄︎̷̩͇͓̟̪̜̇ ̵͙͆̍̋□̵̱͔̼̻͇͓̓̎̏︎̸̶̢̢͔̠͓̱͖̣̗̅̒̑͗̊̿́̎̔︎̷͈͍́́̎͆́ ̵̶̢̳̜̰̰̮̝͍̔͋͗̔̚︎̶̶̡̮̬̩̪̯͈͖̼͂̎̋̆̓︎̶̝̇͘❒̶̳̠̖̓͒͂̔͝͝︎̸͓̬̣̦͔̥̔̏͑̉̽͑ ̸̵̡̹̩̖̼̤͚͈͛͆̉̅͘͠͝︎̸͓͒̌̀͠◆̶̙̿̋̅͑̑̕︎̷̡̥̻̠̎❍̷͍̀̈́︎̷̴̞͓̼͚̬̗̯̈́͐̾͘ͅ︎̵̛̩̬̅͊̏̊͊■̷̭̙̻̱͕̠̅͛̏̊︎̷̸̰̙͓͔͈̼̙̦̗͙̮̖̅̂̓͐︎̵̧̡̰̱͔̉͑̆ͅ⧫̴̨̹͓̙̲͔́͑̃̈́̈́͝︎̸̤̀̊̍͝⍓̸̮̜̿̿͂̀̚͠︎̴͇̺̗̯͛̇̿ͅ�̴͉̞͍̪̋�̶̙͂︎̷̱̔ ̸̞̘̼̲̟̑●̵̢̬͍͎̃︎̴̺̖̥̲̔̿͌□̷̺̯̄̄̓̍͘̕︎̷̻̱͊⬧̴̟̹̆̎̋̐͠︎̴̭͘͜⧫̴̛̱͚̰̽︎̶̖̮͉̂̿ ̸̸̠͎̻̠̾͑͗̓̀̎̀͠︎̵̹͖̥̤̩́■̷̡̛̦̜̰̿͐ͅ︎̸͎͕̬͕̯̠̽̊ ̵̢̖̗̦͈̫̇́⧫̴̧̝͎̤͍͇̒̑̾̈́̔︎̶̵͇̳̝̾̈̾͂̒́̕︎̶̶͍͕͚̯̲͙͚̂̐̔︎̶̮̹͂̓͋͐͑̐͜͜⬧̵̫̤̱̩̐̏̿ͅ︎̸̯̇̌͌͗̍̏ ̴͍͇̙̖̋̓̎̕̕◆̵͙̲̻́ͅ︎̸̛͎͎̟̬̳͌̎̎̓͋■̶̪̑̽͛̈́͋︎̸̨̖͔͚̖͊̒̐͊̊͒❒̸̡̢̛̹̳̍̎̀͒ͅ︎̴̸̛͕̠̅̈́͂̓̕︎̶̰̻̏̈́͆̓͑●̵̖͓̬͖͎͆͊̄̚︎̷̷̧̧̳̣͖̗̺̱̗̳̑̀̈́̅̓̈́̎͂︎̶͖͔̯̦̯̪̈́̓̎͊̄■̴̧̰̀̓͝︎̸̭̜̯͎͈̇͒͑⧫̷̜̲͛ͅ︎̶̸̧̢͔̗̖͋̍̓̿͝͝︎̸͎̣̪͉̣̒̊̈͊͝■̵̼̿̄͐̄̚︎̶̸̡̮̯͍̻̻̽̑́́͒͐︎̸̲̲̠̞͓̏͋̃͗̽ ̸̡̣̱̞͆⧫̷̧̼̤̇̈́ͅ︎̴̤̺͙̱̋͛̓̇͐͘͜□̶̥̈́͊̌︎̷̬̾❒̶̛͈︎̷̜̦͗❒̷̤͋͒̂̔̒͠︎̸̶͖͓̟̦̜̓̀̉́︎̷̘̲͇̈́̏̋̆̚͠■̶̢̞̤̰̿̂︎̶̻̌̇̾̀⧫̷̳̲̬͙͓͗͑̎̉︎̶̧̝̻͈͇̪͌ ̴̛̘̪̩̯͍̌̓̄͝͝□̸̦́͒̈́̐︎̴̵̣̭͖̳̾͐͒̑̋̔̑̽̓ͅ︎̸̛̰̜̍͗̇͘͜ ̵̤͓͊̚❍̴̛̘͉̼̖͚̽̿͑͌͘︎̷̸̠̼̙̳͈̞̋̒͌́͊̅ͅ︎̶̴̢̲͕͇͉̳̎̋̃̋̋̐̒̄̽̾̾͠ͅ︎̶͚̥̤͕̰̤̄̏͘͝■̷̺̠̳̊͒︎̷̷͍̳͙͖͚͍̼͒̀͋̀̕͘͝︎̶̛͆͑͒͑͜⬧̴̝̖̺͈̔͑͒︎̴̨̧͇̘͕͂̐͋͊̆́⬧̴̢̛̲̒̊︎̶̨̜̭̯̬͈͊̇̿͠�̶̩͓̙̬͗͗͒̚̕�̶̤͕̺̓̅︎̸̙̞̣̈͒́̑ ̸͕͓̼͘⬧̶̻͖̗̺̲͙̏̄̈́̎̆͑︎̶͕͇͓͒̍̊̃̓ͅͅ□̸̣̫̥̙̖̾︎̸͖̫̐͛͌͘❒̸̧̬̈̌̕͜͝︎̸̮̣̟̐̓̏́͝❒̶̫͚̈́͆̌︎̷̤̖̽͒̄͐̂□̸̧̩̓︎̷̢̑̅͋͘⬥̸͎̾̈́̑̋̄͛͜︎̷̥̤̤̌̌̌͗͝͝�̵̢̜̼̼̘̍̑͂̈̇̚ͅ�̸̰̘̳͙̲̳̎̌̌̔́̚︎̴͚̱̭̦̖̿͌́̀͘ ̸̶̢̣̩̣̔͌͋͊̚︎̷̵̡̪͈̩̰̳͉̥̣͓͉̇̏̔͒̉̔̓̈︎̷͚̜̬̌͛⬧̵̺̲͙̈͊͒̚ͅ︎̷̧̛͉̗̹͌͊̋ͅ⧫̸͚̤̝̎͋͌͗͒͝︎̵̴̞̯̲̈́̓̏̉̒̑̈̆͘ͅ︎̴̫̫̲̳̳̌͛̓͜⬧̸̣̭̖̖̆̀̍́͝︎̶̢̛̦͎̭̰̍̀̋̈́̔⍓̸͎̉͛̉̅̊︎̵͕̟͌̈̊̚͝ͅ�̸̧͒̓̅�̶̢͉͖̜̬͕̍̅̒︎̵̞̙̣̇̈͗͆͑̎ ̶̶͉̭̻̣̬̤͔̻̇̎̍͋͆͗̍̕︎̷̨̛̜̚͜■̸̡̧̎̃͜︎̵̵͚̮̭̼̣̫̭̻̯̇̇̕ͅ︎̷̼͓̎̕ ̴̴͓̪̰͖͐̉́̆̒̓͘̚ͅ︎̴̡͚̦̼̙̪͊͗͊■̴͉̠̮̽̆̚︎̷͙͔͝͝⬧̴̱͕͈̟̉̿̑︎̵̵̤̱̼̦̻͓̎́̍̄̕͠︎̶̹̤̥̹̝͆̔́■̶͎̮͕̭̇̍͂̾̅̀︎̷̶̨̛̥̤̩̙̍̋͑̓̈́͊̈͝ͅ︎̵̲̳̅̍͛⧫̵̦̦̓̉̑́̎̌︎̴͔͙̅̔̀͂̒͊⍓̴̹͖̤͒̑︎̵͚͚̲͍̓͘̕�̴̡̯̟̥͆̓͠͝�̸̤͖̏̀̂̈́̉̇͜︎̷̗͆̄͗͒̍̆




Mia Sauer stepped away from that prison and into the next. She knew that there was a forest near here, because she went there every day. She practically lived there to escape her family. The young child, so innocently young, made her way to that forest with a wide grin on her face. That grin, it was not of joy, but as if somebody had taken a rusted knife and brutally carved her face like a pumpkin, always smiling for all of eternity, but if you looked into its eyes, its mouth, you would see no soul, no, for all that could be percieved was the cold, dark emptiness. It was within us all, no? All that mattered was how many masks you put over that shadow, but in the end, it was all that you were.

A shadow.

Her eyes flickered as a shadow passed by her in the treetops. Was it her prey? The girl picked up a stone from beside her and waited for the thing to stop moving. It slithered down the tree, bounding out into a clearing.
Mia let loose the bludgeon from her grasp.
It was going to miss. She could tell by the angle that is was going to miss, and so she abruptly broke out into a full on sprint. The animal, instinctively, began scurrying away from her in a straight line, breaking for the tree line. If it got there, she'd lose it... A twitch, a cough, and a thin line of spittle leaked from her mouth. What a savage, salivating over such primal things. How pitiful.

The sound of her feet beating the ground mirrored that of her roaring heart beat, pounding harder, harder, HARDER. It was addicting, it was irresistable! She couldn't stop now, even if she wanted to! Oh! Oh! What pure ecstasy, pure euphoria, her heart thrumming to the beat of raw pleasure!

Mia's hand would find that squirrel when she threw herself upon it, and she squeezed it tightly when she stood back upright. It struggled and crawled and squeaked. Those desperate cries, it made the voices louder, it made them louder, louder, louder, LOUDER, UNTIL SHE COULDN'T STOP HERSELF ANYMORE!

The child fell to her knees and she began to violently slam the thing, head first, into the ground. She didn't stop for a dozen minutes, she didn't stop, she didn't stop until it stopped moving and she didn't stop when it stopped moving. She kept going, going, going, until she could no longer feel her arm.

And then, a sound.

Rabbits were very pretty creatures, especially these white ones, so when her eyes fell upon it she wasted not but a breath to throw herself forward, corpse in hand, and scramble to her feet to begin another chase. Her vision was filled with red. Maybe it was just the blood of her last victim, maybe it was what she wanted to see. The child didn't care for intricacies anymore as she dashed through the woods. Her hand, her arm, her clothes, face, legs, everything, it all had little specks of blood, zig-zagging down her form as it bounced in the fluid movement of her sprinting.

She ran and ran and ran, eventually she lost the rabbit but she was still running. Mia was lost for the first time. She wasn't in control anymore, something else was.

Something else ran her into something very dull, but something very important—for this was no something that had caused her to fall back onto her bottom in a daze.

This was a someone.

It was yet another sweltering summer’s day for the Krolva district. The skies were clear, not a single cloud in sight. Birdsong and insect chitters were just about the only sounds of life across the parched district, carrying across the roofs of Krolva’s tightly packed houses on the dry, hot winds. Not many people were on the streets as of this hour, on account of it being high noon. The sun hanging in the sky beat down on the streets, discouraging most of the district’s residents from venturing out.

What a nice day for some...hands-on dissection.

A dull clomp as his feet hit the ground.

Adalard Engel, a young boy of eight. Quiet, freakishly intelligent and a prisoner in his own brain; not easily noticed by some, entirely ignored by others. But he was fine with that. After all, doing everyone else’s sums that they had no time for was pretty much all he was good for.

A dull clomp as his feet hit the ground.

Adalard Engel, a young boy of eight. Everyone seemed to need him, but nobody seemed to want him. Though nobody told anybody else what they thought, not in this town, it was pretty obvious that everyone resented him bitterly, to some degree. Because they knew that an eight year old child, able to do sums at the level of a tax collector thrice his age was odd, unnatural and strange; because humans intrinsically hated and feared all that was odd, unnatural and strange.

A dull clomp as his feet hit the ground.

Adalard Engel, a young boy of eight. If they whispered quiet comments and condemnations behind his back, so be it. He was fine with that. It was of no concern to him what they all thought of him, not until they started pushing him around, driving their fists into his gut in their envy, not until the washerwoman from down the lane made abjuring symbols at him as she crossed the road from him, giving him the evil eye as she whispered ‘Devil’s child, devil’s child!’ sanctimoniously…

A dull clomp as his feet hit the ground.

Clomp.

Clomp.

Clomp.

Clomp.

Clomp.

Clomp.

Clomp.

Clomp.

Clomp.

Adalard Engel, a young boy of eight.

The town shrunk behind him as he continued to walk away, wiping his brow with his free hand, the other hoisting a sack over his shoulder that clinked and rattled. Over his shoulder a coil of thick rope was twined, scraping and chafing under his shoulder as he began stumbling down the slope that slowly descended into the forest south of town.

He could already hear the wildlife of the forest as he stepped beyond the treeline. Scuttling, scrambling, broken branches...everything was thrown into sharp relief the moment he stepped past the invisible boundary set by those trees. Unslinging his sack momentarily, Adalard drew out a bloody bunch of rags and unwrapped them, revealing at once the glint of sunlight on steel as the light filtering through the canopy of the forest hit the blade of the knife that now lay in his hands.

Gripping the implement resolutely, Adalard slung his sack over his shoulder again, and began walking into the deep forest.

Soon he was setting up a rudimentary snare, having studied those belonging to the town’s hunters. There was a squirrel run from an old oak to a small lake clearing that he’d been studying for a few weeks now, and a rabbit warren not too far off, so it was only logical that he should trap the surrounding areas. He had enough wire and rope for maybe three to four decently sized nooses with a complete leader line, he reckoned.

So he got to work, carving out wood to use as hooks and bases for the snares. Picking out a low-hanging branch, Adalard bent it and let it spring out to test its pliability, and when it sprang back elastically, he began tying the hook to the end of the branch. But a rogue splinter dug into his index finger as he pulled the knot shut, the jolt of sharp pain forcing his hand off the branch. As he calmly dug the splinter out with his knife point, he was completely aware that the branch had sprung upwards and swung his snare hook out of reach. It was time to climb, he supposed.

A few minutes later, Adalard was hanging upside down, carefully dislodging the snare hook from some twisted branches. A sudden flash of movement was caught at the corner of his vision, mahogany among green as it scuttled across the leafy oaken boughs. Locking one eye onto what he suspected strongly was a squirrel, Adalard put all his attention into finishing the tying and dislodging of the snare hook, then slowly lifted himself back into a sitting position on the branch. Sure enough, a plump-looking squirrel was resting with its back to him, torso rising up and down gradually as its tiny lungs pumped and its tiny heart beat.

Not for much longer, if Adalard was quick enough.

For a second Adalard seemed to coil back like a snake about to strike, and in the blink of an eye he was springing across the gap between the branches, hands outstretched like talons to grab the squirrel. He felt some fur come off in his hands as he managed to rip a good chunk of padding off its tail, but he fell through the branches and back to the forest floor, unsuccessful. No, wait, not entirely. He’d knocked the squirrel loose as well, and it squealed in alarm as it was woken from its daze and tumbled down along with Adalard.

Not wasting a single second, Adalard scrambled to his feet and sprang at the creature again, but this time he had lost the element of surprise. The squirrel took off in a flash of amber, little feet skittering across dead leaves and dirt as it dashed away from danger. Adalard, heart thumping, legs pistoning and lungs burning, took off after it. The two sprinted and strafed through the maze of green, never looking back as they ducked, weaved, jumped and held this crazy pursuit until-

“Unff-”

A dull wall of pain hit Adalard, thumping him hard on the head and upper body. He’d collided with something - no, someone! Stumbling back and falling flat on his bottom, he shook the bright circles from out of his vision and looked around for clues as to what in the world just happened. The squirrel, of course, was nowhere to be seen now. What there was to see though…

“Hey...who are you?”

Mia's first reaction was to lunge at whatever she had collided with, considering it was alive. For a brief moment as she planted her palms on the ground and swung her legs underneath her-
For a brief moment as they curled up against the dead leaves behind her-
For a brief moment as she felt the tension in those limbs grow, before they pushed off of the ground and threw themselves at the obstacle-
For a brief moment, there was nothing in her eyes but pure murderous intent. They were lifeless orbs, filled only with hate.
But that was only for a brief moment, of course.

The tension released like steam from a vent as she slowly relaxed, plopping onto her butt with her legs out to one side, curled defensively. It appeared that the young girl had ignored or simply not heard his question... Or perhaps she was challenging him as she parted her lips.
"Who's you?" She spoke with a subtle tilt of her head. Not only her grammar, but her voice, too, resembled someone of three years younger than herself. It was of a high pitch, maybe it was even annoying - some people said that -, she didn't really care. Her voice wasn't the one that she heard.

Mia's pupils dilated as she looked up at the boy's face. She was marginally shorter than him, she couldn't tell by how much. He looked older, she assumed he was.
The child's face was now covered in jagged streaks of crimson, her black, long sleeve shirt was dotted with red, and the skirt of the same colourless texture was also stained scarlet.

