Dav Man'Sell
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Post by Dav Man'Sell on Oct 4, 2013 7:53:49 GMT -8
Kerrnek had been hauled in and dumped unceremoniously onto the floor, landing on his injured left leg hard, and crying out in excruciating pain. That was the first sense of awareness he had had since he had... had...
Had what?
He took a moment, as he sat now, secured to a floor-level railing, slumped forward over himself. Took a moment to try and clear his swimming head. There were voices around him, gruff voices, angry voices. Violent voices. There were others next to him, chained to the rail, held in imprisonment. He remembered the battle. Remembered taking the injury to his leg when he and the team of engineers he worked with had been attacked by a Mandalorian Squad in the repair bays. The explosion that had thrown him down into the work pit. The sound of his own shin bone fracturing as he landed.
What had come next?
The Chief had grabbed him, that was it. Dragged him out of the room, carried him away from the fighting still going on. A dose of pain killers, and a stimulant. Then they crawled. Through miles and miles of maintenance ducts, sabotaging systems as they went, just the two of them, in the dark and the heat and the fear. Hours upon hours upon hours.
And then;
=Warrant Officer Kerrnek=
"Ugggggh..."
He slowly opened his eyes, glancing around him. The Control Centre. That's where he was. It looked alien with the damage, and the darkness and smoke; it looked doubly alien to him to see it full of people in the unmistakable Mandalorian armour. But it was the Yavin Station control room, for certain.
His hands were bound, and his legs were shackled to the rail. Beside him, there were several other prisoners, most of which were also wearing Peacekeeping Taskforce uniforms, but a handful looked like they were civilians. He recognised one of the other Taskforce crew; a Naval NCO. The Mon Calamarian female had been with the small group that Kerrnek and the Chief had found. She'd been there when the soldiers, who wore the uniforms not of the Mandalorians, but of another group, had blown the door in, hit them with a flash grenade, and started shooting. He'd taken a stun blast to the chest, and that was the last thing he remembered.
Had the Chief gotten away? Had anyone else from the dozen or so ragtag group in that maintenance room? He had no way of knowing.
The Kerrnek lifted his eyes as one of the Mandalorians, a tall, broad figure, wearing one of the scariest looking helmets he'd ever seen, stepped up to them. The Rodian pursed his proboscis mouth in a look of defiance, his eyes fixing on this person before him with a fierce glare; he wouldn't cower before these bastards. Would they kill him? He didn't know if the Mandos were honourable towards their prisoners or not, but he wasn't about to get his hopes up. No, death wasn't off the table. He could die here. If that were going to happen, so be it. He didn't want to die, and the thought scared him, genuinely, but he wouldn't give any of the Mandos the pleasure of seeing his fear.
As the T-shaped visor turned and focused on him, he felt the sinking feeling in his gut. Yes. Yes, he probably was going to die here.
The sneer that flickered across his Rodian features was one of dread just as much as it was of disgust, but he held firm, and stared into that hellish helmet, trying to ignore his churning stomach, his still spinning head, and desperately hoping that his death would count for something.
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Bralex Ordo
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Post by Bralex Ordo on Oct 4, 2013 8:32:10 GMT -8
Nu'ni vaabi chur ge'soletar Jetii. Ni'copaan haa'taylir ni'aru'e.
{{I do not under estimate Jedi. I want to see my enemy.}}
Bralex turned to look at the vod after he spoke. he like this one, he spoke his mind. Hopefully his combat skills were as strong as mouth.
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Artus Varad
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Post by Artus Varad on Oct 4, 2013 15:16:05 GMT -8
This elicited a nod from Artus. This warrior of clan Ordo seemed to have spirit, and it would, Artus didn't doubt, serve him well in battle.
"Ni vercopa bah haa'taylir val juaan gar. A, val ran su cuy'ogir ba'cuun yaim'ol teh Ossus. Dinu'mhi majyce bah ven gedeteyar at."
