In Memoriam to Sir Terry Pratchett: a new POV chapter

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In Memoriam to Sir Terry Pratchett: a new POV chapter

Postby Ethdhelwen » Sat Mar 14, 2015 8:33 am

While it is often said across the lands of Westeros and Essos that G.R.R. Martin has killed off more characters than anyone alive, on the Discworld, they have a different saying. They say that only Sir Terry Pratchett could kill off a character, then follow them over to have a nice chat with Death Himself about how He thought things went...

A new POV character chapter, in honour of the late Sir Terry Pratchett, for ‘A Game of Thrones’ by G.R.R. Martin:

- Death -
Arya stood frozen. Ser Meryn advanced; Syrio backed away. He checked the next blow, spun away from the second, deflected the third. The fourth sliced his stick in two, splintering the wood and shearing through the lead core.

As Arya ran from his sight, Syrio recalled his own words to her. The man who fears losing has already lost. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Never do what they expect.
"There is only one god, and his name is Death" the bravo declared, letting the shattered stick fall from his hand, all the while never letting his gaze wander from the cowled figure he could see plainly standing behind Ser Meryn's shoulder.

The cowled figure shuffled uncomfortably. Was He mildly embarrassed, or perhaps even flattered, by the dashing blade's words of praise?
THERE ARE OTHERS, BUT THANK YOU FOR THE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT. SO MANY REFUSE TO SEE THE OBVIOUS.
"And there is only one thing we say to Death: 'Not today'!" cried Syrio, a tad over-dramatically.
This, Death thought, was taking things entirely too far, however.
TODAY IS THE DAY, SYRIO. IT IS ON MY SCHEDULE. VALAR MORGHULIS. SHALL WE DANCE?
The dancing master looked over at Ser Meryn, with a contemptuous smirk upon his face, casually wiping the blood from his sword; then gazed down at his own shattered body lain crumpled upon the tiled floor, and saw that it was true.
"Ah, yes. The seeing, the true seeing, that is the heart of it."

As they walked off through the corridors of the Red Keep, an old, scarred, black tomcat with a torn ear recoiled and hissed at Him. Death had always liked cats, especially ones as unloved as this one. He paused, and knelt down, reaching out with a bony hand. The cat lowered its haunches and crept forwards slowly to sniff. It started to let Him rub it behind the ears and, for the first time in many years, it began to purr like the kitten of old.
GOOD KITTY. RHAENYS MISSES YOU VERY MUCH. ONE DAY SER POUNCE WILL SEND YOU TO ME, BALERION. I SHALL FEED YOU ROAST QUAIL AND COMB YOUR FUR.

Then, of course, there was the matter of the girl. Sometimes he did not enjoy his job. Perhaps the Faceless Men would help her to see what must come, just as Winter must come, and make His job a little easier...

- Death of Rats –
Balerion bounded away along the corridor, leaping and frolicking like a cat half his age. That day, he had faced Death, and Death had tickled his chin and rubbed his belly. Now, he was hungry, and it was time to stalk the kitchens and cellars of the Red Keep...

The figure, no bigger than the corpse he stood over, was swathed in a black robe that almost overwhelmed His tiny, bony frame. It seemed that the mouse had been dead for only a few minutes, and was slightly confused by what had happened, judging by the way it was still skittering about around its own still body. The cat must have had the element of surprise. A comfort, at least. The diminutive incarnation of mortality drew out a miniature shining scythe from under its robe.

SQUEAK, said the Death of Rats.
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Re: In Memoriam to Sir Terry Pratchett: a new POV chapter

Postby Ethdhelwen » Sat Mar 14, 2015 11:48 am

-Death and the Fiery Heart –
Melisandre stared into the flames as they began to lick at the torso of the screaming man. The red woman’s robes of deep-dyed scarlet swirled about her, and her coppery hair made a halo about her face. Tall yellow flames danced from her fingertips like claws. “The Lord of Light made the sun and moon and stars to light our way, and gave us fire to keep the night at bay. None can withstand his flames!”

WHAT IS SHE TALKING ABOUT? wondered the cowled figure standing behind her.