She would come home with her clothes bloody. Her parents never questioned it. Maybe they just assumed she had fallen in the woods or something, or maybe they t̷̡̡̡̨̢̮̣̪̲͔͎̻̝̟͉̖̤͎͓̹͙̮͍͙̦̮̩̰̻̺͉̺̠̘͇͇͕̤̯͎̯̫͈̫̲͓́͑̎̆̈́̒̀̉̓̈́̍̌̆̈͗͂͋̿́͗̑̽̋͒͘̕̚͘͜͜͜͠ͅh̵̨̢̧̨̡̨̢̢̠̳͎͚̮̰͍͖̫͙̻͇̠͈̠̦͖̬͇̼̜̯̞̞̭̭͓̹͍͍̥̹̦̜̩̦̻͎͈̠͕͎̩͍̝̬̹̪̓͛̉́̈́͑̅͆̀̒̂̐̌̈́͐̎͗̏́͐͌̀̿̅͌̉̽̔͌̐̅̽͘͝͠͝͝ͅo̴̧̢̡̨̧̢̧̨̡̡̡̯̻͎̠͙̰̞̺̼̹͖͉͈̜̣͍̦̗͎̹̲̳̙̥̺̬͓̖̰̝̝̲͖̞͇̩͈̺̩͓̰͉͉̤͔͇̖̱͓̝̞̱̘̱̳̭̟̺͓̝̩͇̳͍̩̟̜̼̹̱̬̹̦̮͇͍͂͌̂̍̓̎̃̊͆͋͂̾̀̇͆͛̉̓͋̿̾̀͐͜͜͜͝ͅͅṳ̵̢̧̧̢̰̱̻̙̯̙̮̭̣̹̹̬̣̤͚̺̭̗̤̩͙̘̘̹̪͙̰̟̩̻̟͍̭̱̩͚̭͎̦̥̟͛̂̆͌͊̒̌͆͑͗̽̆́̑̊͊̓̏̀̆̄̀͛͛͆͐͗̈̆̊͌͊̊̓̂͐̔̏̓͋̕̕̚̕͜͠͠͝ͅg̵̨̧̡̡̛̛̯̣͍͖̟̖̤̭̲̲̠͎̼͚͈͚̻̲̳̼͔̯̹̱̞̝̘͍͔̲͈̫͇̝̘̯̖͕̱̥̥̥̭͔͍̰͖͍͚̖̙͙̬͖̱̩̪͖̝̈́̒̇́̎̓̽͋̂̈̔͐̃̀̊́͂̈́̀̆͐̃͆͊̃̊̿̂̀̓̎̇̑́̈́̋̔̓̋̿̽͌̋͐̇͌̔̐̉̚̚̚͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅḩ̶̡̢̧̨̡̡̡̧̡̢̛̠̤̬͍̪̖͖͔̺̦̜̯̹̬̠̩̰̗̱͕̹̯̻͔̻͍̙̱̼̮̦̮͍̟͉̥͎̯͓̣̗̝̦̖̜̺̥̙̤̮͍͔͈̝͉̩̥̫̣̱̫̮̱̖͔̙̞̙͌̔͑͒̈͑͂̔͌̐̓͂̄͋̋̇̌͆͋̕͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅṱ̶̨̡̢̛̛̛̲̳͇̠̜̤͎̝̦̬͍̦̹̫̼̜͓͉̫̯̪͙͎̩̤̯͕̼̤͈͗̊̈̏́̇͛̎́͋̂̈́͋͌̋̒̌̌̊̏̀͒̆̈́̉͐̏̓͌́̐̂͊̏̔͋͗̓̓̓̐́̊̎̍̔̋͛̃̔͂̑̃̑́̎͑͊̃̍̌̿̀̓͑͗̾̿́̂̂̄͋̓͌̅̄͑̿̾̏̕̕͘͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅ ̶̢̡̡̢̢̨̡̢̛̰̤̗̦̪͎̥̩̖̞̱͔͙̹̙͈̲̠͙̪̭̠̝̫͈̠̙̤̜̫͕̺͈̰̱̗̤̲̤̱̱͙̦͍̯̰̲̺̦̭̦̘̜̖̳̫͖̮̯͇̙͕͎̮̦̬̥͍͖͚͉̯̫̥̐̊̏̉̏̂̃͂̑ţ̶̼͖̙̺̲̻͙̯̹̩͙̳̺̖̻͕̪̜̫̰̘̥̠̼̳̥̳̪̥̰̹͚̲͙͓̯̝̫̃͌̽͊͆̓̈́͑̓͛̽̾̓̈̑͂̃̾̊̈͛̅̈̊͑͑̈́̉̏̐̒̃̀̑̾̿̕̚͘ͅͅͅͅͅh̶̢̨̢̧̨̧̛̛̞͔̻̣̼̜̹̜̗͇͈̣̦̟͕̳̱͍̥̰̦̹̞̱̪͍̻̝̻̜̥̥͙̹̻̺͖̫̲̣̖̫͚̖̳̮͔̜̱͚̹̋̽͗̏̒̍̇̒̈́̅̄̀̓̑̆̉̈́̄̉̈́̄́̒͐͒̋͊͘͜͜͜͝ͅͅͅͅą̸̢̢̛̛̛̞̱̘͚̫̻̹̳͓̯̟̰͓͖͈̺͈̝͓̳͔͇̮͈͓̰̜̣̌̾̏̿̀̓͊͋̇̌̐̀̂́̓͆́͒͌́̑̌̉̇̈́̇̄̅̈́͂͗͊̇̈́͒̾̅͑̇̄͊͌̊͊̈́̎̈́̾͆̍͒͑̀̄̈́̎̋̏̌͋̓͌̇̓͋͘̕͘͜͠͠͠͠ͅͅt̶̨̨̧̨̢̨̨̧̡̪̼̥̬̳̘̜͍̞͉̰͓̝̭̪̥̠̣̲͎͙͎͔̤̺̦̘̘̭̳̯̳̼̯̪͉̼̤̘̺̘̮͙̞͕̙̫̝͓̤̙̰̮͈̳̞̪̞̪̻̬̩͎̙͖̤̰̻̼͚͛͐͌͑̌́́̂͜ͅͅ ̵̨̧̧̢̧̡̛̛͍͚̳̫̻̬̪̦̤͈͙̖̯̹̼̰͉͖̞̺͍̗̦͈̳͍̘̺͕͙͍͓͙̲̹̰̺͖̰͇̤̯̥̗̱̝̣͉̞̦̎̄͐͂̅̎̌͆͌̆͒͊͋̇̂̌̑́͐͂̏͊̑̍͆̓͊͑̽̑͛́͒̐̔͑̐̎͗̏́͐̂̃̓̈́͌̔͋͘͘̚̚͝͝͠ͅͅs̶̡̛̛͓̼͉̲̯̮̝̮̻̜̹͎͙̥͎͚̪̤͚̗̤͇͎͋̇̾͊͐̒́̈̊̉͌̏̆̐̄̉͑̃̀̅̏͊͊̎̌͊̈́̀̾͑͊̆͛̄͗͆͊́̒̕͜͝ͅͅh̷̨̩̫͚̼̲̹̹̬̞͚̝͖̼̳̰̥̞̥̺̱̱̝̙̬̘͎̹̙̬̲̜̹̟̝̫̝̦̗̤͎̳̲̰̙͇̲̯͎̜͈͈̰̘̹̹̯̥̔̈́͑͆͆͆̾͂̉̀̓͌͆̎̓͂̅̃͛̇̀̂͊̒͊̍̊̀̍̿̚͝͝ͅę̷͚̟͖̖̝̫̻͉͙͇̫͇̥̻̘̟̤͔̗̳̝̇̒͑̍́̏͌̈́͊͛̋͗̄̒̇̋̍̄̉͗́̉̎͆̋͛͆̕̚͜͠ ̷̡̧̧̡̢̢̢̘͙̝̪͇̲̘͙͙̹̮̲̘̯͈̤̳̭̥̥͉̦̤̦̫̙̪̝̼͙͙͇͕̰̞̹̰̩̪̜̮̪͇̠͖̻̫͖̯͈̩͚̳̭̠̻̝͔̮͔̘̜͕̻̼̝̥͍̪̭͕̖̗̠̘̣̻̤͔͕̣̺̝̭͓͇̺͔̬̌̈̍́̈̃̄̈́̆͒̈́͑̌̋̀͗͛̅͗̃́͗̅̆̈̕͝w̴̛̛̛͍̦̌̈̔͊̾̀͂̓̀̆͒̈́̒̀̈́̐͂͗̓̒͆͑͋̒̑̆̒̌͐̔́͌͌̀̂͗͋̍͋́̑͐̔̄̊̄̅͑̐̊̏̂̈͂͘̚͘̕͘̕̕͝͠͝͠͠a̴̢̡̢̧̢̡̨̛̛̖͔̲̫̖̱͈̲̭̱͓̞̭͓̰͍͕̭͉̳̬͕̭̘̼̮̱̯̥͚̝̰̮̱̲̩͙͂̆͗̀͒̋̋́̇̒̎͗̓̐̔̏͑̉̋̇͋̎̾̈̋̃͋̄̀̈́̈́̈́̇͋̅̅̈̏̓̐̈́̀̒͐͊̓͒̇̈̽̌͆̅̒̑̑̚̕̚͘͠͠͝͝s̴̢̧̡̢̧̨̡̨͎͍͍̗̳̜̝̬͈̜̪͚͉͉̺͕̱̰͖̘̞̝͍̦̥̰̭̬̼͕̭̬̙͖̼̦̟̟̤̝̠̤͔̬͇̼̳̻͕̪̝̩̼͓̹͉̺̩̣̟͎̹̣̭̘̫͙̘̬̘͖̋̈́͌͗́̎̉́́͊̄̈̋̈́̆̂̔̽̃̾̉͒͐̈́̃̑͊̾̅̾̅̋̋͛̃̓͒̅́̆́͂͂͋̈̌͋̇͌̓̉͋͋̿̍̀̌̌͒́̃̍̃̏̑̃̊͊͑̔̌̔̎̒͒̿̚̚̕̚̚͘̚͘̕̚̕̕͜͝͝͝͝͝͝ ̴̡̡̢̨̡̡̧̢̛̜͖̮̪̲̭͕̹̱͈̞̲̹͓̜̦̘̮͙͕͍̼̺̘͖̜͈̪͓̞̣͖̤͙͉͉̲̤̮̯̻͓̲͎̌̑͆̈̀̀̔̒̽̄͒͐͐̋́͂̈́͑̋̊̇͋̔̌̂̐͐̈́̐͊̀͛͂͒̚͜͜͝͝͝͝ö̵̧̨̡̢̧̡̢̲̹̖̖̫͍͚̮̦͙̩̥̖̱̟̜̘͍͔̼̖̖̦̪̜̳̙̝̳̣̝̤̣̖̣͍̗̭̦̯̬͎͇̜́̎͗̑̉͑̀͒͂͘̕͝ư̶̧̛̺̞̳̗͕͕͒͆̊̇͑̏̉̾̏̈́͋̂̅̕̕͜t̴̢̨̢̧̡̢̢͕͙̻̩͇̯͍̥͕͙̥̭̭͇̠͎̫̖̮̙͚͓̪̲̳̣̪̥͖̬̰̥̟̗̜̹̻̥͍͕̞̼̭̥̞̜͓͍̙͖̘̫̰̣̱̼̼̣͈̪̥̝̪͎̤͎̗̤͕̞̮̋̿͐͐͌̈́̾̅̔̅̏̓̍̔̀̆̎̋́͆̀̔̇̀̔̆͂̄̿̈́̀̈́̀͌͂̑̍̾͆̌̾́̈͌̒̈̋̀̋̄̋͘̚͘͝͝͠ͅͅ ̵̢̛͖̥̤͎̈́͂̓̏͌͊̒̅̚͠͠ͅţ̵̢̧̡̛̛̛̰͙̟͈̼̟̪͚͍̪̲̳̺̭͕̤̺̗͎̯̼̗̦̹͕͚̭̼̳̙̦̥̟̣̀̓̆̋͊̿̌͒̀̂̑̀̋͂̀̃̒͐̾̉̉̅̎̌͆̓͌̀̃̾̉̍͐̀͆̂̈́̄̂͒̑͐̓̈́͊́̾̿͊̂͋͐̋̔́̊̆̃̅̂̈̂̂́͋̆́̆̇̕̕̚͜͠͝͠͝͝ͅḩ̴̧̨̡̢̛͈̟͚͈̙̙̬̣͇̠̣͇̭̘̬̱̺̦͔͖͇̣̜̬̦̳̯̤̹͓͉̩̯͉̮͈̯̦̼̟̻̰͉̱̩̻̖̬̙̥̆͂̑̑̒͊͊̀͗̆̊́̈́̂̂͑̾́̀̅͛͑̏̾̀͆̾̉̈́̂̎̆̽͊̿̉͒̆̿͛̊͆͒͛͌̌̈́̍͑͆͂̓̔͊̊̚̕͘̕̕͘͜͝͠͝ê̴̛̛̛̛̙͙͊͂̔̇̃̆̍̈̋̂̔̋̐̄̄̈̾͒̃͑͑̏̓͒̾̀͂͛̂̿͆̄͊̑̂̌͑̓̃̽̒̒̍́̓̓̈̔͐͗̿͂̆̌̓̔̐̽͂͐̑̒̿͒̍͛́͐̎̕̚̕͘͘͘͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ṛ̴̢̢̝̳̦̝̺̺͉͖̝̝͔̩͗̓̔̑͜e̷̡̨̢̨̢̨̧̠̠̯̰̫̪͉̜̥̯̟͉͔͍̪̳̹̺̬̥̰̠̤̣̥̠̟̗͙̗̫͓͇̥͔͙̹̯̼̝̣͈̟̣͎̜̬̥̠̻̻̖̝͎͇̳͚̖̗͕̮̹͕̰̭̜̭͖̜̩͉̱̖̅̇͊̈́̃̾̄̀͋̍̾̿̑̔̂̓̃͂̈́́͒̽͆̄͘̚͜ͅͅͅͅ ̵̢̨̧̧̢̡̠̟̩̖̠͉̱͙̟͖̥̞̬͙̟̟̫̣̻͇̻͖̣͔̲̻̫̗͇̝͙͈͇̥̝̟͓͖̬͎͕̻̺̗̣̭̞̩̮͚̙̣̝̟͕̫̯͎̜͕̝̠͈̜̦̹̮͖̫͉̖̣̰̱̜̙͙̩̝̟̞̋́͂͒͜͜͜͜͜ͅͅͅͅͅć̸̢̢̧͔̙͈̰̲̭̞̯̗̖͚̫̟̞̫͎͕̝͛͛̃̂̒̎͌̃̆͊̽̿͌̈́̓̽̐̓̐͌̆̑̍͘͜͝ư̵̢̧̨̢̡̛̭̦̬͚̱̘̼̞̘̖̹̻̝̜͉͕̣̭̘̠͎͉̭̬͕̬̘͙͍̤̤̠̱͙͕̝̳̜̭̦̦̩̩̍̓̓̀͒̇́͒̈́̅̋̅̌͛̽̄̋̓̂̿̈̐͋̊̈́̔̆̃̄̍͒͂̒̉͗̊̊̈̔́́̓̉̄͂̂̑̒̀̏̔̓͆̑̈́̋̆̈́̒̈̈͗̓̊̀̊̐̈́̒͐͐̊́͘̚̕̕̚̚͜͝͠͝͝͝͝t̵̢̧̡̡̧̢̨̨̞͔̤̙̗̼̩̦͎̹̩̗̼̮͉͖̱̯̝̺̖͖̲̞̘̤̠̖̮̗̼̙̠̰͓̱̯̺͎͙͈̮̹͕̫̣̳̬̯̳̭͇̯̤̝̜͔͕͇̺̞̲̠̥̬̘̖͙̲̯̙̹͚̞̖̻̘̓͗̏͌̄̄̒͋͊̓̀̀́̃͛͑̎̓̾̆̅̓̂̿̈͒̀̑͂͘͘̚̚͘͘͜͜͠ͅͅt̵̨̝̯̖̬͚̩̭̩̦̗̏̓̈́̒̋̐̉̂́͊͐̀̋̀̀̈́̋̀͆̀͒̊̂̀̇͑̿͒́̈́̋̔̔̈͑͂́̕͝͝i̸̧̢̧̨̧̧͓͈̯͔̤͕̣̘̱̺̱̼͉̙̝͎̱͔͔̦̹̲̳̺̲̹̪̳̗̝̙̫̰̖͓̯͉̖̥̬̯̦͕̼͖̺͈̣̫̱̞͇̍͐̈̀̋̆̕̕͘ͅņ̵̡̨̧̢͎͈̝̩̻͔̖̳͎̩̘͖̖͇̙̞̘͓̺̫͔̣̩̼̬̲͓̫͍̝̻̥͕̮̙̤̯͚͎̜̇͑̓̿̄̓͐̅̀̓̃̏̅̏̌́̑̊̍̉̄̾̌̈̈́́̐̈́̂͗̈́͆́̕͜͜͜͠͝͠g̸̨̢̧̧̨̦͖͕̲͙̼̦͚͈̯͔̳̹͍̦͉̪̭̣͈͎̥̱͖̣͚͕͇̞̤̜̠͉͕͍̼̟͔̱̳͓̩͍͚͈͈̬̖̘̻̗̩̻͎̀̓̂͑̍͑͒̄͜͜ͅ ̶̨̧̨̡̰̤͎̩̣͚̘͉̳̗͕̘͍̥͎͚̩̳̥̘̳͉̼̯̦̈͑̊ͅḣ̵̡̧̨̢̧̝̼͕̹̰̪̣̖̥̙̮͔̯̣͈͈͖̮͇̳̝̳͈̪͓̳̭͎̯͕̜͈͙͓̫͉͉̦̙̖̬͓͍̥̝̤͍͇̬͈͍̫̯͔̱̝̲̲̥̦̯̹̣͉̭̽̓͑̆́̍̐͊̐̔̏̇̍̀͂̅̆̓̂̀̎̂͛͛̈́̅͌̋̀͐̅̆͂̑̇̒͊͗̎̃̌̆̈͋̆̒̅̎͘̚̚͜͝ͅͅͅḙ̷̡̡̨̧̢̨̧̛̛̠̰̥̯͓̞̫̬̞̠̻̙̗̙̮͉̪͍̺͚̤̻̲̘̟̦̮̠̰̭̳̖̭͚̻̭̗͈͇͚͉̻̳̠̘̰̎̐̉̆̐͗͗͋͗͊̑̃̆̉̈́̔̽̏̂͛͑͌̾͗̉̅͌̽͛̅͐̕̚͝͝͝ŗ̷̡̧̧̢̢̡̧̧̧̨̧̺̝̬͍͚̜̣̦̱͉̝͕̤̠̻̭̯̭̼̟̗̙̯͇̪͔̲̞̭̣̣͉̫̱͇̜̲̜̫͍͇͙̲̺͕͙̭̼̣̰̗͖͍̬̠̹͎̗̳͇͚̺̭̣͍̫͉̣̪̃̄̉̋̅͌̏̔͒̄̌̊͊̔̍͋̃̈́̄̔̒̾̈́̽̓͌͛̏͆͊͛͛͛̆̈́̓̄̈͆͑͗̎͂͋̕̕͘͘͜͜͜͝͝͝͝ͅͅṣ̴̡̨̧̧͇̪̟͍̻̯̳̞͎̮̦̤͇̯͉̗̫̘̦̼̬̬͙͔̥͉̮̬̦͍͙͇̝̭̩̞͕̣̙̗̪̬̣̤̗̯̻̼͖̳̟̫̦̮̈́̉̃́̿̈́̈͊͐͆̄͑̈́̽͂̿̾̍͌̈́̑̓͒̿̈̉̒̓͊͐͒̊́͗͒̇̐͊̇̍̑́̊̈́̈̊̑͆̀͋̈́̀̑͒̊̓̿̋́̍̓̽͆̋̉̾̅͐̑̀͊͊͋̓̇͒̉̚̚̕̚̚̚͘̚̚͜͜͜͠͝͠ͅę̷̢̛̛̛̲̝̰̳̻̭͚̺͚̻̬̻̹̹̰̺͖̺̍̍̅̄̏̓͊͋͋͐͂͊̀̍̍͗̌͑́̑̽̊́̿̅̐̑̀͋̿̋͋̌̀̉̈́̽͂́͗̌͂̑̀̓͊̅́͌̀̀̄̌̀̍̈̂̃̽̑̃͐͐̐̈́͘͘̕͘͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝l̸̨̢̧̨̢̨͉̣̤̱̘̣̣͖̺̭̰̫͙̻͙͈̻͖̤̘̯̼͎̬͍̯̲̳̣̞̝̺̣̥͈̰̱͓̰͙͔͇̬̖̟̯̪̼̦̮̰͈͍̰͉̟͎̜̟͚̲̫͈̲͕̼̣͕͉̖̰̱̟̃̅̉͆̀̃̌̂̂̾́͒̇͛̍́͐̒̐͐̈́̂̃̓̄̀̍̽̓̉̋̓̇̊͐͌͌̐̊͑͗͒͛̈́̀͒̑̀̏̇͋́͒̀̉͊̿͒͗͛̈͌̆̅̈͛̽͑̌̇̔͆̓͌͗̊͘͘̚͘͘͘̕͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝ͅf̷̡̡̨̛̛͙̩̮͕̲̘̟̥̩̙̹̹̥͖̱̳̣̮̘̺̝̮͙̤̯̫̩̖̤̬͖̬̫̙͈̮͉͉͉̙̩͕̮̳͚̝̋̉̌̈́͒͋̏̅͑̐́̊͗̀͗̇́̂̓̔̑̅̇̑̌̃̈̔̚̕͜͝͠͠ͅ.