{{I hope to see them alongside you. But, they will sill be there on our return from Ossus. Gives us something to look forward to.}}
The words were dry in their delivery, giving the final statement just a hint more menace than it would, perhaps, otherwise have had. Whether or not Artus was aware of the dryness of his delivery, he didn't seem to either know or care; any expression he had remained hidden behind his helmet. He gave a small glance in the general direction of Corr Vhett as the man, their General and commander on this battlefield, walked menacingly towards the prisoners held by the wall. He presumed they were there for a reason; he'd even go so far as to hoping they were there for a reason. If they were being chained up in the command centre simply for the sake of parade, like trophies hanging on the wall, then he would be very, very disappointed in Vhett. It was both a waste of space, and an unnecessary distraction and risk. He shook his head gently, and figured that, in time, he'd find out. He looked back to the warrior from Clan Ordo.
"Ner gai Artus Varad. Tion Gar?"
{{My name is Artus Varad. Yours?}}
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Bralex Ordo
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Post by Bralex Ordo on Oct 5, 2013 3:39:50 GMT -8
Bralex Ordo, ru'aliit'alor, ru'Mand'alor...
{{Bralex Ordo, former Clan Leader, former Mand'alor...}}
Bralex saluted the man, as he had Corr, left hand in a fist, across his chest to his right collar bone, with a slight bow. He always chose to do this as a sgn of respect for his fellow vode.
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Artus Varad
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Post by Artus Varad on Oct 6, 2013 12:19:14 GMT -8
So that was who this man was. Artus knew of Bralex Ordo - no good Mandalorian would fail to know the name of a one time Mand'alor. During Bralex's reign, Artus had been out in the Galaxy, away from Mand'alor often, working as mercenary, so he hadn't met him at the time. It had, as far as he knew, been a fairly quiet reign - save the activities of the Death Watch.
A Death Watch that, at the time, had been led by the current Mand'alor. Artus wasn't one for frivolity, or indeed, for musing on the philosophical particulars of any given moment, but even he found the juxtaposition interesting.
"Bralex Ordo. Ni ru'susulur ori'sul be gar."
{{Bralex Ordo. I have heard much of you.}}
He returned the salute, folding his fist over his left breast and beating it once upon the armour there, as his head dipped in a sign of respect. That done, he looked once more to Corr Vhett, as the Mandalorian general stalked the line of prisoners.
"Tion vaabir gar kar'taylir jor te mirci'te cuyi olar? Tion'cuy kaysh dajun?"
{{Do you know why those prisoners are here? What is he planning?}}
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Bralex Ordo
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Post by Bralex Ordo on Oct 6, 2013 18:05:10 GMT -8
Ni'nakar'mi be be'Corr dajun.
{{I am unaware of Corr's plan.}}
Bralex looked at the prisoner's scanning each of their faces, and cross-referencing it through the computer in his buy'ce. He was unsure if anything would return from his query, but he didn't want to be surprised.
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Corr
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Post by Corr on Oct 7, 2013 2:49:38 GMT -8
His pace was measured and even, a steady step that placed each foot down with a thunderous crash, purposefully exaggerating the motion as he paraded his awesomeness in front of the prisoners. He ignored Artus and Bralex as they engaged in conversation, giving only the slightest of reaction to Darians question, keeping his attention fixed on his prey as he measured the looks of hopelessness, defiance, fear, trepidation...
He reached the end of the line of prisoners, turning to face back the way he had come. There were eleven captives in total, seven wearing the uniform of the systems defenses, four in normal clothing, appearing to be non-combatants caught up in the war. These he paid no mind, each displaying the fear and shock one would expect from captured civilians, a measured study all he needed to confirm that they were not Vornskrs disguised as Nerfs. Still, they would remain under guard until the station was fully theirs then... Then they would be disposed of. Serving the Jedi was a crime in itself, furthering the contagious spread of Arasuums lethargic apathy, seeking to plunge the galaxy into putrid stagnation. His mercy had no time for those that sought to halt the progression of the righteous in their quest for growth. Conflict was needed to exorcise the weak and pathetic from their ranks, purifying future gene pools by pruning back the excess deformities of society.