I have no idea replied R’hlorr, patting out an ember as it landed upon her own billowing red cloak, but I do like her style. Reminds me of a younger me. So glamorous. She raised a fiery eyebrow archly, and gave Death a coy smile, but He remained bony-faced. Typical. Always failing to see what was right in front of Him. The Night was dark and full of terrors, but He wasn’t one of them. She let out a tiny sigh, and then giggled mischievously. Perhaps I won’t sacrifice her after all. Perhaps I’ll even explain the visions to her. The incarnation of the fiery heart flicked her flickering, gloaming hair as She kissed Him and danced off into the fires. She doubted that he even noticed. He really knew nothing.

THIS WILL CREATE A LOT OF EXTRA WORK. I WILL HAVE TO EXPLAIN A LOT OF THINGS, He grumbled. He rubbed the tip of his scythe rather irritably, slowly adding to the furrow he had worn into his bony index finger during previous similar occasions. He did not approve of glamours. In his experience, people did not really need any magical help to ignore what was right in front of them. They were quite capable of ignoring uncomfortable truths all by themselves. He failed to see the art in deceiving those ready and willing to be deceived. Then there was the awkward task of explaining all of this to the victim currently being burned alive whilst everyone thought he was someone else. Guess who would have to do that?
Spoiler: show
The wildling chieftain, arising groggily from his black-burnt body amid the ashes, drew himself up to his full height, which, now freed from the glamour of the imposing Mance Rayder and restored to his true bone-armoured form, unfortunately was not as impressive as he intended it to be. Nevertheless, as an unbowed and unbent warrior of the Free Folk, he did project a sense of untamed dignity that He had to respect. Also, bones. It was quite flattering. Why this man had to die, He had no idea. But He liked his style. REMINDS ME OF A YOUNGER ME, he mused.

“This is a mistake! I’m not Mance Rayder!” roared Rattleshirt.

I AM AFRAID THERE IS NO MISTAKE. THEY INTENDED TO BURN YOU.

This clearly rattled the bone-clad wildling, metaphorically and literally as he shook with rage. “That cowardly bastard son of a Crow! He must have flipping planned this wi’ that witch!” Death was pretty sure Rattleshirt had said flipping and witch, but he tended to tune things out in the early phases of adjustment and just let the recently deceased get it all out of their system.

WHAT IS DONE IS DONE. I CANNOT CHANGE THIS.

The chieftain cursed and spat upon the ground. “Fair enough. I guess you know your job. Seems you must be th’ true Lord o’ Bones, then?”

LORD OF BONES. YES, I SUPPOSE I AM. Did Death almost allow a hint of a smile to cross his skeletal visage? It was a Free Folk name he hadn’t heard for a while. He didn’t get as much work North of the Wall nowadays as he used to. The White Walkers saw to that. Now there were creatures that he did not understand, and who did not fear Him.

“Might be you’re the only lord I’d be honoured to bend the knee to.” With that, Rattleshirt began to lower himself to the floor. Death stopped him with a deathly hand upon his shoulder.

NO NEED FOR THAT. NOT HERE. NOT NOW. UNDER THE CIRCUMSTANCES.

Rattleshirt shrugged his shoulders, adjusted a leather strap upon his boney breastplate, and scratched his backside. “Alright, then. So, when do we get to kill that cunning piece of sheep?”

Death’s teeth chattered together, although no sound of laughter emerged from his empty frame. He had heard him correctly this time.

MANCE RAYDER WILL HAVE HIS DAY. PERHAPS YOU CAN DO SOME WORK FOR ME IN THE MEANTIME. I AM IN NEED OF A NEW APPRENTICE. COME WITH ME.

“Think I will. Where are we going?”

TO A PLACE CALLED WINTERFELL.
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Re: In Memoriam to Sir Terry Pratchett: a new POV chapter

Postby Ethdhelwen » Sat Mar 14, 2015 3:26 pm

- Death at An Awkward Moment –
Spoiler: show
The quarrel had sunk deep, right to the fletching. Blood seeped out around the shaft, dripping down into his pubic hair and over his bare thighs. His eyes glassy with shock, watching helplessly as Tyrion made his escape, Lord Tywin spied another, hooded figure watching from the shadows.