̶̢̡̧̧̧̢̧̨̧̢̡̞̼̺̜͙̳̠̱̖͇̯̹̤̰͉͎̥͉͇͙̩̜̹͉̲̲̖̪̫̼̫̗̝̩͎̠͇̺̹̦̼̱̱͔̭͚̬̤̼̝̩̞͖̩̬̩̜͖͚̳̤̞̩͕̩̰̻̯͉̯͓̫͍̹̮̗͓͎͚͂̃̑̈́̎̈́̅͊̒̀͑̉͆̅́̌̂͂͒͋͐̈́̎̓̿̀̇̂̓̏̂̽͆̌̿̾̽̀̾̿̈̄̌͂̋̎̎̍̾̍̈̀̀̈́̊̏́͌́̈́͛͒̀͆͑̈́́͌̃̕͜͜͜͠͠͝͝͝ͅ ̸̢̡̡̨̛̛͇̞̤̺̫̞̥̪̺̙̪̘͚͔̯̼̜̞͎̼̹̰͇̫̞͚̘̭͉̼͎͕̞̖͙̤͔̩̖͚͗͒̽͗͌̉͗̈͋̅̈́̃̉̍́̽̓̍͑̂̓̋̇̊́́̒̑̽̃̄̈́̀͐͑͊̊̀̊́̍́͂̋̓͒͒͐̅́̃̉̔̚͜͜͠͝ͅT̴̡̢̢̡̢̢̢̡̛̫̫̱͈̹̖͉̟̟̘̺̤̤͎̗͇̥̘̬̱̦̬̱̙͚̹̙̘̖͍̱̯͚̜̪͉̟̫͕̟͓̖̯̲̟̻̝̖̗̫͉͇̞̠͓̘̲͙͎͙̀́̋̓̏̄̔́͆̆̓̃̄̐́̿͋̅́͛͑̀̓̏͐̄̽̈́͆̍̂́̏̆̾͂̉̄̀̀̆̽͆̔̄̅́͌̊̇͐̓̆͘͘̚͜͜͜͠͠͠͝ͅh̴̢̧̢̨̡̧̨̨̧̧̧̢̧̢̛͇͙̦͓͔͇̟̼̗͚̙̹̼͙͉̣̰̻̙͓͓͈̮̱͇̟͎̫͕̹̲̬͉̻͖̙̹̜̱͕͙̞̖̤͙̞̞̱̰̘̮͔͍͔̪̳̮̟͎̻͖̮̮̱̮̦̖͈͍͍̯͕̱̺͓͕̳͈͖̹̽̀̈́̍͂͌̍̾̆́̃̂̂͂̉̒͗̎̍͋̈̓̎̓́͗̌̓̾͂̉̔̍̉̋̆͘͘͘͜͠͝͠ͅͅe̷̡̛̛̛̛͓͉̳͔̘̺̖͉͎̩̦̫̫̹͈̭̩͍͚͓̯̪̻̼͆͒̍̒͐̄̈́̓͂̊̊̃̅̽͆͊͋̿̿̆̾̓͒̾̓̉̆̎̀̾̀̂̈͒̉̂̈̇̑̀̑̌̿̃͒̽̊̊̀͗̈́̐̿͊̓̔̅̆́̇͗̀̌͘͠͝͠͝͝͝ͅy̵̡̨̺͎̖͈̹̫̼͓̰̥͍̺̦͓͈̭̪͍̰̞̫̲̹̳̬̦̺̰̎͜͜ͅ ̵̢̨̡̛̛̛͍̫̖̠̳̮̹̜̺̭̩̣̘̦̟̰̜̟͕̭̟̳̟̟̟̓̾͐̍͌̈́̔̽̒̄̌̾̽́͒͐̑̔̉̈́̋͂́̿͊̉͑̑̑̈́͌̽̑́̐̔̔͌̉̏͗͌́̆̌̌̋̂̏̂̓̉͆̚͘͘͘͘͘͝͝͠ą̸̧̨̧̛̩̹̖̩͎͍̦̪͔͙͓̦̱͕̭̹͖̘̘̜͙͙̱̜̗̗͙̠̬̯̲̫͚̣̯͛͐̌͋̀̐̀̈́̊̑͆̅͛̊͋̊͊̈́͊̒̐͛͒͊̅̃̽͆̈̂̔͆͛̈̂̿͆͑̃͆͌̊͂͆͆͐̏̄̔̽̔͗͗͋͑̈́̊̄͆̊̐̈́̂͆͛̈̈́̀͋̇͆̀͐̉̎̉̕͘͜͜͜͠͠͝͝͝͝͝l̵̨̡̡̡̫̞͍̮͎̥̩̖̹͇͖̹͚̯͙̤̣͈͖̺̮̮̰̳̻̗̗̗̯̗͇͍̻͙̝̪̮̟̪̲̠̲̞̰̖̞͍͖̰̣̼͓̱̗̟͇̹̩̼̪̩̟̣̣͓̲̗̞̝͖̍͂͋́͐̓̓̈́̔͆̎͑̍̆̄̿̿̇́̌̆́́̂̐̍̽̒̈́́̕̚̚͜͝ͅͅr̴̨̧̡̢̛̳̝͉͙̳̼͍̰̟̹̘̠̘̰̣͍̲̼͉̜̙̻̞̠͖̣͇̞̮̻̪͔̮̘̣̬͈̺̞͖̻̰͓̈͑̄͒͋̉͐́̑͂̈̅̀̿̂̄̿́̏͒̌̊̿͛̉̅͂̇̒͂̎͒̿̀̄̑͗̇̓͋̄̈́̇̎̒͑̑̍́̾̏̑̀͊͋͐̐̒̀́̐̅̕͜͜͝͠͠͠e̵̢̡̛͖͔͙̹̩͍͚̭͈̺̲͔̥͇̻͐̇̔̿̏̈́̑̎̓̿̈́̉̋͂̎̈́̎̽̈́̑̿̅̓̄͘̚͝ạ̷̡̡̢͍̠̠͚̯̳̘̣͚͓̘̲̳̝͖̯͍̫̩̼͙͚͇̠̪̗̦̭͙̩̗̯̳̯̟̦̠̮̲̦̲̖̗͍̘̺͖͎̄̒̂́͐͝ͅͅḑ̴̳͎̠͒̑͜y̸̡̧̢̧̢͓̦͕̹̠͔̮̤̙̣̻̘̩̝̼̤̰̘̩͔̳͈̼͙͖͓͔̲̝̥̬̫̹̦̮̺̯̮̻̻̘͍̠̺̤̲̪̙̩̭͎̞̼̺̳̪͈̜̍́̏̎̐͆̈́̅̆̅̋͊͊̓̓̽̽́̾̎̀̀̔̐̍̿͌͐͗́̊̈͂̾̓̋̆̌͌͐͋͊̆̄̀̓͑͒̊̂͊̊͘̕̚̚͜͝͠ ̴̢̢̨̨̧̢̧̛̛̛̹̰̥͖͔̗̥͎͎͉͙͕̲̪̤̻̭͓̞̩͔̟̞̝̱̰̭̗͖̮̞͎͔͉̦͍͈̦͖̫̺̝̜̟͖̹̬̟̼͈̻̼̙̻͈͓̭̦̬̯̫̞̹̤̹̼̫̲̮͈̙̲̟͓̻̜̙̀̋̔̊͋̋̿̈́̌̒͑͆͆̽̍̔̄̔̓̽͊̑̉̃̈̄͒̏̅̀̔̉̀̅̍͊́̓͒̉̊̆͗̈́̐̌͗̃͛̃͒̐͛̒̃͋̄̂̆̀͊̃̄̌̆̇̕̕̕̚͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͠͝ͅͅͅk̵̨̧̡̧̢̢̨̻̲͈͎̮̯̣̪̤͔̹̥̱͈͍͇͙̯͉̮͍͚͎̳̲̞̗̞͖̜̩̤͍̗͚͇̩͕̪͙̩̳̯̣̦̩̼͙̣̮̝͔͋̓͗̄̾͛̅̂̇̍̂̀̾̿̽̒͛̽̈́̇̈́̒͂̊͆̿̾̎̀̏̆̿͒̀̈́̎̄̂̿̈́̏̋̔̿̃̈̄̈̇̍̓͂̓̒͗̍͐͗̎̍̓̓̓̈̑̊͒̔̇̅́̈́̈͒̑̓̿̿͗̀͗̕̕̚͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅn̷̡̧̲͍̞̙͓̖̘̩̱̖̖̻̉̈́ͅē̴̢̨̨̨̛̛̛̲͔̣̳̙̭̱̖̪̺̹͈͉̻̰͎͖̬͔̜͉͕̩̺̹͇͙̜̬̝͔̯͕͖͔̫͇̰̅̈̐́̋̆̇̇̒̿̒͂̑̉̈́́̋́́͒̿́̌͊̐́̅͒̅̈́̾́̌́̑̌͋͐̔͑͛̀͆̎̈́̅͊̀͑̃̉́̄̇͗̎̍̒͒͐̑̉͊̃̈́̈́̈́̏̔̈́́̈́͘̚͘͝͝͝͠͠͝ͅw̵̡̧̛̛̛̞̪͚̠̪̬͗̑̀͛̀̄̉͒̊̒̇͊̈́̾̊́̉̋̋̇̔́̈́̿̿̿̌̽̀̇̆̊̐͌̓͂̂͂̏̌́͋̏̚̚̚͘͘͝͝ ̸̧̧̨͕̜̳̟̮̞̤̞̜̪͖̥̤̹͕̲̜͎͎̟͔͔̘͇̳̬̟̯̞̻̠͎͉͇͖̰̗̮̩͈̙̻̻̟̪̺̝̥͍͔͖͔̝͔͙͓̝̖̜̤͎̰̪̜͔̼̹̳̖̟͈͓̯̂̔́̍̆̓͒͛̆͊̅̒̅͂̿̎̾̾̿̄̔̕͜ͅͅs̷̢̢̛̛̛̠̺͈͔̘̤͕̰̩̖͈͇͔͚̲̤̬̉͛͂͋̊́̏̿̇̽́̅̌̂͊̌̐̂̒͆̃͑̐̈̅̈́͋̀̅̀̎̾̇̇͐̍̆̅̅́̑̀͌̓̆̑̓͛̄͐̿̂̽͐͗̀̿́͋̒͒́̉̓̍͋̾̓͐̂̓̈͑̚̚̕͘̚̕͘̚̚̕̕͝͝ẖ̵̛̘͎̙̻͙̭̤̖̍͑̔̽̾̋̂̓͌̈́͂̍͌͊̀̏̄̒̓̈̊̾̓̈́̀̇̑͒̅̌̍̾̎̌̚͘̕͝ę̷̢̧̢̡̧̢̗̟̰̰̣̳̥͉̖̞̱͖̝͖̟̪̥̰̭̙̙̭̙͖̻̠̪͇̥̬̼̤͙̳̰͈̼̤̜̺͚͈̮͍̞̤͍̝̬̱̣̟͔͉̥̙͔͇̖̱͚̳̰͈͎̬̺̝̳͍̝͖̘̦̼̻̣̲͈̳̫̯͆̒̓̎̎̓͗͆̃̔̉̓̏̍̈́̆̿̏̚̕̚̚͜͜͠͝ͅͅ ̴̧̡̡̛̛̞͙̠̮͇̙̫̜͚͖̘̻͙͙̖̩͖̱̙͈̬͕̠̥͖̭͉͓̤̠̭͖̩̳̜͖̼̤̺͓̩̯̖͖̻̪͎̙̯̞͉̈͐́͑̈́̒̌̄̐̍̔̌̈́͆̿́̾̅̆̀̈́̐̓̾͊̎͋́͊̑́̈́͋͆͋̍̐̓̒̃́̕̕̕̚͜͝ͅͅͅḑ̴̨̢̢̢̡̧̯̳̰̮͕̖̹̙̮̹̠̗̬̦̟̠͖͙͈̟͇̖͉̥͓̼̘̖̻͉̗̳͉̪̥͔̞͉̱̠̭̪̳͍͍̖̺̣͇̺͎̯̦̦͍̯̳̥̖̞͙̪̫̪͎̫̪̭̐̃̊̊̈̀̔̍̔̄̂̀̄͛̾̿̏̋̈̈̿̆̃͒̀̍͂̑͂̓̿̿͛͘͘͘͝͝͠͝͠ͅį̵̧̡̡̨̛̛͖̳͍͔͚̯̹̥̠͍̥̹̜̯̜̱̱̗͈̹̪͚̫͓̖̫̟͚̦͉̩̬̩̦̰̲͍̩̱͕̥̳̺̺̹̩͚͍̰̒̎̆͑̄͂̀̈́͐̾͌͂́̈́̅̐̾̀͂͛͗̾͒̒̅̂̏̐̃͒̓͊̓̌͊͒͒́̈́̿̓͋̓͒̉́̏̉̌̌̔́͘̕̕̚͜͝ḑ̶̡̛̛̙̦̞̮͇̮͉̬̋̄̔͆͐͛͛́̑̓̃͒͋͛͂̀̔͂̈́̀̿̈́̓̑̔̆͐́̉̐̓͛̉̓̾͛͊̔̅̅̾͗̈́̕̕͝ ̶̨̢̧̧̧̧̛̛̻͚͎̮͔̺͎̲̥̟͕͓̗̻̻͓̦̗͙̳̼̱̥̲͚̤̝̬͚͓̩̗̙̳͕̮͙̘̟̘̺͈̗͑͒̎̍̈̒͂͆͌̔́̃͗̈́̔̓̈́̈́͆͑̋͐̉̽̒́͗́̋̀͑̓̒̅̌̈́͆͘͘͝͝͝ͅͅḯ̵̛̛̛̛̛̮̺͇̦̪̠̣͂̇̈́̉̅̊̋̃͊̌͆͊̅̅̽͌̏̍̍͂̅̊͊̈́͑̓͑̃̆́̀͗̏͂̇͒̋̿̔̀̔̂̍͛̐̍͂́́̆͐͋̈̓̿̍̂̑̋̒̀̽͑̀̽͆͐̏̆̒͘̚̕̕͠͝͠t̸̨̡̡̛͉̩̺̳͖̣̫͔̭̮̣͎̦̰̲̟̜̱͇̭͈̤̬̲̜͈̯̳̪̩̤̗̤͖̼̗͕͍̙͍͔͇̤̘̫̲͎̦̜̪͚̹̠̞͋͒͑̀̊̂̐̽͋̿͐͆̓̉͌̔̔͊͗̒̉̈́̑̃̌̈̽̏̉̓̈́̀͒̋͆̍͌̽̈́̓͊̒̍̂́͛͌͑͑̈́̂͛͆͗̂̐̓̈́̂̽̒̀͆̓̒̓͂̽̆̽̿̒͗̀̈͐̋̽̌̈̎̕̚̚̚̚̕͘̚͜͜͠͝͝͝ͅ ̸̢̡̧̡̡̡̛͓̮͍͇͕̩̼̭̖̹̫̙̤̳̭͓͚͍͍͓̳͉̤̟̤̳̼͖͚̫̘͙͚̹̞͈̣͈̦̱̗̱̐̎͋́̑̐́̕͜i̷̢̡̧̧̨̨̧̛̞͍̫̦͖͇̜̦̼̰̘͉̞̪̠̖̩̟̩͇̮͕̩̙͇͓̮͙͓̝̮͙̻̖̳͓̗̲̞͚͖̫͔͙̯͖͚̱̝͙̞̣̰̠̲̫̣̮̻̗̥̙̥͌͆̓͑̈́̎̏͜͠ͅn̷̛̤͚̮͐͆͌̈́̈́̃̈́͆͝ ̴̢̧̧̡̧̢̧̛̛͇̥̗̗̗̦̝̜͈͍͕̹̫͖̘͍̖͙̞̠̜̯̘̰͎͈̟̝̞͚̫̜̼̞̳͇̲͈͖͙̮̟̳͚͚̲͇̘͍̌̈͑̈̑̾̆̔̽̒͗̽͂͒̅̃͐̉͗̈́͐͆̍̓̈̈̇̎͂́̀́̈́̊̾́̒͛͋̋͂̿̀̓́̆̈́̆͌͌̽̒̄̅̄̍͐́̂̓̓̄̽͐́̊̋̾̿́̒̊̐̾̐͊͌̎̂̇͘͘̕̕͘̚͘͜͝͠͠͝͠ͅh̴̨̧̧̢̨̨̢̡̨̧̨̨̗̩̥̬̥̱̤̭͚̻̳͖͚̺̝̣̜̰̺̰̥͔̥͔̝̫̖̻̮̩͖̹͎͉͙̰̫̹̫̰̙̘͚̩̮̦̜̦̞̰͓͇͈̖͚̣̝͚͙͉͎̝͍͖͚̩̜̫̘̺̪͉̝̯̓̑͌̈̇̆̄̓̅̚̚͜͜͜ͅͅĕ̶̼͉̩̼̲̹͚̍́̈́͐̆̅̅̆̍̋̌̅̐͐̽̇͒̇̊̿̾̓̒͒̂̄̓͝͠͝ŗ̷̡̨̛̠̥͇̻̰̙̜̫͈̤̟͎̪̼̪̩̼͈̯̱́̃͆̀̈́̅̿̈̈́̊͗̆͗̈́͂́̑͆͋̊́̂̋͆̍̓̄̀͗̊̌̀͛̔̅̿̆̑̎̈́̋̔̈́̿̋̃̈́̈́̽̀̓͒͊̐̒̍̉͛͑̒͒́͗̉̉̿͑̊̾̋͒́͌̊̏̿̌̚͘͘̕͘͝͝͝͝͠ͅ ̷̢̡̨̨̨̧̨̛̛̛̛͕͎̹̪̹̖͉̗͖͉̺͇͉̮̯͎͉̹̬̹̪̲̤̼͓̦̹̞͓̘̩̩͖̭̗͎͍̰̠͖̪̘͖͚̖̟̱̞͓̩̞͔͕̥̹͉͈̫̤̲͉̺̲̰͇̩̜̳̝̲͐̋͋͐͊̂́͋̽̍͐̈́̀͊̓͋̈́͛͒̎͗͛͑̂̋̓̉͋̀̂̈́̋́̿̅͂̄͐̏̈́̀̌̏͆̑̄̈́̈́̍̂̈̋͐̈̏̉̈̃́̊̾͋͑̊̎͘̕͘͘̚͜͝͝͝͠͠ͅb̷̛̛̝̄̈́̀̀́͒͆̇̀͂͗̂̓̀̈͗̓̈́̅̇̌́̒̊͗̀̽̋́̽̓̈̀̓̄̍̊̃̈́͋̿̃̉͘̚͘̚͝͠ȩ̸̡̡̡̢̛̛̰͔̟̘̺̰̙̦̖̦̳̟͔͇̱͕̖̝̯̺̜̘̞͓̟̺͈̱̠̻͍̺͖̝͈͍̻̰̰̰̲̦̳͓͈̫̪͓̲͈͎̅͒̉͌̉͒̾́̇̐͂̈́̉̍́̊̑̐̾͗̈́̎̋̀̅̅̆̽́̽̒̈́͆͆͒̃͌̍͘͘̚̚͜͝͠͝d̴̛͈͇͎̟̭̺̦̰̈́̅͐̀̍̔͐̒̍̄̋͊̋̒́̽̓͌̃̽̌̔̾͊͒͋̆̄̀̏̈́̾̅̈́̏̏̈́͠r̶̡̡͚̱͎͚͕̥̝͙̫̫̰̎̔̀̉̉̏͒̒́̄̑͑̓̂̓͆̅̂̈́̏͐̓̋̅̓͂́̅̉̚͘͠ͅǫ̷̛͉̞̞̪̮̪̩̘̲̎̃̄̃͂́́̇̈́̃̏͆̅̂̈́̏̒̊͐̀͊̆͋̇̀͋͛͑̒͐̈͂͐̅̍͛̏͂̈́͂̽͌̎͒̈́̇́͐̿͛̌̚̚͜͝͝͠͝͝ơ̸̡̨̧̧̧̛͚̪̹̬̘͕͖̼͓̘͎̱͉͕̼͙̬̜̟̻͔̞̹̝̩̥͖͓̘̯̗̘͙͈̼̺̘͎̺̳̺̂̎̈́͗̉̄̋̏̿̑̒̌̅̍́̀͐̇̅̀̈͂̄̾̿̋̌̾͌͌͆̐͌̏̄̿̀͑̀̄͆̕͘͜͜͜͜͝͠͠͝͠m̴̡̢̧̡̡̢̛̛͙̖̗̺̣̞̖̭̫̦͙̪̞͉͚̯͕̙͔̠̩͔̝̖̱͋̐̋̍̆̏͛̋͊͂̃̔̓̋͒͌̍͊̒͐̿̔̈́̎͂̈́͐̏͋́̽̓̉̎͛̐̇̅͆͐̑̌̄̑͒̿̌̓̓̔̄̌̑̉̈́́̾̾̈́͑͐̏̅͛͘͘̕͘͝͠͝͠͠͠ ̸̡̨̧̢̢̡̛̗̞̩̪̞̠̻͓̝̮̩̩̦̙̗͙͉͎͔̤͇̞̰̺̭̺̙̹̲̦͔͙͇̼͕͍̩̯̖͈̯͔͎͕͖̲̦̰͚͕̖̝̻̭̟̣̭͖̹̼̯̻̙͔̤̖̮͉̖̾̏̃̉̋̈̃͌͆̑̀̄̎̓͊̔̂̈́̀̊͑̆́̈̊͊͋͌̋̋͒̌̓̊̐͘̕͜͠͠ͅͅͅb̴̢̡̢̧̡̢̡̡̢̧̛̩͔̱͎̳̼̩͙̲͙̠̣̣̮̬͖̪̪͚̠̫̩̥̟̣̤̯̩̩̼̺͓̯͇͔͓̭̩̝͙̲͈͈͖͎̥̹̜̞̼̠̤̲͇̞̬̱̫͉͙͉͎̼̝̹͕͍̼̳̭̹̣͈̤̬̠͙͓̝͕͖̺̀̋̃̋̆̆̑̆́̃́͌̾̒̽̀̽͒̈̿̋͛̈́̈̈̏͗̃̉̓̅́̐͒̇̑̽̐̕͘͜͜͜͝ͅͅȩ̷̡̛͎̯̪͚͉͈͓̬͉̠̼̠͍̻̘̹͈̝̀̿̒͗̆̏̈́͋̽̃̂̉̈́͗͋̅͋͑̃̈̐͊̑̿̎́̇͗͂̀͂͋́̒̊̿͒͗̈́̌̓̄́̈́̿̏̌̀̈́͋̑͂͑̿̌̄̅̾̈́̆̈́͐̍͐͌̃̽̚̚͘̕͘̚̚͘͠͝͠͝c̶̢̢̡̡̢̛̠̟̼̪͓͚̠͙̰̫̥͔̲̫̭̘̜̠̻̝̩͓̹̪̦͔͔͈͖͓̮̗͚͈͇̗̘͓̩̩̰͔͍̙̦̪̺̙̣̭̲̻̟̟̹̤̻̟̱̎͊͋͋͗̏͛̒̈́͂͂͂͗̌̐͜͝ͅͅͅâ̷̡̢̨̨̨̢̲͖̳͎̺̱̫̼̬͓̙͖͇̺̝̥̹̻̹̪̩͙̹̹͇̗͋̈́̌̔͗̽́̅͐̑̓́̈́͋͛̓̋̿̀̇̐̇͑͑̅̾͆̑̋̑̃͗͑̌͒̓̒́̈́̽͒̚͝͠͝͝ͅư̴̢̡̧̢̡̧̨̛̛̛̛̖͚̮̭̯̰͔͇̭̙̼̯̗̬̝͔͚̣̙͇̱̲̤͉̖̜̗̻̺̝͖͙̲̦̣͇̬̳̟̩̼̊̉́̋̔͌̀͒̉̽͑̋̓̃̉͛̋́̍̀̓̐̐̿̀̀̇̓̊̔̒̊̀̔̄́͆̐̊͒͆͛̾̈́̎͊̋̌͑̎̔̀̐̅̓̉̍̀̃̉̎̽̉̕̕̚͘̚͜͝͝͠͠͝s̸̡̧̨̨̨̡̛̜̼̞͈̳̤͎̦̫͇͙͖̼̗̠̥̥͚͎͇̝̟͉̟̖̞͎̝̹͓͔̭̝͖͚̱͇̻͓̬̮͙̻͚̩̜͚̻̺̟̗̥̦̤̩̰̤̤̱̙̝̥̀̿͂͌͑̎̈̂̆͌̈͛̒̑̌̀̃́͛̽̍̑̈̈̄̃͑͑̾͒͗̈́̉̐́͆͌̃̍͋̚̚̕̚͜͝e̸̢̡̡̨̨̩͍̫̜̮̭̮̮̻̦̖̙͔͓̱͓̤͈͍̪̪͇̗̻̜̦̲̯̳̤̰̬͎̫͔̘̞͔̟̹̱̼̭̙̬̻͍̮̹̒̀̌̿̅͌̓͌̿̎̇͐̂̆̑̒̇͂̅̃̔̓͊̐̿́̒́́́͌̊͌͒̏̍̾̊͊̓̓̊͐̅̎̀͌̔̏̈́́̕͜͜͜͠͝͠ ̷̧̧̨̡̢̡̛̝̻͉̙͔̯̟͕̬͈̰͚͖̤̬̗̠̙̲̖͍̱͈͔̫̜͙̺̖͍̞̯͔͔̜͍̣͙̥͕̘̩͍͇̺̠͕̰͎̗̤̙̯̰̜̣̥͍͎̭̫͇̜͉̙͚͔̻̓͆̀̉̈́̽̐̾̇͊̎͂̈́̑̀͂́̅͒̈́̂̐̿̿̎̒̎͗̚͘̚̚͘͘͜͜͝͝h̴̢̨̛͎̭̯̭̰̠̙̻̫̭͇̹̲̟̯͈͙̰͖̝̘̗̝͈̼̙͙͈͍̲̣̜͎̗̮̱͖͇͓̠̠̩͚̪̘̯͚͔͙̬͒̽͂͐́̊̈́̋́͒͒̀͌̓̽͌͗͊̇̈̆̉̽͋́̒̾̌̋͗̋̈̀͑̀̚̚̚̕͘͘̕̕͘͠͝͝ę̶̢̨̫̥̟̝̭̟̪͎̼̗͉͎̤͕̳̣̗̘̼̮̭̯̓̈̐͐̈́͒͋̂̔̽̊̊͑̆̿͑́̄̓͋͌͐̉̓̉̉̃̔͐̆̌̿̈́͛̅̏̃̓̑̂̄̽͒̈́́̓͆́̾̈́̐̀̉̋̇͂́͐̿̾͘̕͠͝͝ͅr̸̢̛̩̭͖̞̹̩̀̑͋͂̈́͋̒̀̊͆̍̎̍́̽͗̑̈́̒̈̿́͑̓̈́͐̃̑͗̑̋̏͐̏́̇͐͌͛̾͗̃̍̂͗̔̔̏̅͛̔̚̚͠ ̴̡͍̲̣̗̯̪̫̫̤̭͎̯̙̜̳̼̘͇̰̭͎̼̰̟͖̻̝̤͕̺͇̠̤͙̣̹̙͎̠̤̬̟̟̩̰̀̍̄̓̐̀̇̽́͂͛͘ͅç̷̧̛̘͉̜̫̻͉̟̯̻̟͉̯̺͓̠͈̘͖̖̫̻̻͎͍͕̬͉͎̩͚̻̝̝͎͉̞͕͉̠̌̈́̅̈́͒́͌͆͒͑̓̉̀̓̒́̈́͑̾́͗͗̈̌̄̽̎͒͆̂́̐̈́͌̆̏̔͗̃̚̕̚͝͠͠ͅa̶̧̧̡̨̧̨̯͉͍̮̩̖̣̗̯̮̜̗̥̟̳̥͓̣͔̙̲̰̫̞͇̼̤̩̮͎̞̞̟̤̪͕͈̠̗̼̥̠̖̘̰̞̰̺̯̻̞̘̗͉͎̩͍͎͈̱̗̮̞͕̜̜̫̝̹̻̟̪̣̋͋̈́̈͒̋͒̿̋ͅͅͅr̸̨͎̱͇̬̼͇̫͎̼̹̞̱̠̦͉̽̈̀̈́̓͌͂͛̑͊͆̓̋̂̽͗̏́̾̄̌͘̚̕͝p̸̨̧̧̧̧̛̛͎̯̘̮̺̼̤͚̰̳͇̹̫͉̝͍͓̯̱͈̟̱̜̞̱̭̠̪̹͙̻͉͎̗͙̘̯͚̫̟̜͓̙̻̦̹̜̦̥͖̪̬̦͉̜̓͌͆̇̊͋͂̓̒͑͋́̂͂͊̾̈́̀̄̔́̎̃̋̄̓͒̈́͊̈́̈͋̂̑͐͗̀͊͑̽͒̆͂͋͐̃͐̃̊̂̉̅̇̉̅̌̀͂̇͊̊͗̽̀̐͆͋͛͐́̇̈́̀̆̚͘̕͜͠͝͠͝͝͝͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅe̴̢̧̡̨̛̛̘͓̩̩͙͙͓̫͎̟̠͕̗̱̺̼̹̙̠̹̥̮͉̪͕̱̟͊͛̈́̓̄̐͋̉̾̑̍̿̈̽̋̿̓̾̈̐͗̀̂̏̀̈͂̊̾͌̅͆̊̅̇̆̓͑̂̂̃̀̾̏̄̓͒͐̆̿̀͒̀͊̈̆̓͌͒͋̇͌̽̓̈́͐͗̔͑̓̍̋̎̃̚̚̚͘̕͝͠ͅt̴̡̨̧̡̡̨̧̧̧̢̡̛̬̳̯̠̠̦̭̹̥̹̰̻̰̬͇̠͈̣̤͕̺̗̣͖̣͍̪̗̟̰̗̤̩̰͍̖̯̤͉̬̫̮̭͕̬̣̗͇̤̠̹͙̱̺̖̺̬̭͔̹̳̥̞͎̘̘͖͓̙̭̜̦̺͎̅̈͌̍̆̿͑̾̚͜ş̸̛̯̜͓̭̗̥̝̫̩͇̫̲͔̙͇͎̺͔̳͕̹̹̥͚̍́̿̀́̓̉̃͌̓͗̌̄͌̐͒̒̂͂̀̎̆͛̔̌͒̅̏̿̒̏̊̒̔̓̓͛͂́̂̇̄͑̅̏͊̄̿͐̋̈́̈̿͑͋͆́̃͊̈́̋̈́̅͌͒͘̚̕͘͘͠͝͝͠͝ͅ ̴̛̬̭̊̾̑̓̓͋̀͛̏̆̌̈́͑̋̾͊̑̔̿̆͂̏̆̀̈́̋̃̋̍́̏̓͋́̈́̆͛̀̇̒͌̾̌͆̽̋̈͘̚͘͝͝͝͠ạ̶̧̨̧̧̧̡͕̤̗͎̪̞͉̳̦̗͇͇̣̤̟̘͚͔̥̬̱̥̯͕͍͔̩̘̭͖̭̺͉̰͉̟̲̬̯̭̰̱̤̹̤̯̲̺̯̣͇̩͔̺̬̩̖̖̺͈̱̰̝͎̪̫̣͎̞̼̣͓̣͍̳̜̮̻̱̖͚͚̬͇͔̻̥̥͒̿̏́̇͜͜ņ̷̢̧̧̯̩̠̞̩̱͔͉̠̫͕̣̠̹̮̮͔̘̯̜͓̝̗̪̙̮̱̜̜̯͉͈̗̱͓̙͕̗̘̼̻̱͇̣̫̪̯͓͉̩̯̲͖͇̦̼̘̔̏͗́͌̾́̓̉̑̈́͆̀͒̓͊̚̚͠͝͠͝͝͝ͅd̵̢̢̨̧̛̛̛͙̖̬̫̗͍̲͖̠̣̟̣͇͚͓̹̦̝͙͕͈͚̞̺̯̱̲͖̣̰̹̫̖̤͉̘̜̤̗̳̪̝̙̘̗͓͎̞̰̳̗̈͗̅̽̔̑̆͋̒͂́̀͗͑̾̋̈̉̃͒̍̍͆͑͊̉͑́̄̎̂͗͂̈́͑͌̈̒̽̉̒͐͗̊͊̅̂̈́̑̈̒̈́͂̅̈́̄͘̚͘͝͠ ̴̧̢̛̛̛̝͇͎̺̲̖͚͖̠̲̟̺̙̤̖͈̥̥̦̯͉̯̭̪̜̱̺̗͕̲̬͒̏̀͛̾̉͂̀̇̒̓̆̊͆̊̇̄̅̐̉̓͗̂͋̍̕̚͠͝͠͝ͅb̶̧͔̜̱̥͖̥̮̹̖̗̤̞͓̼̘̫̮̥̬͉͈̠̮̦̹̹͕̤͉͈̪̣͉̟̬͉̓̅̃̑̾̔̎́͋͐̈̓̆̌̿̉͗̈́̋̔͋͆̒͋̿͌́̈́͐̑̈́̌̑̿̓̓͌͊͌͋͆̊̄̈̾̀̈́̽̑̓̈́̍̀́̑͆̂͐̚̕̕̚͘̕̚̚̕͜͝ȩ̴̢̢͕̭̘̩̫͎͈͍͖͖̙̲̘͖̞̘̠̟̠͔̲̦͖̤̮̜͖̱̲̤̰͖͎̫́̾̔̎̒̋͒̿̑́͑͐͆̆̒͊̎̈́͒͐̌͌̑̐̊̓̀͊̓̇͗̀̉̕͜͝ͅd̴̢̢̨̡̰̮̪̫̖̲͈̭͖̼̫̳̻̭̼͔̟̤̣͖̘̖͚̺̫̬͈͕͎͇̞̮̰̝̘͍̝͖̥̩̫̮͈̱̟̫̲̺͔͔̬̤̓͐̆͊̍̀͛̽̀͆̿̒̅́̕̕͝͝ͅś̷̢̧̢̢̨̧̺̤̱̜͎̞͙͓̯̯̲̹͙̟̩͙̥͙̞̱̻̼̼̱̫̦̤̹͕͓̝̳̲̟͖̞͈͚̞̼̟͓̫̥̭̬̖̤̩͍̲̼̥̬͎̜̼̫̘̗͕̈́̒͌͗͐̃̑̈́͂̊̌̏̊̕̕ͅh̴̢̨̢̡̧̡̛̘̰͈̣̣̠̩̪̰͍̙̳̦̤̬̼͍͚͙̰̞̙̹̞̱̱̻̦̻̟̳̖̗̫̥̳̮͉͉̩̣̪̮͖̦̗͎͖̱͇̟͕̱̫̹͔͈̻̞̰͙͔̫͙͈͓̜̝̥̎̓̉͒̓̀̊̔͐̅͆̋͒̾͑̌̍̑̊̔͆͐̈̂͊͊̂͒̓̀͊̀̿̽̍͂̋̊̋́̅̉͒̍̔̊̄̐̀̉̊͗̅̄̓͂̉̏̌̇̎̿̿̕̕̚͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅë̴̡̢̧̛͔̮͇̹̻̬͓̲̣͍̻̪͖̮̥͚̜̹̺̦̺̬͕̻͇͈̯̤̜͈̖̣̘͍͕͙̯̰̗̯̱̰̩͉̙̩̝͍̲͇̰̫̱̬̦̭̠̠̥̯͍̦̟̘͖̙̜̫̳͙̼̦̱́̽̀͂̆͂͛͆͛̿͌͊̓̈́̓̾̽͑̈̃̽̎̈̃̂̎̌̒͋̊̒̊̓̀̽̋̿́͋̓̌̌̑̓͛́̿͒̆͒̅̀̀̔̿͘͘̕͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅē̸̛̛̼͓͊́́̋̔̈́̽̎̃̓̓̒́̆̀̂̄̓̅̈́͛̿̓̓̔̊̒̾̀̅̀̋̓̀͌̊̆̔̅̔͌̇̃͒̑͌̇̈̂̇̈́̾̋̎͛̐̿̾͊̾́̎͐͒̀̈̃̽̊̕͘͘̕̚̕͝͝ẗ̴̤̟͕̘̪̣̘͔̘̮̤̖͈̘̠̄̈͆̈́̓͘s̵̢̡̡̧̛̜̤͙̙͎̦̯̝̺̞̙͓̰̥̼͚̣̳̪̦̤̖̩̲̦͚̣͎̰͓͈̰͇̝̺̜̺̠̯̎̐͛͒̔͊̓̓̏̔͑̽̆̆̑̋͊̊̾̉̋̓̍̊́͒̋͂̈̈̈́̂́͗̒̂͂͒͑̈́̌͗̅͗̏͛̏̒̽̑̏̒̅̅́̀͂̐̈́̀͊̐̆̕̚̕͘͘̕̕̕͘͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅ ̷̫̙̀̓̒̂͛̊̏͊̆̈́͌̊̀̍̔̕w̸̛̛̛̛̻̘̣̩͍͇͕̤̥̌̈́̈́́͋̐̐̈́̌̌͆͂͋̈́͋̀̎̀͊̅͛́̉̊̍̿͊͑̄͑̀́̈́́͒̽̈͋̏̾̓̇̋̿͆̓̆͋̔̔͐͆͋͆̽͋̽̅̈͗̒̌̏͗͘̚̚̚̕̕͘̚͝͝͠͝͝͝ẻ̸̡̡̢̛̛̜͙͔̦͉͕̖̠̠̪̠̬̬̙͎͖͈̥̺̹̬͕̼̫̼̞̱͓̙̗͇̞̄́̅̀͒̿̄͛̎̇̑̒̈̓͂̓̾̊͒͂̇́̿̊͗͂̄̔̅̀̀̿̎̐̾̒͗͌́̿͑̍͌͆̍̉͒͑̊́͐̎͐͘̚̚̕̕̚̕͘͜͝r̸̨̥̘̪͎̳̤̱̝̗̝̯͇͕̘̹̜̦̯͈̰̫̲̅̋͆̎͜ͅẽ̷̡̡̧̳̻͔̬̭̲͈̫͚̰̜̻͕͖̝͈̺̪̙͎̝͚̟̭̝̖͔͚̦͈͖͎̱͉̰̬̣̗̟̘̝̲͍̜̯͈̙̅̊͆̊̔̀͒̽͂̓̔̀̆̀̎̅̔̊̀̿͊̒̂͗͌̐͛̐͂̊̈̆͆͐̀̓̈͌͆̓̓̔͒́̉̐̇̚͘͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅ ̷̡̢̡̢̨̧̛̯̠̫̱͔͈͈̦̭̻̬̹̦̩̙͇̰̪̦̖̳̣̰̩̦͕̖̣̲͖̜͖̼̪͎̗̜̗͎̾̑̏̍̆̅̑̈́̇͌͒̃̏͂̇̀̎̔̅̽̊̉̔̉͌̾̏̀̏̄̐̌̾͋͂̐̐̃̽́̌̉̓̿̌̅̌̒̆͆́̔̆͒͂̒͌͋̀̈́̿̌̆͂̾̂̀́̄̉̊̀̏̆̃͐̈́̆͂͑̐͆̈́̏̈͗̌̕̕͘̕͝͠͝͝͠à̵̡̢̧̢̨̹͔̩̼̘͎͖̳̝̱͈͈͍͎̗̣̗̻͙̭̬̯̹̙̟̙̺͙͚̥̮͙̰̲̬̫͍̯̠̰͓͓͉̭̯̮̟̣̺̱͉͉̘̝͈̱̮͔͖̹̥̘̖̝͕͈̩͔͖͕̟͖͉̝̹͈͉̭̪͓͖̗̫͚̼͚̯͍͍͌́̒̅̃́̒̄̔͛̇̅̆̈́̚͘ͅͅͅļ̸̨̛̛̛̛͚̗̬̩̹͓̖̬̥̥͉͉̦͉̠̥̬̱̦̺̦͚͖̻͍̬̰͙̰̦̯̜̳̯̙̳̠̦̯̟̹͙̟͎̖̭͖̥͖̪̝̥͇̦̻̃̅̾̈̐̓̀̍͐̋̂̿̐̇̈́͑͂͋̐̓̋͐͋̾̉̃̈̐̀̊͊̆̅̐̀͂̒̍̐̿̈͐̈́́͆̅̅̉̒̋̓̈̈́́͛̾̽̓͆̀̀̕͘͘͘̚͜͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͠͝͠͠͝ͅl̵̢̧̛̛̛̥̤͔͖̯̠̥̹͇̺̟͇̗͗̀̽̀̌̇̓̀͗̀̊̂́͌̑͑͊̒̅̓͌͑͌̀͋̽̃̓̉̾̆̾̿͆͌̆̄̾͐̅̏̂̂̉͐̅̇̏̿̏̃͋̊̈͐̉̈́͋̅̕̚͝͝͝͠͝͠ ̶̢̨̡̨̧̢̧̧̛͔̠̣͓̜̟̫͓͎͈̟̪̥̖̠̩̻͕̪͖̩͔̲̪͚̠͓̞͇̰͚̖̳̪̲͓͎͇̠͉̘̥̰̼̙̯̼̣̣̰̘̭̫͉͇̖̰̇̄͛͂͂͑̐͐̈͌̔̈̎͐̅͊͊̑̓̄̎̐̉͊͆͛̈̂̈́͘̕͜͜͠ͅͅb̸̨̡̡̡̨̛̗̦̬̩͙̭͈̞̮̹͇̘̮̳̺̥̙̦̝͔̥̙͕͇͖̦͍̰̦̰̯͕͙̠͙͕̰̙̞̘̤̱̖͎͔̍̓͐́́̌̀̈́̎̿̀̍͗̕̚͘͜͠͝ͅl̵̡̨̨̧̨̡̛͈̪̠̳̙͈̩͕̙͙̬̹͎͙͉͉̟̗̞̻̜̤̲̠̤͉͚̰̻̖̮̹̬̺̲͓̠͓̝̙̺̘̟̬͈̹͉̘̪̳̩͙͈̘̫̙̖̜̜̦̩͇̭̾́͂̆̎̒͐̚̚ͅơ̴̡̢̡̧̧̡̡̛̛̛̛̩̳͔̻̙̝͎͔̗̜̟͎͕̪̤̠̬̤̮̪̜͍̠̲͓͚̣̥̥̻̳͇͔͉̣̞͔̬̬̹͍̰̱̞̭͇̯̬̘̬͍͍̺̰̬̪̠̝̘̤̫̫̗̥̦̪̟̠̅͑̓͂͑̐͑̀̓͗͂͐̃͂̏͌̓͗̽͐͐̂̄́͑̅́̓͒̆̃̇́̔̉̈͗̑̎͆̇̐̈́̑̄̈́͊̆͛͋̅̓̀͒̋̄̈̆͆͗͗͊̍͒̽̇̍̏͐́͂̚̕͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ơ̶̢̢̨̛̤͖̭̣̦̦͈̗̝̣̱̲̤͕̳̳̻̬̗̫̝̗̦̥̮͖̪͕̱̭͈̗̘̖̣̹̖̗̮̯̄̅͑̂̓̀͑̀̃̄̐̄́́̊̂͋̉̈́͒̽̆̐̊͂͊̇̈̾̍̉̌͆̿͌̎̔̌̎̈́̎̈́͗̋͂̈́̾͐̎͗̅̊̐̽̏͑̒͌̃́̒̄́̏͆̉̒̾̌̾̎̈̃̿̾̕̚̚̚̚͘͜͜͝͝͝͠͝ͅͅd̸̡̧̢̨̧̢̨̢̡̡̨̡̡̧̨̛̛̛̰͓͓͉̤͎͔̰͓̤̻͇̯̻͍̻̬̮͔̼̫̪̗̠̮̳̙̥̤̜̱̪̪̲̟͉̪͖̗͉͓͙̠͓̞̹̫̗̱̺͖̦͎̟̼̞̝̭̻͙̗̗̜̻͔̽͂̉̾̄͒̆̑͐́́͂̋́̏̓̈́͋̇̎̓͒̓͆̃͂̍̄̀̅̑̊̃̈́͐͑̈͆̄̈͒̓͂̓̉͌̽̏̉͐̋̏̋̏̍͆̽͗̄̃̀͊͋͗͐̋̀̎́̈͘̚͘͘̕͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅy̵̨̢̨̢̡̛̛̗̳̘̜̲͙͉̬̹͕̱̦̞̮͓̞̞̠̭̯͍̼̥͎͔̗̰̯̖͍͔̞̺̣̱͉̫̻̙̗͍̰̰̲̩͔̟̯͔͎͔̭̬̗͙̜̩̤̙͙͒̂͛̑̈̏̀͆͌̉̌͆̏̀̓̆̄́̽̇̈́̔͋͒́͒͒̊̂̉͑̅͒́̎̊͐̒̒̓̂̓̾͛̆̋͂̉̚̕͘̕̕͘͜͜͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅ,̴̨̨̡̨̢̧̨̧̡̧̡̧̢̡̛̰̰͈̟̭̰̥̞͇̣̝̱͕̯̫̹̞͖̤̭̗͔̳̟̘͓̫̯͎̰͎̦̬̬͖͈͎͚͎̩͎̜̭͎̺͓̠͍̗̣̩͓͇͙͔̱̳̼̮͚̹̯͈̠̮̰͎͎̪͇͒̀̉͑̉̓̌̍̋̓̆̏̿̀̈͋̓̔͂̌̈́̈́̿͂̓̈̈́̽̂̑̈́͒͊͑̿̾̾̿͂̅̏̇̾͌͆̊̍͊͑̎̔̀̾̊͗̔͘̚͜͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͠͠͝͝ͅ ̵̧̨̨̢̛̛̠̯̤̩̙̳̦͇̦͓̼̻̗͕͚̹̮̬͕̝̦̼̘̬̮̩̯̝͓̠̮̼̭̝̥̻̖̌̈̀̏̈̾̽̎̌̊̅̒̑͐̑̆̐͛̀͐͘͜͝͠ã̵̗̘̩̣̻̱̣̮͉̲̱́̀̓̑͐̋̉̏͌̈́͜͜͝n̸̨̨̛̛̦̖̯̞̫͇̫͔̙̖͕̩̖͖̺̬̑̀̈́͌̓̄̈́͑̿̓̽̆͗̄̽̈́͛͒͋͑̇͋̋̐͛̾͗̑̈́̏̂̓̾͛͛̽̊́͌̅̓̆̎̓͗̌̓̌̇͌͌̈́̎̏͐̈̒̀̈́̈́̀̓͛̏̆̓̿̅̆̑̀͘̕̚̕͘̚̚̕͝͝͝͠ḏ̴̡̧̨̧̡̨̢̛̛͎͕̙̯̭̻͖̠̰̼͉̙͕̠̬̯̺̬̼̟̬͈̺̰̙̟̺͙̫̹̳̦͍̫̥̞̪̭͓͚͈̪͎̤̰̘͈͓̬̖̼̞͕̣͎̝͎̭̭̲̙̲͍̮͕̹͔͔͎͔̱̘͕̄̈́̄̈͛͊̐̑̀̈́̊̑̈́̄̔̂͂̀̑͊̄͌̈́̀̊͌̎͒̽̋͒̃̅͑̃̽̽̔̏̈́͘͘̚͘͠ͅ ̵̡̡̧̢̨̢̨̧̛̭͕̝͓͉̮̱̟̖͕̗̻̰͎̳͉̭̱͚͇̫̮̹͙͉̰͈͎̫̭̤̞̱͕͈̳̝̼̤̥͉̘̙̻͓̯̞̝̹͕̩̙̜͕̳̝̩̜͒̊̀̇́̈́͐͑́̏̄̃̋̔͂̓̔̐̚̚̚͜ͅͅͅͅͅt̷̢̡̧̧̢̨̨̧̧̛̛̛̺̦̳̳̭͖̠̲̜̮͎̙̙͇͉̣͙̦̞͇̮̫̻͉̦͎̣͓̹͈̥͙̦̜͙͇̜̦̗͙̻̘̱̰̗̝͔̬͍̰̭̬̠͉̪̮̜͕̺͍̰̪̗̻̼̯̤̝͖̘̗̰̣̀͆͌̅͋͌́̅́͑͛̅̾̂͐̅̉̌͆̽̈̊̒̍̀̆̓͆̔̄̐̋͌̏̑̏̎̇̊̈̔̾̍̐̏̇̀͑͋̀̄̒̎̍̓͑͆̾̅̄̓̔͐̀̔͗̃͑͋̐̓͌̌͊̄̔̚̕̚̕̕̚̕͜͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅh̷̨̢̡̛̛̤̞̦͈̹̙̯͍̮̱͈͖̻̞͇̜̥̙͇̩͎̟̭̺̲̯͇͇̬͈͎͕̼̥̪͕͕̲̟̠̱̩̱̦̙̣̦͇͉͓̰̺̭̳͇͓͉̊̉͌̊̏̆͗̆̀̄̈͗̃̾͛̌̆̿̆̃͑̉̓͌̈̾̋̀̓͌̈́̾͋́̄͋͑͘͘̚̚̚͜͝͝͝͝ͅe̸̡̢̨̧̨̨̡̛̛͔̩͎͙̙̩̫̭̖̩͈̼͖̹̟̼̝̖̥̟̞̦̥̲͔̥̤̣͚̪̥͇̺͈̮͚̻͚̹͉̝̭̱͖̱̱͎̘̻̙͎̗͈͍̼̾͑̄̓̀̓͑̓̑͆̋̈́̅̊̅̉̽͆̍̒̒̀̌̅̑̓̈́̄̈͆̓͆̓́̽̐̑͊̉̈̀͑̋̊̀͑̒͂̂̈͊͋̒̃͊͂̃̆̾̑͂̂͗̕͘͘̕̚͜͜͜͝͠͠͠ͅͅr̸̢̛̛̗̟̫̟̹̥͉͂͂̏̈̄͗̉̉͋̓͑̇̈́͂̓̿͗̀̀̃͗̈̿͆̈́̑̐͒͂͌̈́̒̉̿̍͌̑̈́̈́͆̔͑͌͂̒̄̀̑̋̕̚̚͘͝͠͝͝e̸̡̢̨̧̢̧̨̡͓̹͙̞̣̳͎͍͉͚͖̦̦̭̳̘̦̳̞̖͓̝͇͖̳̥̝̦̺̯͍̼̰͇͓̝̭͇͓̦̳̺̤̟̮͙͈͔̱̔̍̇̆͛̒͒̚ͅͅ ̴̛̛̳͎̘̰̖̝̠͎̰͙̼͙̜̜̫̪͎̘̣͍̦̯̭̹̜̦͙͉͉̈́͂̾̈́̿̈́͊͐̽̆̎̔̓̈́̄͒̿̀̚͘͘̚̚̚͘͜͝͠w̵̡̛͔̼̘͛̾̈́͑̈͛̏̆̂̂͂́̄̎̉̋̓̏̋͛̾̓́̔̊̈́͂̅̂̽̕͘͘̚͝ȩ̶̡̢̨̢̢̧̡̛̪̘͙̼̯͍̩͚̝͕͇͖̘̩̠̝̪͚̬͉̙̘̤̘̻͇͚͓͈̗̗̖̼̦̪̥̩̞̟̰̠͚̪̼̗̫̠̞̬̜̌͊̆͊̔̄̓̾̇̋̐͆̆͌͐͐͊͐̍̌͊́͊͋̂̽̽̈́̓͛͆͐̆̋̾͛̊̈͋̅̂́̍͊͌̀̆̓̆̒̓̐̊́͌͒̀̏̍͋̑͗̈́̀̍̂̔̈̚̚̚̚̕͝͝͠͝͠͝͠ͅͅͅͅͅr̶̡̡̛̠͓̗̳͕̜̞̪͙̗̦͙̗͍͔̬̯̠̫̯̻̞̺̦̺̰̪͍͔̤͎̰͇̝͓͖̞͎̺̍̽̾̔́̏̿̋̃̒͌̽̃̇̏̋̆̽̇́̅͋̇̏̊̋͗́̓̎́͆̈́̔̍͗̃̋̌́̄͌͂͋̾̈́͗́̍͊̈́̄̊̽̓̾͌́́̒̾̐̏́̚̕͘͜͜͜͜͝͠͝͠͝͠͝͠͠ͅë̶̢̢̨̡̡̢̨̡̨̡̧̛̛͇̟̝̟̪̰͉͖̲̳̥̫̯̞̙̯̥̗̥̤̠̗̠̼̤͚͙͇̼͓͚̦̲͙͎̗̥̺̺͚̦̬̘́̒̂̍̊̀̊̂̏͗̉̄̂̊́̀̍͆̎͛͐̈́̆͋̓͊̽̾́̒͋̉̈́̽͆̔̎̈́̍́̒̒̌͋̓̃̀̈̈́̈͂͂́̑̄̓̐͋̀͂̄̎͊̒̊̄͌̎̏͘͘͘͘̚͘̚̕͘͜͜͠͝͠͝͝͠ͅ ̷̧̨̨̛̛̛̛̜͉̖͎̹̼̠̟̼͔̯̦̺̜̝̦̰͚̰̳̫̜̘́̌͗̿͒͒͑́̇̐͂̒̄̃̍̃̊̈́̄̓̉̐̒́̿̈́̐̋͒̈́̃͂́̓̋̐͌̿̿̀̾͌̓̊̈͛͑̈͐̉͗̅̎̀̎̓̆̓̋̃̈́̏̆̋́̒̋͘͘̚̕͘̕͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝ķ̷̢̧̡̧̧̡̡̨̛̛͚̠͖̝̣̥͉̫̺̞͇̹͔̫̖̘̥̫̘̬͈̲͕̣̹̗͚̭̦̼͖̟̞̺͉̣͚͕̤͉͇̣̲̼̗̦̺̰̩̦̲̤̺̩̠̹̭̰̲̲̗̽̎̎̔̎́͗̾̊͌̍͑̐͆̽́́̌͛̌̅̓̄͒̾̔͒͆̇̋̂̿́̅̉̈́̿͗̿̑͛́̔̌̔̆̔͐͛̓̎̍͂̏͂̍͘̚͘̕͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅn̴̢̢̢̢̡̢̡̢̠͚̼̭̪̠͎͕͚̤̪̜̝̪̝̣̥̞̖̞͐͒͑̀͘͜ͅḭ̵̧̨̨̢̧͎̣̠͕̥̼̫̟̯̳͕͇̯͇̜͖̼̫̮̤̺͍̖̪͚͉̠̐͐̌̄̐̇̌̉̒̓̀̾̅͐̔̈͒̔̔̋́̐̄̚͘͜͜͝͝ͅͅv̵̧̧̨̢̧̢̧̛̮̠̱͉͓̰͚̲͕̳̗͖͚͚̟̘̰͓̼̦͎͎̥͍̳̫̞̪̗̫̖͚̻̹͙̞͈̟̤͈̯͇͙͙̘̩̠̝͔͚̫̰̤̣̯̤͔͓̮̰̦͎̻̤̗̟̟͈̱̞͚̟͈̦͙̥̍̓̀̋̽͆͗̃̎́̄͌͛̉̉͐̓͋̄̀̈́̾͐̂͂̈́̀̂̒̑̄̿̓̋̽̂̆͗̍̄́͑̏̐̉́̈́̾̿́͛̓̎͘̚̕̕͜͜͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅȩ̵̧̞̲̹̫̟͔̹̝̥͔̲̬̮̥͖̙̼͉͚͍̯̭̬̝̗͇̲̝͖̖̜̬̣̃͌͆̾̂̇͆̂͒̑̆̈͂̾̅̄͐̒̑̑͋́̂́̋̃́̈̂̾̾̂̃̊͋̽͑̉͌̐̋̍̓̓̃̓̄̓͛̑̋̌̿͛͛͆̎́̓͊̀̔̄̐̂͑̽̑̿͑̃͘͘̚̚̕̚̕͘͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͝ͅs̶̡̛̖̱͍͖̬̼͓̜̫͖̦̪̪͎̻̟͔̲͗͋́̾̒̒͑̑̈̆̈́̈̄̿̀̊̐̂͋̇̈́̄̊̋̓̓̒̀̈̊͒́͋͂́̅͂̊̌̈́̄͂̈́̉̓̎̅͒̏̈́̅̏̆̕͘̕͘͘̚̕̕̕̕͠͝͝͝͠͝͝ ̶̛̛̻͉̖̱̰̼͉̱̺͉̺̼̭̞̝͉̖̜̙̞̙̪̽̀̓̔̽͗̑́̍̊̋͛͒̊͒͒̔̈́̇͛̾̄̇̈̃̈́́̀̆͐̄̿̇̓͊́͑̉̂͑̎̌͑͐̏̈́̽͛͛̓̈̅̃͐́̐̕̕͘͜͜͝͠͝͝͠į̶̡̧̡̧͖̠̙͉͓͉̪͙̥̫̤̣̹̺̳̼̞̤̖̥̜̹͇̝̳̰̹̘̪͈̟̪͓̠̲̬͖̲̙͍̩̙͎̺͍͙̯͉͍̗̹͖̖̞̞̠̗͖͇̭̋̾̀̅̆̏͛̎͛͋̊͗̎̊̐̂̒͑̇͆̆̎̎͂̀͐̔̇̌͜͜͝͝͠͝ń̶̨̧̢̢̡̡̧̡̨̨̛͖͎̯̜͖̺̗̺͈̗͖̱̖̼̞̱̘̬̘̟͎̞̳̪͚̭̯̮̮̦̝͈͉̺̫̠̘̟̖̲͎̰̯̭̟̞̰̘̠̲̙̫̠͚͔͇̞̖̙̫̗̤͕̞̤̫̯̣͓̽̈́́̐̇̎͂̿̏̎̾̀́͗̾͂̓̈͌́̽͑̇͌͑͒͒̍̆̒͜͜͜͝͝ ̸̡̢̨̧̧̧̨̡̨̡̡̛̛̠͇̝̲̥̜͇͈̩͈̟̹͉͎͓̱̣͎͕̗͖̰̩̣̝̤̜̦̼͎̪̱͈̭͔͓̙͔̫͖̬̹̘̟̱̤̤̮̣̘̼̭̘̼̰̞̦̯̖̺̣͚̗̼̜͕̣̭̼̠̟̼̑̿̈́͛͒͌͆̎̀̒̃͆̈́͛̂̋̿̌͂̍̐͗͂͋̆̀͐̀́̄̆̆͊̉̏̆̓̄͒̒̿̀̅̏͂͋̈́̐̐̂́̊͆̎̒͘̕͜͜͜͜͝͝͝͠ͅḩ̶̢̨̡̧̡̧̧̧̛̛̛̛̺͉̞͙̹̗͕̗̺̦͖̳̦͙̻̯̞̘̲̦̮͈̮̺͈͔̪̤̱̦͔͖̣̹̦͓̩͎͇͍̯̗̣̺͍̫̘̪̖͍̬̰̙͓̪̰̙̰͔̠̻̖͈̣̫̜̯̭̪̘̩͍̲̲̋̈͌̀̏̔̇̇̅̽͗̐̍̿̅̂̄̊̀̄̋̂̊̃̇̊̎̑̏̌̉̿̾̑͛͌̌̄̉͆̉̒͂̎̔̈̀̿̅̄̕̚̚̚̚͘͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅȩ̴̧̢̧̡̢̡͍͕̪̼̞͈̹̙͎̞̣̰̫̤̠̮̦͚͓͙̘͔̻̯̤̹̐̔͒̅̉̀̃̌̍̂̌̀̊̽͊̊̓̍͌̅̊̈͐́͒̇͌̅͑̐̉̀̈́̑̔͘r̸̢̢̨̢̢̛̛̛̛̙͙̹̤͇͎̳̰̗̦̲̹̣͓͙̬̝̰̖̟̥̫͍̲͈̫͉̪͍͇̩͍̱̫̰̰̖͉̖͓̟͔͈͇͓͈̭͕̖̥̥͇̥̘̰͙͖̟̟̫̪̱̻̝̭̺̭̮̻͕͍̯̘̐̒̒͆͐́̿̑̉̆͒̈́͒̿͐̽̍̐̋̓̈͊̓̓͑̔͂́̽̃̍͐̍̅̿̐̈́͊̽͆͋̀̾̉̆̄̑̍̒̊̇͐̈́͌̇̋̋̏̈̊͐̿̚̚̕̚̚͘͝͠͝͝͝͠ͅͅͅ ̶̡̡̢̛̛͔͇͈͎̭̬͇̖͖̞͈̜̺̘̼̥̺̗̦̳̮̦͍̩̈́͒͊́͐͋̕̕̚͝͠ͅͅr̵̢̡̡̡̧̨̡̡̛̛͈̘̺̹̫̺͙̤̰̦͎̲̜̘̹͎͖̦̰͔̯̤̲̺̦̟͚̪̜͈͍͓̖̲̤̳̫̬̝͍̲̙̟̤̥̮̻͕͕̬̲͉͉̟̮͈̠̥̦̘͓̥̞̱̻̣̜̘̝̞̲͙̮̱͓̠̖͆͆̿̏̋͗͋̃̋̂̒̎̓͂̆̀͜͜͜͜͠ͅͅͅŏ̶̢̨̨̦̳̦̱̪̙̝̠̹͕͍͓̣̦͈̣̙͉͕̰̜̳̖̱͚̙̦̦̥͈̤͍̹̠͕̲̥͍͚̟̦̦̳̥̙̬̭̖̱̝̮͚̺͍̻̥̼̭̫̻̻͕̙̥̭̲̺̓̈́͗̾͌͑͋̈́͆͊̐̈́̓́̂́̔͌̈̓̎͊̇̃̌͋̌̉̉̑͛̔̒͒̈́̾͘̚͝͠ͅơ̵̢̡̢̧̧̛͕̤̟͕̬̙̞͇̹̱̘̮̞͔̩̙̣͇̞̝̱̼̼̪̺̱̰̤̝͎̜͚͙͉̭̱̱̦̞͈͙̳̎̅͌͋̆͊̽̓̓̅͂́̒͂̐̆̑̍̈́͋́͊̑̎͂̓̄̓̈́͑̊̽͌̓̽̈́͊̀̾͋̓̀̔͒̀̃̋́̍́̾͊͊̓͂̄́͊̎͒̀͛̀̈́̈̎̊̋̚͘̕͝͝͝͠͠ͅṃ̷̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̺̗̦͉̦̮̼͉͕̬̖̲̪̦̳͎͔̩̳̺̬̥͌͌̆̏͗̅̈́̊͆̑̿̎͌͆́̈́͑̐̓̒̿͗̈́̊̓̏̆̀͗̃̐͆̀̂̽͐͛̇͛̐͂̋̇͊͆͑͒̂̿̈̈̈̿̈̚͘̚̕̕̚͠͝͝͠͝ ̴̧̡̛͓̞͓͔̟̤̳̞̼̮̘͇̪͉̯̙͖̺̮̖͉̰̘̩̟̜͚̞͖͓̯̹͉̻̼͔͓̘͓̬̖̣̯̐̔́͋͗̌̎͒̑̋͑̃́̐̔̆̍̆͒̉͆̓̈́̀̃͌̀̌̇̃̾̽̀͆̾̀̇͂̿͗́͊͂̓͊̀̓̐͐͗͘͘̕w̶̛̰̟͖̩̙̥̻̠͑̏͗̇̓͆͗̒̎̓̇̈́͊̀͝ḭ̷̢̛̬͈̙͚͕̻̫͕͔͔̟͚͔̳͇͍̣̻̥̼̟͉͔̫̦̞̗͚̙͖̖͎͔͍͔̰̤̠̺͈̯̥̞̝̥͖̺̝̈́͐͒̒̐̀̄̂̐̇̔̓͋̏̆͋́̿̀́́̊͌̄͂͛͂́̓̐́̉̏͗̽̌͐͛͘͘͜͠͝͝ͅť̶̨̨̨̡̡̨̢̛̠͍̤͔͖̬̱̟͍̦̥̯̘͍̹͔̣̬̪̠̱̣̦͈̥̗͎̻̤̞̟̱̹̖͉͓͕̥͔̻͓̪͚̬̪̞̱̹̩͇̺͓͇̮̬͕̺̺̱͓̟̙͓̦̗̖̰̣̣̯͔̠̮̠̯͉̯̠͙̘̤̙͍̰̭̀͌̍̈́̿͛̈́̄͌̄͒͋̒̈́͆̿̍̾̾̌͂̔̃͌̀͐̐̊̍͐̀̾̌̓̽̓͆̈́̿̓̾̄̕̕̕͜͠͠͝ͅͅͅh̵̛͕͉̳͕̥̯͕̱̯͛͑͗̏̍̂͊͊̈́̒͋̑̅͊̄̇̊͛͑͆͋̈̍͋̎͌́̏͆͋̽̅́̑̅͋̽͋̊̒̎̌̋̂͐͂̿͐̎̆̉̊̀̈̀͗̚̕͠͝͠͝ͅ ̶̡̢̧̡̧̨̡̢̛̥̫̠̥̲͚̹̰̩͓̫̦̩̩̜͙̳̠̪̳͚̜͓̰͕͇̮̩̮̲̯͉̮͇̩̦̻̭͍͚͔͓̝̳̤͎̱̮̠̪̯̦̝̙̮͇̥̻̙̼̝̦͙̦̪̱̟̣͔̞͚̺̥͉͈̞͖͉͔̱̠͔̈̋̾̄̓͂̀̀͐̏͆͊̎̋̽͆̊̄́̆̒̚͜͝ͅḇ̸̨͎̪̖̗̻̼̫͖̒͆l̶̨̧̛̻̜̜̩̪͍̦̞͎͍̹͓͈̰̲̩͓̙͚̻̙̘̱̘̭͓͕͎̳̰͎̠͍̫̥̤̰̳̼̫̦̘̺̤͆̌̌̔͑͆̔̃͐̍̍͒͑̃́̋̌̆̋̉̀̽̋̓̀̍͐̍̈́͂̓͐͋̊̾́͐͒̇̚̕̚̕͜͜͝͝ͅo̷̢̡̢̢̧̧̡̡̢̧̼͓̭̭̖̫͖̖̺͓̳͎̰̦̯͍̯̭͈̻͕̯̖̜̲̞͍͔̪̯̪͔̙̯̱̯̗̥̩̲̫͓͎͚͖̹͈̩̜̤̫̩̩̖̱̥̙͍̞̔́́̉̂͜͜ͅͅo̷̡̡̡̢̨̡̦̠̜̬͇̰̪̞̪̥̺̰͉̟͇̹̲̭̥̠̖̹͇͍͎̝͈̫̣̘̰̐̏̆͂͌̇́̄̾̔͛͂͛̋͜͜͝d̸̨̢̧̡̧̧̧̢̛̺̱̟̩̘̥̖̱̩̙͚͕̫̖̣͕̥̰̻͙̖͍͙̳̭̣̳͇̥̰͙̫̝̼͚̣̼͍̣̮͔͉̮̲͕͖̱̻͈̺̙̲̦̟̖̙͈͙̠͔̗͍̬̯̟̘̫̭͖̙͔̰̠̜͇͎̘̲͈̹̓̌̓̈́̿͌̓̽̉̒͌̒̌̋̽͛̍͊͌̑͛̎̾̔̆͛̾͗͊͑͌͋̾͑͛̓̍̿̌̇͌͊̀͑̉̅̉̆̒́̌́̏̌̓́̿̂͒̽̅̍͒͂̒̑̌̿̓̔͌̌̒̔͂̔́͐͊̎͊̏̎͐͂͋̓̚̕͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅ ̷̡̡̨̡͉͕̦̖̱̗͓̖̘̻̱̻̩͚̦̺̹͖̣̦̙͈̙͙͙̻̫̹̺̬̠̹̬̦͎̫͙͙̠͉̥̈́ͅờ̷̧̢͖̤͈̞̞̣͚̟͍̐̆͛̏̆̓̉̄͂̔̂̐̾͆̓̄̾̒̾͆̏̉͒̀͑̀͛̄̈́̎͑̓̓̿̆̄̕͘̕͜͝ǹ̸̢̧̢̨̢̨̡̛̩̬̼̥̥̝͎̹͎̪̲̪̳̳̥̫͎̰͉̙̰̲̞̞̱̜̫̳͙͔̻̰̰͔̲͓̦͎̼̝̝͚̥͍̠͎̳̮̺̫͖͉͚̞͍̯̗̣̮̞͉̠̞͇̱̞̤͚̝̩̮̹͓̣͓̟̖̣̘̞̟̬̮̥̠̈́̿̽̈́̋̿̚͝ ̴̡̡̧̨̢̡̡̧̛̛͙̯̻̦͖͓̱̯̤͍̼͓͇̪̰̘͍͙͖̟͎͇̘̱͇̠̫̳̞̳̦͈̺̯̫̜̩͉̩͈̣̲̇̊͊͌̋̓̾̓̊̌͊̔̒͗͗̀́͌͒̈́̔̌̓̈͛́͊̈́̈́͊̈́͂̿̓̀̋̃̀̏͒̎̐̓̅̒͐̎̂̔̂̂͒̈͑̀̌̆̃͊̐͆͗̂͐̐͆͛͒̿̏̒̇̐͘̚̚̕͘̚̚͜͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅt̵̨̛̛̮͖̞̟͚̺͔̠̦̞̫͕͍̤̜̲͉̲̰͎̤̯͚̞̥̗̦͎̟̙̫͉͒̾̃̑͛̊̃̓̀̈́̔̊͊̔̑̍͋̑̒̈́͗̌̅̒͐͛́́̏̏̀̉͌͂̈́̈́̉͛̌̾̀̏̂̎͗͒̆͘̚̕̚͜͝͝͠͝͝͝͠h̶̨̡̢̨̡̢̛̻̙̜̞͓̘̻̘̭͎̘̰̭̞̭̻͍̮̣͇̼̭̺͕͉̜̼͈̟̬̠̥̝͔̞̳̦̩͉̦̲̼̞͉̻̞̘͌̾̾̈́̽͊̋͆̈̎̂͌͆̃͆͒̀̈́̈́̒̆̂̍͗̄͗͐̎̽̿̉͆̈̿̇̈̍͐̒̐̆̎̀̀́̑͂̑̍͆͆̐͋̄̃̇͛͆̅͐̈́̚͘͘͝͝͝ͅͅͅę̸̡̧̧̛͎̙̘̜̮̫̬̱̠̲̺̯̩̩̰̖̻͈̹̥̱͔͙̟̪̗̻̰̟̝̗̠̗͎͙̬̠̮̞̠̹̝͈͉̣̙͕̺̤̘͍͕̹̭̪̘͙̋̀̈́̑̓͑̊̒̆͑́͊̓̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͝ͅḿ̷̧̨̢̨̧̛̛̛̛̛̛̠̬̪̩̠̭̪͚̯̩̺̳̯̗̣̟̭̭̟̮̟͔̖̥̅͒̀̋̀̇̑͑͑̒̅̑̄͐̃̾͑͒̅̍̉͋̄̂̌͆̄͊͗̔͆̒̏̈̍͗͗͊̆͂̂͛̒͋͑́͋̉̈́͒̋̎́̇̅̏̅̈̏͂̽́̐̇͛̍̕͘͘̕͝͝͝͠.