No, the civilian workers would be dealt with harshly. That they were here at all, on a military installation, meant they were combatants of some form or another. Perhaps Darian would find amusement in teaching them the error of their ways. Educating them in the harsh realities of life and the indomitable will of Kad.
He looked across at the man priest now, rolling the mans question around in his head, flickering a gaze to Artus and Bralex as they too sought to divine his next move. His attention returned to Darian as his head tilted to the side, a curious gesture but one common to him. The demonic visage twisted again, the metal warping to convey the impression of a frown, visors unholy light flickering do a deathly green before softening back to an orange glow, pulsing slightly as if with each breath.
Ret jekai vele dayn, lek?
{Perhaps lure them out, yes?}
He returned his gaze to the captives, focusing on those in uniform. Most had varied levels of determination of their faces but few with open defiance. The fear was there with all, the growing certainty that death could well await them. Some muttered words under their breath, prayers to whatever Gods they thought might spare them a glorious death at the hands of those of pure soul, not realising that in death may they find redemption from the blasphemous existence they had perpetrated up until now. Few had open defiance in their eyes though one stood out among his peers, the pucker-lipped Rodian in a tattered engineers uniform, favouring what was obviously a broken lower leg.
Corr began to move again, his footfalls the drums of doom, and made his way down the line again. He stopped two prisoners down from the Rodian, having seen the aliens recognition of the Mon Calamari earlier, his HUD's three-sixty vision missing nothing. Nothing. His head tilted again and once more the mask shifted eerily to form a wicked smile all them more gruesome in its artificial nature.
Udesiir, ad'ika...
{Calm, child...}
His right hand reached down towards the bulbous head, fingertips brushing across the auburn dome in a curiously gently gesture, stroking back along the cranial ridge before withdrawing to hover in front of the beings face. The Mon Cal whimpered slightly as the towering form lurked above her, seeming to crush the resistance out of her with his mere presence. His soothing tone, spoken in words he knew she likely didn't understand, did more to foster the terror in her, the soft tone of snarling words so at odds with the heavy hint of threat in the air.
Ni liser mav gar teh gar aaray..."
{I can release you from your pain..."
With an awful hiss the fifteen inch serrated claws extended from Corr's gauntlets to hover over her head, drifitng down to stroke against her tear-stained cheek. Down they slid as Corr's horrific visage turned towards the Rodian, the pseudo grin portraying insane delight in the situation. The right-hand of the two claws slid down her jaw line to a point just under her chin where it stopped, pressure drawing a tiny bead of blood...
What say you Rodian?
His voice snarled out in heavily accented basic, the tone more curious than intimidating.
Should I end her suffering and send her to be judged by Kad?
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Dav Man'Sell
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Post by Dav Man'Sell on Oct 7, 2013 14:11:54 GMT -8
Kerrnek felt the sneer crawl across his features, as he eyed the demonic, creepily shifting visage of this Mandalorian. There was a chill in his stomach, a tightening panic, and her feared for the young Mon Calamarian.
=Warrant Officer Kerrnek=
"She's yourv prvisonerv. Evren barvbarvians like you must havre arvticles of warv. You'vre alrveady got us in chains, isn't that enough forv you? Without toying with us forv yourv own, sick pleasurve?"
A great part of him wanted, quite desperately to escape, or to plead for their lives, but he knew it would do no good. The Mandalorians would not look upon weakness favourably, he knew that. So he stared, and he dared, dared to challenge this man, this monster.
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Corr
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Post by Corr on Oct 7, 2013 14:46:54 GMT -8
The horned helm tilted again, this time the armoured face seeming to contain a measure of puzzlement at the beings words. The claw remain where it was, a millimeter into the fleshy neck of the Mon Calamari, the young piscine not daring to move lest the beskar blade tear her life from her. His other hand came up to tap and index finger against the side of the visor, in the place where his chin would be, once again furthering the belief that the helmet was actually his face.
You think I do this for pleasure? For my own amusement?