“Well, don’t just stand there, man!” he rasped. “Stop that miserable, mis-shapen mistake that I had the misfortune to call my son!”

I AM NOT A GUARD.

“I don’t care whether you are the damned Sealord of Braavos, do what I command! Do you not know who I am?”

YOU ARE TYWIN LANNISTER, SON OF TYTOS, HAND OF THE KING.

“Then you should know that when the Hand of the King gives you an order, that order better be obeyed.”

THERE HAS BEEN A MISUNDERSTANDING; I DO NOT WORK FOR YOU.

Tywin grasped the situation quickly. He had not been a Hand of the King for nothing. “I see. Is it payment you require? I have the gold, be assured of that. A Lannister’s promise is one you can rely on.”

PAYMENT WILL NOT BE NECESSARY. IT HAS ALREADY BEEN MADE, MANY TIMES OVER.

“I warn you to watch your tone ...maester, is it? Damn the dwarf; come, tend to my wounds. He has made me a pretty pincushion of quarrels!” The former Hand shifted uncomfortably on his throne, wincing, reaching towards the source of the pain in his belly, only to wonder why he felt no pain to wince at. The mind must be numbing the sensation, he imagined. Perhaps, with care not to open his wounds or disturb the bolts lodged in his body, he could make it back to his chamber, and find someone from his household who could be of more help than this black robed cretin. Robe, but no chain. “Qyburn? Is that you? Thank the Seven, I have need of your peculiar talents, I fear.”

I AM NOT QYBURN. QYBURN HAS BEEN INTERFERING IN MY BUSINESS RECENTLY. HE SHALL NOT BE INTERFERING TONIGHT.

A flash of understanding passed through Tywin’s mind. The Hand grasped situations quickly. “So, it is you, Varys. I might have suspected, but they say that you are a master of many guises. What use would you be if you were not. You have made a mistake, this time, Whisperer. The Lion has a longer reach than you anticipated. You will not escape me.”

NO, NOT VARYS.

“Of course, an assumed name. Who is to say who you truly are? Enough of your lies, Whisperer. They will not serve you now. How long have you and my son been plotting this assassination attempt?”

I AM NOT VARYS. I WAS NOT INVOLVED. YOU ARE WRONG ABOUT ANOTHER THING, BY THE WAY.

“About what?”

THIS WAS NOT AN ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION. IT WAS A SUCCESSFUL ONE.

“I’ll be damned if I’ll give you and that spiteful imp the satisfaction! Help me up, Varys, or whoever you are!”
Death leant down and put his slender ivory arms under Tywin’s armpits, and helped the late Hand to his feet. The Lannister was surprised to find himself standing upright, unwinded and unaided. Had he somehow, inexplicably, forgotten to remove his leather jerkin before retiring to his bedchamber? Had it somehow taken the bite out of the blows? Then he recalled fondly how that strumpet he had rescued from Tyrion’s depraved clutches, the delectable Shae, had helped to remove it that very evening, and how it had led to the removal of most else they had both been wearing. And why not, he thought? He smiled at the memory. Then frowned again. If that were so, then how...

YOU BEGIN TO GRASP THE SITUATION.

Tywin looked down at the bloodied nightshirt, the bloodied shaft. Nothing hid the immodesty of his manhood and bare legs, as he looked down at where his body sat slumped upon the grisly garderobe. His expression, both down there and upon his current disembodied self, was one of stunned surprise. Over the whole scene, a putrid stench unlike the customary ones found in any toilet, filled the air. He would have retched, if he still had a body to retch with. But the stink that filled the privy gave ample evidence that the oft-repeated jape about him was just another lie. Lord Tywin Lannister did not, in the end, shit gold.

AH, YES. YOU WERE POISONED.

“Not by my son?”

NO. THE LITTLE BIRDS. THEY PUT IT IN YOUR FOOD. YOU HAVE BEEN DYING FOR QUITE SOME TIME. THIS WAS A COINCIDENCE. IT WAS NOT ON MY LEDGER FOR THIS EVENING.

Tywin Lannister stood in stupefaction, looking at the sum total of his family legacy.

THIS IS AS AWKWARD FOR ME AS IT IS FOR YOU, I ASSURE YOU.

Tywin turned slowly to face his skeletal companion.