̸̧̧̧̡̢̡̧̢̡̧̛͎̖̙̦̹̯̙̟̗̳̱̖̦͚̰̩̬̗̣̻͔̪͍͇̜̦͖̯͕̝̥͓̰̤͇̜̠̲͈̠̻̭͚͔͓̥̟͛̑̉̅̌̽͜ͅ ̶̨̨̡̡̛̣̙͙̣̥̞̺͖̳̰̝̝̪̗̬̱̯̫̭͖̜̖̫͚͍̣̤̣̝̣͈̞͍̳̲̬͉̮͎̝̬̤̯̜͖͔̜̜̦͍͉͕̪̫͙̥̝̫̭̮̹͉̻͇̯̘̐͋̉̈́̋́̒̾̊̅̔̍͆̀̎̂̏̏̄̄͂͌̏͐̿̏̏̈́̕̕̕͜ͅͅS̵̡̨̧̡̡̢̡̛̮̤̼̗͈̜̝͈̦͕̤̲͈̟̻͔͚͎͇͕̠͙̮̤͕͎͕̩̹̹̰̖̳͈̬͚͓̩̦̲̥̜̖̖̯̘͕̳̞̺̘̞͙̱̬̤̳͍̪̗͎͉̰͔̲̜͈̫̞̣͉̭̰̮̝͚̱̰͙͇̰̳͎͖̙̏̂̓̉̽̽͆͗̊̑̃͌̎̊̒͛͛̽͂̕̚̚͜͜͠͝ͅͅͅh̸̨̧̨̨̨̨͙̰̦͚̪͓͈̺̻̱̰̯̩̭̞̟͙̝̬̯̜͕̹̖̯̲̜͎͉̦͓̥̯̯̳̙̝̞̼̪̞̥̤͉̻̗̳̬͎̿̂ͅe̵̡̘̠̝̺̝̥̩̞̰͓̩̬̠̲͕̥̱̘͔̞̼̼̠̔̇̿̆̇̔̈́̽̏̍̾́͆͌̽̃͒̉̈́̓͛̊́́̋́̔̿̓͑̿̃̈́̈́̽̍̌͗̒͊̐͘͘̕̕ͅͅͅ ̸̢̡̢̢̡̧̧̛̻̜̫͓͓͈̘̯̪̠̫̟͈̠̫̗̻͎̹̻̠̮͇̠̬͈̜͚̩̦͚͎̜̳̖̥̼̥̻̩̲̜͓̙̣͇̠̻̝̲̫͓̘̣̹̘͊̌͆̎̐̑̓̈̿͋͛́̈̈́͌̆͌͋̐̎̐̈́̏̓́͌̑͂̎́̔͋͐̽͋͑͛͐̈́̾̔̈́̈́͛̓͊̈̐̑́́̈́̌̀̈́̌̌̓̌̋́͋͆̄̎͗͊́̉͐̅̈́̀̐̇̅̅͌̈́̕̕̚̚͘̕͜͜͜͝͝͝͝ͅd̴̢̧̡̡̢̧̨̢̧̟̭̖͍͖͈̭̥̥̟̦̩͚̪̦̠̙̥̯͍̝̫̫̩͚̠̹̫̣̻̻̰̪̳̖̮̱̯̤̬͚̥̝̫̯̩̦͍̲̩̫̲̰͔͇̦͇̰̼̖͚̭͉̯̞͙͎͖͖̪̯̩̹̏̃͂̾̀͛̋̋̾́̅͂͋͌̊͌͋̄͌̆̔̑͑̉̆̆͋͌̍̽̀̆̅͊͌̀͐̈́̑̽̉̈́̌̏̎̐̑̀͂͌̉̓̉̒́́̐̈́̾͘̕̚̚̚̕͘̚̚͘͘͘̕̚͘͜͝͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅi̷̧̨̧͚͙̥͉͈͔̥̟͈̞͇̫͚̙̳̩̖̟̻̳̜̼̟͓̲̠͎͚̹̭͓̖̰̝̫̖͖̥̱͍͍͇̰̪͕͇͂̍̀͑͆̎̍̿̃͋̏̈́̊̄͘͜͝ḑ̴̡̧̡̨̨̢̨̧̡̢̢̛̪̙͚̯̼̪̣̻̦̰̦̬̯̜͈̺̮̺͎̟̹̫̹̗̲̼͈̯̺̝̩̖͓̤̜͖͈͓̱̰̺̙̥̺̥̜̮̬̺̯̞̱͙͍͔͚̝̭̹̹̪̪̺͇͔̻͇͕͉̻͚̣̘͈̘̼͖̲͎̞͚̟͂̓̉̊̽̐͗̃͒͑͐̉́͆͌͂͒̈́̔̑̌̃͊̆͐̏͋̑̀̽͌̄̆̌͒̂̐̇̃̀̊͊͋̋̍̀͊̓̅̆̑̽͒̌̂͊̂̀̒̍̅̈̾̒̅̈̀͗͘̕̚̚̚͘̚͘̚͜͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅǹ̷̡̢̡̡̨̡̧̡̧̡̧̧͔̝̮̼̬̙̙̤͚̠̬̹̣̟̠̤̟͈̟̟̹͈̮̭̝͕̲͍̝̪̤̦̫̖̰̞͙̦̮̞̤̩̟̼̥̼̜͎̥̲̠̳͔̱̙̪͖̱̣̫̹͎̗̹̥̰͙͕̲̼̤̼̹̠̈́̈́̒̋̑͊͊̚͜͜ͅ'̸̢̢̨̛̛̛͔̲͖̰̩͇̪̯̥̻̺̜̙̭̜̝̖̞̙͙̖̝̱̤̟̱̬̘̣͈̫̭̪̻͕̞̞̠͐̈́̓̍̎̾̍́̓̀̅́́̎̓̎̑̏͒͌̈̍͌̽̊̑́̂͑̈̓̊͌̽̓͒͆̾̄͗̾̎͐̆͛̀͂̑͒̆̓͌͊̚͘̚͜͝͝͠͝͝͝͝ͅt̷̨̡̡̢̨̢̛̛̛̪̻̳͚̻̣̩͈̗͇̲̞̝̥̯̗̩̹̭͎̙̖͙̣͚͓͓̻̦͎̞̠͈͓̩̫̗͍̲͓̥̼͔̞͇̻͈̗̣̣̝̯͓̫̖͚̺̫͍̘̱̘̗̠͓̬̞͎̻̯̲̥̬̯̓̒͒̀̿͒̿͌̾̽͂̑́̀̽̐̀̉́̽̒͗̄̐̎̀̃̓͐̔̓͊̑͛̚͘͘͜͜͝͝ͅ ̵̢̡̢̢̙̼̹͙͓̙̞̜̫̱̮̗͍͔̥̰̥̥̲̩̠̱̱̬̰̹͚̞͕̞̼͓̦͇̟̮͚̼̜̯̠͖̟͓͓̲̘̪̬̱̬̩͔̺̜̭̝͎̳̰̮͍͇̟̮͙̩̳̯̬͙͙̗̟̗͕̭̫̮̣͕͈̱̞̫̝͇͂̎̓͛̽̒̾̔̆́͝͠ͅͅc̴̞͉͛͂͗͐̊̏̀͒̐̊̾̿̒́̽̕͘̕͘͜͝ͅẳ̵̡̢̨̢̡̡̙͎͕͈̪̘̬̠̥͓̝̣͚̞̭̼̞͓̣̦̭͍͇̥̬̝̹̹̳̺̬̹̖̜̹̣̬̤̦̞̳̙̱͕̠̱̰̮̩̙͉̱̖̼̻͙̟̭̮͕̪̗̠̝̯̗̦̮̱̞̰̀̍̓̾͆̒̏̿̔̐̌̄̄̽̀̆̽̃́̿̍̋̉̓́̈́̾̿̐͂̅͘͜͠ͅͅŗ̵̯̬̜̥̳̝̭̇͋̋͒͒̏̒̒͛̽̑̓̓̍͝e̸̡͕͕̼̲͓̎͌̒̌̂̒̐̐̂̉͋̄̅̋̄̔̈͗̄̀͘̕͝͠ͅm̴̧̛̛͓̼͔̹͙̪͍͈̣̰̯̻̩̗̘̻̱̠̫̦͈̰͓͚͇̜̲̟͓̠͕͈̮͎̯̱̗̬͔̭̟̗͓̿͑̀̂͂̑͒͒̔̒́̔͑̏̉̒̓̏̓͑̐̈̋̓͒̽̓̀̈́͐̓̽̏̾̽̔͐̊̀̇͗͊̒̊̌̉̏̂͆͌̂́̉́͛͛̀̚̚̕͘̚͜͜͜͜͠͠͠͝͝͝ͅ ̶̡̨̡̧̢̧̧̧̛̛̛̫͖̥̜̭̮̼̯͇̞̟̜̫̘̦̼̻͓̲͕̞̞̠͕̼̥͈̝̟̖̹̫̺̩̗̰͔̩̠̱̺͙̝͉̹͎̬͈͕͖͍̭͎͔̻̦͎̬̫̹͓͔͚̰͉̻̘̜̻̠̩̭̱̙̬̳̼̖̜͖͓̲̪͍̯͍̜̋̒̓̎̂͂͗̌͋̍̈́̓̑͗̊̿̅̄̎͐̽̈́̀̐̎̐͊̌̇̾̇͂̊̆̇̐̇͋̉̄̀́́̒̆͆̋͑͐̏͛͛̋̊̈́̄̆̾͌͆̆̆̓̎̈́̈̋̇͌̔̎̃͂̀͑̋̈́́͋̾͒͊͘̕̚̚̕͝s̸̨̡̨̡̢̧͙̞̬̫͉̺͚̘̺̭̘̦͖̯̘̻͉̯̪͇͇̯͓̬͓͎̳̗̰̠̜̗̳̜̗̯̹̳̦͎̙͖̖͔̺͖̫͎͍̜͔̘̣̼͚͕̱̺̓͛͆̂͐̇͒͋̌̒̐̿̇̍̋̇̐̍͋̀̄̎̇͌̆̾̃̆̋͑̾̃͊̈́̀͐̈́̋͒̿̔̓̅̑̋͌͊̀̂̉͘͜͠h̶̡̝̼̫̝̘̳̙̭̭͙͉̭̬̙̫̯̻̙͎̆͐̈́̊͐͋̊̐͆͑̆̀̎̽͑͘͝͝͝ȩ̸̧̧̢͙̱̰̗̲̼̪̲̭̬̣̖̙̬̝̲̱̼͇̮͈̩̖̯͓̦̮̲͎͓̩̤͖̲̻͔͙̖̼̊͂̇̌͋͒͋͛̕̚͜ ̸̢̡̗̥̜̘̻͉̱͙̼͈͙͍͍̲̭͕̪͓̦̥̟̼̺̱̞̳͍̥͎̙̙̻͊̋͑̉̈́̊̏͒̋͗̅͗̄͑̔̆̐̊͒̈́́̐́́̐͆̈́͋͂̍̋̚̚͠͝͝͝͝͝l̸̨̛̛̛̞͚͉̪̱̺̗̥̝͉̬͕̮̠̠͓͙͕̳̙̣͇̺͖̻̼͈͈͓̹̘͔̯͍͈̩̝̣̣̝̞͓͚͇̲̥͓͇͓̞̦̙͙͍̞̼̦̠͓̿͋̈́̅̀̑͛͌̈̉̎́̏̂͆͂̂́̍̋͋̇̓̏̏̈́͑̿̈̏̽̀̿̉̒̄̔̀̂̑̀̅̐̎̈́͋̐͋͋͛͗̀̌͗̎͐̑̄̏̆̊͐̍̒͘̚͜͜͝͝͝͠͠͝͠͠ͅͅo̸̢̢̨̢̧̨̢͎̟͙͍̙̹̦͔͚͉̩͍̖͔̭̩̤̪͇̖̯̟̺̥̫͕̜͎̭̜̥̯̼̣̯͔̳̤͈̥̥̩̥̭̲̻̰̠̺͓͉̗̦̳͚̬̰̲̞̦̤͇̭̯͍̮̼̖̗̠̥̲͙̭̙̣̼͋͜ͅv̶̧̢̢̳̙̣̫̟̯̥̟̖̻͎͔̠̣̖̬͇̖̰͖̖̩̝̖̗̩̙̫̈́̊̀́́̃́̎͂͒͑͘͘͜͜͜͠ę̷̨̢̢̡̛̠̺͓̟̟̖͉̳͈͖͇͙͕̱̞̬̱͍̦͎̬̪̥̠͖̰͚̲͚̱̥͓̪̮̖͐̽͑̾́̿̋̃̋̋̅̈́͑̿̆͑̈̑́͐̈̔̌̅̇̌̂͋͌̈́̉̔͋̆͑̄͒̈́́̊͐̍́̌͑̈́̇́͑̂͌͑͌͋̆͊̈́̈́̈̀͌͋͂̊̎̈́̈́̂̐́̔̍́͌̉̃͗̇̽̔̽̽͆̚̚̕̕͘̕̕̚͘͝͠͝͠ͅͅd̸̢̢̧̧̡̧̛̛̛̛̮͇͇̩͍͖̣̻͈̺̹̗͙̫͎͙͖̱̺͓͙̬͇̞͓̬̥̥̙̫̘̪̤̲͈͕̤̥͉̮͓̭͕̟̬͈̜̳̺̱̼̬̰̼́̉͋̂̈́̔̐͑̃̐͋̒͛̋͌̑̽̆̇͋͛͋̑̓͗̓̍̿̑͂͒̓̏̊̽̌̉̍̇̎́̏͋͗̎̄̋̅͐͒̅̕͘͘͜͜͜͜͠͝ ̸̢̧̢̡̡̨̧̨̧̨̧̨̛͖̱̰̤͈̜̥̹̝͍͙̠̞̞͈͓̭̗̮̟͎̗̩̻̰̰͔̲̠͖̩̜̬̥͉̩̭̫̰͉̣͉̫̻̳̥̹̠̖͎̦̻̭̣̞̺͕͖̲̼̫̖̠͚̞̥͍͕̲̪͇̹̰̻̬̘͇͉̼̋̊̒͌̊̂̊͐̓͆̋̿̑̈́̂̊̃̿͂̆̋̈͂̄͂͐̓̅̉͂̔͗̂̋̂̃̄̾̑̈́̾͌̐̂̈̕͜͜͝͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅẗ̵̨̢̛̛̛̙̰̹̩͔͖͍͓̫̖̫͈̟̖̼̤̭̙̭̘̳̯͍͙̻̜̜̠͚̯̖̱͖̞́̐̆̐͒̃̇͂̓͑̽̀͌̏̊̑͐͗̋̇̊̄̍̃́͊̓̃̇̈́̏̐̑́̇̏̏̀̈́͑̀́͋̈́͒̃̓͐̾̚͝͠͠h̶̨̡̡̧̧͎̟͎̦̬͖̫̲̮̪̝̻̻̖͚̺̩̩̥̫̯̼͍̘͓̭̺͓̹̝͕̋̄́͋̈́̔̑͛̓̈̂̈́̌͐̃̾̿̈́̿̊̅́́̈́̈́͛̇̔̓̎͘͜͝ȩ̵̢̡̢̧̨̢̜̮̩͉̩̮͎̝͇̫̪̦̤͕̳̯͖̗̼̱̬͇̻̝̭̞̥͇̪̼̥̩̬͚̝̙͍̻̝̲̥̙̣̰̭͉̭͕̫̟̟̜̜̭̞͙͉̥͍̞͖͈̥͇̙̭͓̗̻̪̠͈̮̬͎͍̦̮͓̗̊̇̈́̈́̌͂̅̂̽͆̆̂̋̎̾̃́̌̈́̈́̈́̃̾̅̒͂̈́͋̾̈́̀͌̈̇̇̓̐̀̉̚̕̕͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͠ͅͅ ̶̢̧̛̘̩͓̣̰̯̝̗̲̝͎̪͖̫̰̟̗͓̭̬̘͚͖͎̩̯̹͚̗̞̱̘̣͚͔̲̞͇̪͔͛̈́̏̀́͐̓͋̋̎̎̈́̐͒̀̃̌̊̾̈́̇̊̊̓̀̈́̅̐͛̃̔̒́̽̈́͂̈́̀̌̉̓̐̓͐́̿̑̄́̓͘̕͜͜͜͠͝ͅw̶̢̧̢̨̨̡͔̳͖̪̺̟̭̜͚̟̠̭̫͙̮͚̬̳̙͔̣̙͇͙͙̲̲͔̠̦̠̖͓̫̲̫̬̠̘̗̝̭̗͍̠̰͖̻͍̰̌a̷̧̢̢̧̛̼̪̣̥̘͖̳̙̫̠̣̭̱͕̜̥͉͔͖̫͎̰̟͚̱͈͈̩̥͖̠̜̬̩̠͑͌̎̓͗̏́͌̉́́́̾̈́͒̎̑͒̅̑̈̽̏̈́̂̈́̎̋̄̿̂̓̽̉̔̈́̈́̅̽͆̅̆͘͘͘͝͠͠͝y̵̛̛̠͕̟̦͓̼̹͎̟̮͚̪̺̣̰͉̣̜̍̂͑͛̌̑̈́̽̓͋̋̎̉̊͆́̐̅̐͐̅͋̊̔̄̔͐̂͒̀́̑͗̑̊̎̃̋̀̀͐̀͛̑̋͂͆̿̾̉̔̓̕̚͜͝ ̷̨̢̢̢̡̛̛̛̛̛̙͚̳͚̮̲̰̞͙̠̅̀̈́̋̆̈̆̈́̐̀̈́̈́̽͋̔̀̀̋̆̍̽̓̌̊̅͗̈̊͐̊̑̅̆͊̏̈́̂̿̿̽̀́̑͌̓̄̈́̍͋̒̆̌̔̑͛̇̓̌͐̽̈́̈́̃̓̽̍̆̊̄̐͒̍͗̓̅͐́̿͐̓̄̕̚͜͝͠͝͠͝ͅį̵̡̧̡̛̗͈̤͙̜̰͉̫͍̩̖͖̰̫͍̗̫̝̝͖͍̲̻̣͇̝̭͎͉̤̺̘̤͙̮̪͕̤̫̭̖̟̹̥͍͖̥̦̠̩̳͈̫͖͔̹̠͚̙̞̻̫̲̙̈́̂̋͋̓̃̍͆͒͂̏́̽̏͊̐̓͂̍̆̑̋̑̈̒͌̇͆͗̿͆͑̑͋͘̚͜͜͝͝͝͠͠͝͠ͅͅţ̵̡̧̧̡̗̟̼̪̬̫̲̞̥̮̠̱͕̱̤͕̺̝̼̲͉̲̲͎̗̣̞͔͔̭͖̞͍̠̦̞̟͔̳̗̻̹̰̬̟̫̰͓͔̰̜͈͎̗͍̦͎̳̻̠̹̤̙̽̓͌̋̀̂̈́̓̉̓͋̅̉̌̽̃͆̾̈̓̑̓̌̐̓́̍͋̕͜͝͝͝͝ͅ ̵̢̢̛̲̣̘͉̦̝̜͓̊̌̏̒̈́̎̊̑̏̈̀̾̅̌̌̊͒̅͌̾̇̔̈́̀͂̒̓̃͌͂͘͘̚͝ͅͅͅf̴̨̢̨̡̧̡̡̨̨̧̨̨̛̛̛̬̝̦̫͎̖̤͎͖͙̜̪͔͇̮̥̺̥͕̣̘̯̮͈̙̮̤̻̞͔̬̝͓̮̱̣̜͈̳̬͕̩̳͙͚̘̜̺̺̹̱̹̳̘̫̮͈̦̬̲͓͖̮͖͇͉̤̯̮̼̱̞͓̬̠͚̼͊̉̒̄͌̆̈̊̈́̈́̔̈́̌̒͐̿̅͂̋͌̏̉̈́̎͌̆̀̐̊̈̆̅̄̾̽̎́̈́̑̉̓̐̔͑̐́́̎͘̚͘͘͜͜͜͝͝ê̵̢̧̲̬͎̺̥͕̎̍͋͝ļ̶̧̛̯̬̟̲̹̠͍̳̹͙̹̪̪̩̣̬͉͍͈̫͔̤͚̼̭̜̞̳͔̰͕̭̳͕̘̈́̇̇̈́͋̈́̇̋̽̈́̀͒̿̀̽̉̈́͑̽̔̽̈̈̈̿̓͂͊̈́͊͌̓̄̍̃̄̈́̉͗̆̀͒͗́͌́́͆̂̇́̂̋́́́̋̏̿̐͒̃̎̅͌̓̕̕͘͘̕̚̕̚͠͠t̵͎̣̗̫̟̍̏̃̾̈́̄̏͂̏̌̾̅̉̌̑̒̌̃̄̊̄̽̑̐͛̈́̈́͘̚͘͠͠.̵̢̡̧̢̢̨̨̢̨̢̛̛̺̝̱̪̲̺̺͔͓͉̼̰̝̘̺͚͙̤̖̭̺͔̯̞͔͓̙̪̭͕̫̹̰̥̳̙̪̹͇̤̹͇̫͓̪̠̪̪̻̺̝͓͙̥͍͇̥̙̱͖̘̈́̄͛͋̉̊̊͂̽̄̂̔̔̀͗̈́̌͐̀̇̈̂̀̈́͂̈́̔̓̇̑̓̾̅̓͊̊̍͒̅̆̉̈́̓̊͂͗̋̋̒̇̐̚͘̚̚͘͜͜͜͠͝͠͝͠͝ͅͅ