He shook his head in sadness, a despairing gesture at the delusion these poor wretches were under. They sought not the enlightenment offer to them and fostered still tho corruption of Arasuum in their souls, choosing to turn away from absolution, defiantly turning their back on their only salvation.
No, my friend. I do this for you...
He raised his voice, gesturing with his free hand to the other prisoners.
For all of you! No longer need you slink away from your duty to advance yourself in the holy light of Kad, te munad be ijaate, to grow past the stagnating yoke of the Jetii...
His visored gaze returned to the Rodian, a grunt escaping the helmets speaker, a bark of laughter or a sigh of discontent, one couldn't tell. His posture became relaxed once again and his free hand gestured to the Mon Cal.
You didn't answer my question, ner tat. Or did you?
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Dav Man'Sell
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Post by Dav Man'Sell on Oct 7, 2013 15:17:49 GMT -8
The Rodian swallowed, the sinking feeling growing deeper as he realised that he faced not a war-monger, not a fighter he could reason with in straightforward terms. This man, in his hideous armour, was a fanatic, some Mandalorian religious nut. He fought this fight not for some sense of glory, or duty, or anything like that. He fought because he believed what the Mand'alor had said when they first came to Yavin.
This wasn't just a strike at an enemy. This was a Holy War. A campaign of obsession.
=Warrant Officer Kerrnek=
"Just leavre herv alone."
There it was. An answer. In simple terms. What use it would do, Kerrnek didn't know.
In the hands of this madman, it likely didn't much matter.
They were probably all as good as dead anyway.
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Bralex Ordo
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Post by Bralex Ordo on Oct 8, 2013 5:16:15 GMT -8
Bralex watched the dialogue between Corr and the prisoner play out. Yes, Corr was definitely in his element. Bralex felt that familiar twinge of excitement creeping into him. It had been too long since he had been in battle. Bralex's right had drifted to his right side, resting on the the Zabrak Tystel Mark III dueling pistol that was resting in its tactical holster on his right thigh. Its twin rested on his left thigh. These had been a gift to him when he had been Mand'alor, made with a Quadranium body covered in the most precious Electrum, with the tear-drop handles carved from Krayt Dragon pearls embossed with a Mythosaur Skull on each side made of Hurrikane gems. Yes they were beautiful, but they e as equally as deadly...
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Trull Ordo
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Post by Trull Ordo on Oct 8, 2013 9:33:15 GMT -8
Trull watched everything in stony silence. The conversation over what to do next, Corr dealing with the prisoners, the girl's victory shout at the computer station... all of it. The priest sat to one side with his spear across his knees, rocking back and forth and muttering prayers to the silent Destroyer. Then he stood. Inaction was repulsive, and Trull was itching to do something. He was here to be the purging blade of Kad, that which cut away the excess; and he stood here, twiddling his thumbs.
The Priest walked to Alena's side, leaning on his spear and leaning in towards the console. "Progress?"
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Post by Eliana Shan on Oct 8, 2013 14:44:33 GMT -8
She jumped. Hender help her, she jumped. Yes, her HUD had alerted her that someone had gotten nearer. No, she hadn't really paid attention to it. She was in her element, and unless the alert was about a new layer of security cracked, or an additional layer thrown at her, she wasn't focusing on it. So she had seen and immediately discarded the knowledge that there was anyone getting close to her. So, when he had spoken practically in her ear, she jumped.
"By the.." Alena stopped herself short. "By the Force" was not a very smart thing to say right now, not in present company. "Kad, you almost gave me a heart attack."
She turned her attention back to the console, smiling. "Progress? Yeah, something like that. Comms are up, as are some of the internal sensors." She chuckled, not fully realizing the relevance of what she was about to say. "Anyone wanna make a call to the Jedi Praxeum?"
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Darian Beviin
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Post by Darian Beviin on Oct 8, 2013 15:28:11 GMT -8
Darian was more than a little unenthusiastic about his charge over the girl, whether or not her claims of Mandalorian patriotism had any merit. At this point, they were past words, and only actions and emotions would speak for them, anymore. He watched Corr move as he moved wordlessly over to inspect the girl's work, and despite his distrust and any grief he had toward her, he did not disparage her skill at slicing. He could not. Without a program, he couldn't do what she had done just now in even half the time.
But computers and technology were insignificant, weighed against the Will of Kad. She spoke up in answer to Trull, facing the man, cursing Kad's Holy Name, and Darian leveled Gorehound against the side of her throat facing away from the other Priest, taking advantage of her flank and her dulled perceptions to gain leverage on her. Kad only knew, if she gave him a reason, he would open her pretty little throat and let her blood and the seed of warriors spill down the front of her chest as she spasmed and died, used and sullied.
"Easy, ad'ika. We wouldn't want to paint this floor TOO red, would we?" He growled, nodding his head toward the terminal and gesturing for Trull to pick up where the ill-tempered mechanic had left off. He tugged at the girl's hair roughly, and jerked her body in the direction of the hostages, a grim smirk on his dark features. "You say you're loyal..."
He drew the long knife from inside his robes, and tossed it to the floor at her feet in a clatter. Kicking at the back of her knee, intent on dropping her to a more prone position- from which he could anticipate her movement if she decided to be sneaky- Darian added, his voice cold as steel: "Put one of these aruteiise down like the dog they are. Do it," he said, "or I'll kill you, and then, I'll kill one of them for you."
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Bralex Ordo
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Post by Bralex Ordo on Oct 8, 2013 17:00:59 GMT -8
Bralex turned and drew the Zabrak pistol his right hand had been resting on. It was pointed in he direction of the disturbance, towards two of his vode. He spoke, his Aliit'alor and Mand'alor voice coming through...
Gev! Ibic nu cuyi mando'ade narise. Ne mhi cuyie di'kutse. Cuyi te koteyc Mando'ade gar cuyir. Ni ven nu rejorhaa'ir gar tug'yc.
{{Stop it! This isn't Mandolorian actions. We are not idiots. Be the glorious Mandalorians you are. I will not tell you again.}}
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Corr
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Post by Corr on Oct 18, 2013 2:38:50 GMT -8
Luubid
{Enough}
His voice was quiet, soft even. A whispered word that nevertheless portrayed a steely note of command. It was all the more noteworthy for its calm tone, the hiss of a snake before it struck with poisoned fangs. He had managed to watch the exchange in silence while giving the impression that his attention was fixed on the prisoners, the claw still poised menacingly at the Mon Calamari's juggular. Such was the usefulness of their specialised visors granting a panoramic view of such things. That is not to say that he saw everything at once. That would be impossible. The three-sixty view was very difficult to employ and often overrated, its use confusing and distracting to where one may need ones attention. Only through rigorous training and inhumane discipline could it be employed to good effect and often was better left along when in battle. That said, a situation like this lent itself to the HUDs use and now Corr stood like a sentinel, eyes literally everywhere.
Kaych narir bah gotal'ur lenedat ti te Jetii...
{She is to make contact with the Jedi...
Finally his head moved, a slow grinding twist to the left to fix Darian with the hellish glare of the now crimson burning visor. It was difficult to tell now if his voice was stern or amused as it grated from the ghastly helms speaker. It seemed to reverberate in several timbres, seeming to echo with the eternal chorus of the damned.
Kaysh nayc'liser vaabir ibac ti gar gaani bat kaych, ner tat.
{She cannot do that with your hands upon her, my friend.}
It was dressed up nicely but was a command nonetheless.
His attention returned to the prisoners, never for one moment entertaining the idea that he would not be obeyed. He was a holy conduit of Kads will and not even the priest would gainsay his purity. Kad's hand guided everything he did in this, strengthening his resolve and judgment to the point where he could literally do no wrong. Such was the way things were. Such was Corr Vhett.
The claw left the jawline of the bulbous-headed humanoid, sliding back up into its sheath with agonising ease. The slow trickle of blood down the side of the beings neck seemed to captivate the big man, though who could tell where his attention truly was. His horned head tilted to the side for a moment, as if weighing up a response, perhaps discarding possible course before settling on one in particular. Perhaps listening to the whispered voice of the Destroyer as the mighty one guided his vessel in his work.