“And who are you?” the proud lord said.

The figure bowed, so low.

YOU ALWAYS WERE QUICK TO GRASP A SITUATION, MY LORD. THAT MUST BE WHY YOU WERE THE HAND OF THE KING. WE HAVE MUCH TO TALK ABOUT, YOU AND I. I AM A BIG FAN OF WEDDINGS.
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Re: In Memoriam to Sir Terry Pratchett: a new POV chapter

Postby Ethdhelwen » Thu Apr 09, 2015 5:27 am

- The Mother of that Dragon -
“Fire and Blood,” Daenerys told the swaying grass.

A stone turned under her foot. She stumbled to one knee and cried out in pain, hoping against hope that her bear would gather her up and help her to her feet. When she turned her head to look for him, all she saw was trickling brown water... and the grass, still moving slightly. The wind, she told herself, the wind shakes the stalks and makes them sway. Only no wind was blowing. The sun was overhead, the world still and hot. Midges swarmed in the air, and a dragonfly floated over the stream, darting here and there. And the grass was moving where it had no cause to move.

She fumbled in the water, found a stone the size of her fist, pulled it from the mud. From the corner of her eye, Dany saw the grass move again, but to her right. The grass swayed and bowed low, as if before a king, but no king appeared to her. The world was green and empty. The world was green and silent. The world was yellow, dying. I should get up, she told herself. I have to walk, I have to follow the stream.

Through the grass came a soft silvery tinkling. And the ominous thundering of footfalls. One rider? A scout, who rode before the khalasar to find the game and the good grass?

The green sea opened. A creature appeared. Its braiding was black and shiny, its skin as dark as burnished copper, its keyholes the shape of bitter almonds. Bells sang in its straps. It wore a medallion belt and painted chest, with a lock on one side and a hinge on the other. A hunting bow and quivers were dangling from an arm slung limply out of the disturbing crevice ajar beneath its lid. A vast herd of feet appeared below it, racing through the grass until their soles were black and raw, tearing the ground.

It did not see her though. The grass concealed her, and it was looking elsewhere. Dany followed its gaze, and there the dragon flew, with wings spread wide. The dragon was a mile off, and yet the creature stood frozen, until Dany was sure it was... trembling with anticipation. Then it woke as if from a dream, wheeled its sturdy frame about, and raced off though the tall grass at a gallop.

Dany watched it go. When the sound of its feet had faded away to silence, she began to shout... and Drogon came, snorting plumes of smoke. Dany leapt onto his back. She stank of blood and sweat and fear, but none of that mattered. She kicked him, and Drogon threw himself into the sky...

...The dragon descended on it, roaring, and all at once the poor beast was aflame, yet somehow it kept on running, clattering with every step, until Drogon landed on the case and sunk his claws into the smoking wood. The case was too heavy for Drogon to bear. Tearing at the charred leather as the grasses burned around them, the air thick with drifting smoke and the smell of burnt wood. Bronze hinges there were, brighter than polished shields, glowing with their own heat, burning behind a veil of smoke rising from the dragon’s nostrils...

Dany stood and stared. For once, the heroic blood that pounded through her veins, drowning out all chances of a lifetime among the dosh khaleen, was totally at a loss.

“I’ve just killed a wooden box,” she said.

Then the Luggage opened its lid, and light and heat washed over them. Dany and Drogon screamed as one. His tail lashed sideways. He beat his wings again, sending up a choking storm of dust. His roar was full of fear and fury, full of pain. Dany felt the wash of heat, thirty feet away. She glimpsed the furnace glow, the shimmer of a sleeping fire, behind a fence of big square teeth, white as sycamore, and a pulsating tongue, red as mahogany. I am looking into hell, but I dare not look away. She had never been so certain of anything. If I run from it, it will trample and devour me.

That is how the Luggage found her, when half a hundred feet emerged from the drifting smoke. Ripples of paradox spread out across the Dothraki sea of causality.

The Luggage stood in the scorched grass, a diamond sharp dragon tooth still quivering in its lid, and stared at her. The Luggage didn’t have any features at all, apart from its locks and hinges, but it could stare better than a rockful of Basilisks. It could outstare the Colossus of Braavos. When it came to a look of betrayed pathos, the Luggage could leave the Hound moping back in his father's kennels.