She blinked twice before registering much, her head tilting to the side as she analyzed his face. Why, how strange. What was another kid like her doing out here? Had he been chasing things too..?
"My name's Mia..-" She would say after introducing himself, looking down in an oddly submissive fashion. "-I'm seven..."
But then she looked up with curious eyes, disturbingly wide.
She looked insane.
"What's you doin' out here? Chasin' the squirrels too?" She tilted her head the other way now, a finger raising to her bottom lip. It, along with the rest of her hand, was completely red.

She took a few seconds but eventually she would realize that there was no squirrel in her hand. A few desperate glances around before she zeroed in, probably ignoring half of the boy's reply as she got up and slowly stepped over to the corpse.
Mia crouched down and picked the thing up, examining it for a few moments before turning around and sitting cross legged, holding the body up with both hands, palms flat, presenting it to him as if it were a prize.
"Eheheh..~ Does you likes what I did?" She giggled and clapped her hands (once again dropping the squirrel), and in realizing her mistake she ungraciously picking it up by the tail, letting it dangle lifelessly. The thing didn't really have a head anymore, she'd hit it so many times.

It probably wasn't the smartest idea to show him this body already, but she felt like something had sparked as soon as she met his eyes with that insane stare. She felt something stabbing her heart, too. She felt it all.

Badum.

Badum.

Badum.

How romantic.

Before his sentence had even left his mouth, Adalard already sensed the overwhelming flood of animosity and hatred that seemed to surge from this girl. There was nothing but the desire to kill, the need to wantonly end lives for some sick, unfathomable reason in those eyes (not that he himself was any better, mind you). Regardless of what exactly it was, if he didn’t do anything about it, he himself might just end up as one of her many presumed victims.

Adalard swept his fingers around quickly in a tight circle, and instantly closed into a tight grip the second they felt the polished wooden handle of the knife that he’d dropped. If she was going to come at him, he needed to at least be on the better-armed side of things; all she had was a few rocks, maybe a concealed weapon of some sort, but better a knife in hand than two in the bush. He was ready to tear her a new navel if she so much as moved another muscle the wrong way. Nothing personal, just survival.

But then an unexpected development presented itself. The hostility simply vanished within the blink of an eye, and the girl plopped down into a sitting position. His grip on the knife handle loosened for a split second, then tightened again as he suspected a trick of some sort at work here. A good look at the girl did his suspicions no good; she was covered head to waist in splatters of blood, which was never a good sign.

“Adalard Engel. If you really need to know, I’m eight.”

He spoke with the air of someone much older than he was, and the gaze that he met her crazed stare with spoke volumes about his character. It was cold and unrattled, somehow empty, and suggested no conceivable emotion, like the glassy eyes of a snake; the eyes of a cold-blooded killer that truly believed that they were doing no wrong. They were the eyes of another species of insanity entirely.

“Yes. Squirrels. Is that what all this is about?”

He gestured vaguely at her reddened shirt and hands, and also cast a sidelong glance at the headless squirrel lying next to her. Must have fallen out of her grip when they collided. She lifted the thing up, then dropped it again in a display of childlike eagerness. If circumstances had been slightly different, Adalard may have found that endearing, ‘cute’, even. But in this case, he was more interested in the squirrel.

“I see. You’ve...removed its head. Decapitation isn’t really the right word here...blunt bludgeoning, then, I presume. A clumsy job, but efficient.”

There was no clear response as to whether he ‘liked’ this or not, but he was definitely interested. His free hand, the one not holding a knife, hovered at chin level, and his eyes rapidly scanned the corpse. Immediately the need to take a scalpel to the limp squirrel rose in his core, and he got to his feet. He noted that he was a little taller and a little older than her, but there was something about her that suggested an unnatural maturity beyond her years, just like him.

“Hmm. Can I...borrow that for a second?”

Adalard, against his better judgement, extended his hand and gestured at the squirrel. He was going to get a better look at the poor thing’s insides either way, but it was better to try the diplomatic way out first. If she complied, it would be a lot less hassle for both of them.

As he waited, he was dimly aware of his heart beating a little faster as well. He simply put it down to the excitement generated by the opportunity of studying a new specimen, but deep down inside he knew that this was a lie; he’d never felt his pulse so much as hitch a beat if he wasn’t performing some sort of vigorous exercise. It turns out that, sometimes, there were things rationality couldn’t explain. Love just so happened to be one of them.

Badum.

Badum.

Badum.

Yes, very romantic indeed.

Mia seemed like a... "Child"... When she held the squirrel to her chest - A child of an age much younger than seven. She seemed protective of her toys, per say. A cold glare when he asked for them, a puff of her cheeks, even, and she turned her head.
"W-why do you wann'em? I didn't kill 'em for you or something, stupid." Averting her eyes as she uttered the insult the small girl paused. She looked, funnily enough, like a squirrel, with her cheeks puffed up like so.

And then a devious grin appeared across her lips and she turned her head to face him.

"I mean... I could just givesyou the squirrel... Or we could play a little game, hmmmm~?" Her smile was somewhere between psychotic and smug as she narrowed her eyes at the boy.
"What funs is it if I just gaves you it, eh? Ehh? Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh? No funs at all isn't that right A-..."
She puffed up her cheeks again.
"A-add... d-a.... A-a-a-... Ayy... Dee... Ayy... Ada...."
She appeared to be concentrating so hard that her eyes were crossed.
"A-ada.. Laaahhh... larhhhh... Add-Fuck it."

She spat on the ground and gripped the squirrel tighter, abusing its misshapen body even more as her hands twisted opposite from each other and she began to tear it apart.
She'd get a few seconds in before stopping, looking up at him with a wide smile on her face.
"Games are more fun, aren't they, Ada? Games are more fun than sharing, right, Ada?" A gentle head tilt as she sprung from her crouch, starting to back-step away from him.

"So I'll run and you try an' catch me mhm? I'll run and run and you sees' if you can catch me mhm? Mhm!? Like tag hm!? Hmmhmhmhmmm~!?" She muffled a giggle and squirmed back and forth on the spot, her entire body shaking in an arrhythmic twitch-fest.
"J-just like tag, hm!? You know hows'ta play tag mhm!? I bets I'll win~! C'mon, chase me! Chase me! Chase me!" She writhed in an odd way, almost seeming to cry out in ecstasy with her pleas. It was... Offsetting, to say the least.

And then she would stick her tongue out at him. She was overconfident but she had every right to be.

Is this how friends worked? Was it too early to be considered a friendship?

Mia didn't know, Mia didn't care. This boy got her excited whenever she looked at his eyes, and for that she enjoyed him.

Adalard noted that Mia shrank away protectively when he extended his hand, so he retracted it and patiently analysed her reaction. He couldn’t help but smile a little as she demonstrated all the empathetic skills of a five, maybe six-year-old and a marvellous squirrel impression. Not much of an education with this one, was there?

“Oh, I don’t know. I asked nicely, but if you insist...”

The words ‘you can keep it’ stuck in his mouth for a second as he debated whether or not to shut this attempt off completely so early, but then she surprised him with a new line of thinking.

"I mean... I could just gives you the squirrel... Or we could play a little game, hmmmm~?"

Adalard said nothing, sensing that she intended to keep talking, but simply reciprocated her smuggish smile with a thin-lipped grin of his own, as a sign that he was interested by this idea.

"What funs is it if I just gaves you it, eh? Ehh? Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh? No funs at all isn't that right A-..."

Trying not to chuckle out loud at her terrible language structure, Adalard thought about helping her out when she began trying to (erroneously) pronounce his name. He couldn’t blame her, a lot of people found it hard. He himself actually found it easier to write it down rather than say it.

"A-add... d-a.... A-a-a-... Ayy... Dee... Ayy... Ada....A-ada.. Laaahhh... larhhhh... Add-Fuck it."

Lips curling involuntarily at her attempts and eventual failure to enunciate his name correctly, Adalard simply had to chuckle lightly as she gave up and spat angrily on the ground. He was about to simply enlighten her about the correct pronunciation, but stopped cold in the middle of opening his mouth as she began abusing the squirrel.

“Uh, I thought you were going to...”

“Games are more fun, aren't they, Ada? Games are more fun than sharing, right, Ada?"

“...yes…?”

"So I'll run and you try an' catch me mhm? I'll run and run and you sees' if you can catch me mhm? Mhm!? Like tag hm!? Hmmhmhmhmmm~!? J-just like tag, hm!? You know hows'ta play tag mhm!? I bets I'll win~! C'mon, chase me! Chase me! Chase me!"

Adalard’s expression twitched imperceptibly as she pleaded for his attention, but it wasn’t out of fear or distaste. It was out of doubt. For the first time since he’d met Mia (which, to be honest, hadn’t been too long), Adalard began doubting whether he could best her. Not in wits, that victory was a given, but in the physical department.

With that cocky tone of voice, she sounded very confident in her skills. Of course, she might be bluffing...then again, she didn’t seem smart enough to even know the word. But where there was smoke, there was bound to be fire, which was why he hesitated before deciding. He really wanted that squirrel…

That, and the fact that somehow, he was feeling more excited by this meeting than anything else he’d experienced in recent memory...his heart was beating hard and fast, and he hadn’t even started running yet. He wanted this feeling to last just a little while longer.

“Mhm. Okay, sure. Count of three.”

Putting his knife away and tying his sack around his neck, Adalard was aware that this would most likely handicap him, but he couldn’t risk losing all his supplies on a wild goose chase he’d probably lose. Digging his left heel into the ground, he grit his teeth and counted.

“One. Two...THREE!”

Her heart thumped excitedly in her chest as he accepted. He spoke the first number of his countdown and she put a finger up to silence him.
"You don't wins by playing by the rules!" She squeaked, swiftly filling her palm with dirt and launching it at the boy's face with enough wind-up for him to close his eyes and cover his face, but not enough for him to move, before she turned tail and ran like the wind.

Up a tree she would sit, staring now at his brief recovery, waiting for him to climb up with her before she would throw herself to the next tree, scrambling up a thick branch like a spider. Spinning around she decided to taunt him more.
"C'mon! How's you s'posed ta' catch squirrels like that, huh~?" A cocky giggle and she slid down the tree, hopping forward and waiting for him, too, to hit the ground, before she really started running.

Mia had been running for a year now, outmaneuvering anything that dared to run from her. Now she was the prey... She could hear his footsteps, while not exhilaratingly close, pounding the ground behind her. She felt her heart skipping beats, she felt her mouth missing breaths, and as the chase went on for minutes she felt herself slowing down.
She wanted him to catch her.
Did she, though? Or was it the fact that she was starting to become numb, the fact that she was hyperventilating, the fact that she was overflowing with adrenaline. Mia felt herself slowing down even more, now to his speed.

Ada was catching up at this point but she couldn't bring herself to care, no, because her heart was thrumming out of her chest now, she was sure he could see it. Her eyes were alive with passion, with burning hot passion.
She dared to spin on her heel and start to jog backwards, sticking her tongue out at him again.
Her eyes widened briefly as one foot stopped moving and she broke into a twirl, a death spiral even. Of course she'd expected that, anybody who was running backwards should, and so she quickly spun back up and ungracefully broke into a sprint again, swaying 'till she could catch a balance.

Up another tree, and now she sat, perched, staring down at him, almost daring him to climb up and interrupt her.
"Y-you's makin' my heart go all funny, s-s-stop it..." But she squinted and leaned down to look at him.
"Mmmmh... You feels it too, doesn't you, Ada? Your heart is going badumpadumpadump too, isn'nit? I can sees it in your eyes..." She giggled as if she were completely off of her rocker. Maybe she was just that crazy, or maybe she really did see his heart beat.
Who really knew when you were dealing with a nutcase.

Either way, she leapt to another tree and slid down, running slower than him now.
Did she want to be caught? Or did she need to be caught?

“One, tw-…! What the-?!”

And of course, she had cheated. Well, she wasn’t wrong about it that day, now that Adalard came to think about it. Rules were flimsy things, made to be broken, and Mia had simply taken the initiative. That was all. It was his fault for not anticipating it.

Though his glasses and stance shielded his eyes from the worst of the girl’s underhanded disruption tactics, he still got a mouthful of dirt nonetheless. Spitting it out quickly and shaking his head a few times to clear out the rest of the dirt in his face, Adalard already knew that Mia would have sped off by now. This was why he had considered giving her a headstart, but didn’t.

After briefly dusting himself off, Adalard would tail Mia rapidly, tracking her down until they met at the foot of a gnarled tree. She seemed to be perfectly at ease sitting there, almost taunting him with her elevation and hint of a smug smile on her lips. Turning his head slightly to spit out the last bits of dirt, Adalard approached the tree and started clambering up, decidedly a lot less graceful than her ascent.

When he reached the top, he barely had any time to even get his bearings before a blur of red passed before his eyes and breached the gap between two trees, landing and recovering with the skill only ceaseless, intensive practice could have wrought. Still, no time like now for banter...

“I don’t catch squirrels. I trap them. It’s a lot easier and doesn’t leave you panting like a dog.”

Speaking of which, he was already doing that now, while Mia didn’t seem to have even broken a sweat yet. Just how much time did she spend, racing about in these woods like this? Before he could answer that question, she’d leapt off the bough she was perched on, landed with all the grace of a cat, and sprinted off in earnest.

Adalard, seeing this, also attempted to drop down, with all the grace of a newborn duckling. Scrambling to his feet and looking around briefly for signs of Mia’s tracks, he locked onto the set of footprints in the soft forest dirt and sprinted off after her, albeit much slower.

Soon they were within sight of each other, and she dared to turn around, taking her eyes off the path briefly just to taunt him, before returning to her sprint even faster now. He could hear how loud she was breathing and see how her step now carried an unnatural sway; could it be that she was tiring now?

Almost...almost...no. He caught up to her, almost within reach, but she suddenly leapt up, levering herself into another tree. Adalard, who had no such skill in climbing, was forced to brake at the foot of the tree. Again, that smug, taunting gaze greeted him, but something different was mixed in with it. Could it be…?

“Not me. Your heart….beating faster...you’ve…*huff*...been running...”

Half-squatting down on his knees to catch his breath, Adalard was caught unawares when she suddenly leaned down closer, and addressed him directly.

“Well…*huff*...yeah. I’ve been...chasing you…*huff*...so...”

Before he could finish his sentence, she had taken off again, bouncing into another tree up ahead, then sliding down and leaving him with the echo of her giggle. Adalard rolled his eyes and began the pursuit anew.

Now she definitely seemed to be tiring. Her speed was flagging hard, and he could almost reach her now. Almost...almost...and…

Adalard, closing the distance, put on a burst of speed he didn’t know he was capable of, catching the decelerating girl by surprise, almost tackling her as they went down. As their bodies tumbled down together, he huffed two words breathily into her ear.

“Got you.”