What is it? Dany asked herself. From somewhere, her bear answered.

It is The Luggage, Khaleesi. Among the Dothraki, it is known as the Trunk That Bestrides the World.

Is it dangerous? she wondered.

There are some that say it is dangerous, and others who say it’s very dangerous. What do you think, Khaleesi? He was right. She must decide for herself.

The luggage raised its lid a fraction. A trail of smoke emerged, followed by a faint hint of lavender.

Daenerys called out. “I am Daenerys Stormborn, Mother of the Dragon you just ate. I warn you: you will find me a tougher dragon to swallow! But if you will follow me, together we will bring justice to this world and restore what was lost. Yield to me, and serve honourably in my world!”

I am yours, my Khaleesi. Were you, Ser Jorah, were you? Her bear had gone, and he had not returned. What happened to the following-Khaleesi-everywhere thing, Ser Jorah? Could he not distinguish between what she said and what she wanted? Would this creature serve her better? Could it become her baggage?

“I will have your answer: do you give your service to me?”

The Luggage shuffled its feet. It contrived to look a little humble. Then, a few dozen legs all bent the knee. Daenerys smiled.

He is smarter than a dragon, Dany realised.

Over the weeks they spent traversing the grass plains and in the many years after, Daenerys came to realise that, among the Luggage’s other properties, it would follow its adopted owner anywhere. Not just anywhere across Essos and to Westeros, or in her dreams of the House of Undying, or a universe torn between Ice and Fire, or a lifetime on the Iron Throne. Anywhere. It was about as easy to shake off as a khalasar on the scent of prey, and considerably more unpleasant. It was also extremely protective of its owner. Having eaten an entire dragon, the Luggage sulked for three days before, reluctantly, spitting it out again. It would be hard to describe its attitude to the rest of creation, but one could start with the phrase ‘more bloody-minded malevolence than the Bloody Mummers’ and work up from there. What need now of Ser Jorah, Ser Barristan, or a Queen’s Guard?
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Re: In Memoriam to Sir Terry Pratchett: a new POV chapter

Postby Ethdhelwen » Sat Aug 29, 2015 7:16 am

- The Whisperer and the Wizzard –
“This is all a mistake!” cried the wizzard.

“Oh, I think not. Do you remember me?” asked the hooded man curiously.

“I don’t think so.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn't. It was long ago, in another place. And I am not all the boy I used to be” the man replied with a wistful sigh. With that, the man pushed back his cowl to reveal a head quite bald and shaven, and a face that appeared soft, round, sympathetic and that smiled, and yet…

“Let’s play a game. Who could I be? Go on, take a guess.”

The wizzard stared desperately deep into the smiling face, looking for a clue as to what was going on or a sliver of pity upon which to cling onto for dear life and beg for mercy, for whatever it wanted. And then, there, deep within, he saw something terrible and recalled the... unfortunate incident.

“Oh no. Ridcully, with the candle, in the Library?”

The smile grew wider and more kindly. This made the wizzard more nervous. “Correct. You win.”

Oh joy, a game where you can both win and die. It was time for the wizzard’s well-honed natural survival instincts to take over.

“Look, that wasn’t supposed to happen!”

“Indeed? Do tell” the man replied. His eyes seemed trustworthy.

“The… mad things, that dwell in the Dungeon Dimensions, they were breaking through. We'd tried everything else, so the Arch-Chancellor thought a little bit of blood magic couldn't make things any worse, and Ponder Stibbins couldn't talk him out of it so -”

“How unfortunate.” The man shook his head, and smiled some more.

“I wasn't even supposed to be there. I was just starting a permanent student exchange at the Citadel, when Arch-Maester Marwyn told me I had to return to the University urgently; he said it was 'where I belonged’, that he could not teach 'the likes of me' anything more about magic, that the Arch-Chancellor ‘deserved me’, and advised me to go forth and be fruitful.”

“What compliments.”

"He was a very likeable fellow. He had some wise thoughts on prophesy, said it was 'like a treacherous woman'. I didn't quite understand the allusion after that, but I'd agree that if something even looks like its going to turn out well, it almost certainly will change it's mind."

"So it would seem." The same smile. This was going rather well, mused the wizzard.

“Listen, I told them I hadn’t forged any links at the Citadel, and that I hadn’t really done any magic before, but they were all fussing over the candle and told me to just get on with it.”

“There is nothing like just having a go, is there?”

The man seemed to be taking it remarkably well, thought the wizzard.

“To be honest, I think they chose me because I don’t think they actually trusted each other with a knife, what with all the assassination attempts.”

“Internal politics. I know it well. It must have been very stressful for you.”

They seemed to be building a rapport; there could be a chance to turn this around.

“Oh yes. It made it very hard to concentrate. Something went wrong with the incantations, the Librarian turned over two pages in the Octavio, then the knife slipped –"

“Don’t blame yourself. You were inexperienced. Everyone makes mistakes.” The face continued to smile, but the wizard thought he detected just the hint of a shudder from a painful memory.

“- oh my, please, no-one knew what to do with it, it was so embarrassing. We felt awful.”

“Oh, of course.”

“What happened next, it wasn’t my idea! The Archchancellor told everyone, ‘Let’s get this over quickly, and have lunch’, one of the Senior Wizards happened to mention how hungry they were and how they could even go for one of Dibbler’s sausages-inna-bun...”

“Not your idea.” The smile remained.

“Dibbler said he’d buy as many as we had, if we offered wholesale price. But I swear, we didn’t take him up on it! Not the junior wizards, at least!”

“No, of course not.” Was it a smile, though? Was it?

“That’s about the time he started his gourmet sausages range and got that great review in the Ankh-Morpork Guide, then his business really started to take -" The wizzard stopped talking abruptly.

“I believe so.” The man was definitely doing something with his expression, but the wizzard was starting to reconsider whether it was actually smiling.

“I never ate one, I swear!”

The bald man stared deep into his eyes and leaned closer. He whispered in his ear.

“I believe you. I really do. And…I… forgive you.”

“Th..thank you!” the wizzard sighed with relief. Then, as his practical pessimism returned, “But?…”

“But… none of that is going to help you now.”

“Please, in the name of the Eight*, don’t put me in there!” cried the wizzard, pitiably snivelling.

Varys closed the lid.

Inside, he could just about dimly discern a dozen assorted figures in crumpled robes and pointed hats, and an orang-utan, sitting disconsolately. Wizards can put up with any amount of deprivation and discomfort, provided it is not happening to them. None of them seemed to be particularly pleased to see him. Ungrateful bunch. It seemed remarkably rude considering it was very likely going to be down to him enduring something humiliating and painful that they were going to all manage to get out of this, possibly mostly alive. He didn’t have many talents, but finding a way to get as far away from danger as possible was one of them.

He nodded to one of the more senior and portly gentlemen, who was at that moment lighting up a pipe with his fingertips. “Arch-Chancellor.”

“Rincewind” the gentleman muttered gruffly in reply, not bothering to stop as he sucked on his pipe to get it to catch. Smoke began to fill the dark dimension, causing some grumbling and coughing.

“Ook” said the Librarian. “Ook?” At least someone was polite enough to ask.

“I’m thinking about it, believe you me.” He turned his gaze from the illustrious ape to address the object within which they currently resided.

“Well,” muttered Rincewind testily to the Luggage, “I suppose you are finding this all very amusing, aren’t you?”

The Luggage could not speak or laugh, but Rincewind could feel himself be ever so slightly shaken in whatever dimension this was, as the Luggage gently shook with mirth.

*While it was generally considered amongst the adherents of The Faith that there were seven aspects or seven gods, amongst wizards it was generally agreed that, while the denizens of the Dungeon Dimensions were attracted even to the very idea of the number Eight, it was still wiser to acknowledge them and be the one to say "look I was on your side all along, please take me as your living vessel and kill the unbelievers" than to carry on pretending as if they didn't exist, which was only going to make them angrier.
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Re: In Memoriam to Sir Terry Pratchett: a new POV chapter

Postby Wethewax » Sat Jun 11, 2016 11:46 am

I like the way you get inside the characters heads,....but then I would. :lol:
"When it comes to music, if it sounds good it IS good."
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