Finally he moved, stepping over to stand before the Rodian, his gaze dropping down to stare at the obviously inured leg.
You fear death, Rodian...
It was not a question.
But who's do you fear more?
The voice was reflective now, genuinely curious it seemed. His head nodded towards the snouted being, almost a respectful inclination of the head, maybe granting Kerrnek a voice due to his courage in speaking out.
Yours...?
The armoured hand came up, runes and pendants chiming softly as it moved, to level a finger at the Mon Calamari.
Or hers?
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Dav Man'Sell
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Post by Dav Man'Sell on Oct 18, 2013 6:38:17 GMT -8
Kerrnek stared into that hellish visor, as the question rolled around his brain. He did fear death. In a way, he feared his own more than hers, if just because it was his and his alone. That was normal, right? To fear the death of yourself more than the death of another?
Right?
He didn't know how to feel. Part of him felt selfish and cowardly for such a thought; the greater part of him was focused purely on not quivering, and on maintaining the stare. His thoughts about how to answer swirled through his mind, picking up momentum, a desperation setting in as he tried to think of something to say. Anything at all.
Was it selfish? Or was it a self-preservation instinct? It was normal, right?
The Jedi don't fear their own death.
Yeah, but the Jedi... they're something else. They're not normal. They're something else.
That wasn't an answer. This madman wanted an answer, and that wasn't one. The Rodian's thoughts just didn't have an answer to give - or not one he wanted to give, anyway. His mind went to what he could do, what he could possibly do, to get out of the situation. He took stock of everything he'd seen in the room. Plenty of weapons around, but against Mandalorian armour, and with his broken leg, what use would he be? He was an average shot at bes. And his fellow captives, they were all as battered and beaten as he was. And they were all still chained to this bar.
That was a stupid idea. No way he could get out of it that way.
Just answer him. Just answer him or he'll get angry, and that'll get you killed just that little bit quicker.
He could think of nothing to say that wouldn't just get one of them killed, and he imagined that this was what it was always like talking to psychopaths. He just wanted to shout this Mandalorian down, to turn it back on him, but he had nothi-
Why don't you turn it back on him, then?
One option popped into his head. Bold, stupid even, but it seemed a little less pathetic than any of the other options.
=Warrant Officer Kerrnek=
"Yourvs. I fearv that you'll die beforve you rvealise just how big a mistake it vras coming herve."
There. He'd said it.
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Darian Beviin
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Post by Darian Beviin on Oct 20, 2013 21:42:04 GMT -8
Darian snorted indignantly at the half-assed command hidden beneath treacherously friendly words, and spat at the floor. Corr had plans to make contact with the Jedi- well enough. He finally tipped his hand, and Darian was all the more assured for it. Typical, though- rather than see truth bleed out on the floor, a Vhett would play his little games first. Maybe there was more to it than that. With Corr, so far, there seemed to be.
Wordlessly, he drew the Ripper from his hip and placed it to her head, letting her go. It was a silent "get to it," enough of one to make the point. He thumbed the hammer back, making the telltale click happen mere centimeters from her head. He wanted to be sure she had every inclination to know she was hanging by a thread.
Nothing added up. She was too calm by far for the predicament she was in, even by Mando standards. She seemed way too intent, seemed not to register any hint of stress at all. As if her emotions were giving her strength, making her more intent. And everything about that seemed off. Emotions didn't rule someone completely- not if they were conditioned to overcome them- but they had an effect not unlike a slow acting poison. They wore at you. They thrashed against your defenses until you fell to your knees.
This woman was too resilient by far. And Darian didn't like it. He had spent his whole life suffering, and all of his years as an adult honing himself to be a scion of hardship, and even he showed the signs of wear. This woman plied his trade like she was born to do it, and in so doing, made light of all that he had overcome to attain it. There was only one possible explaination, and he needed more confirmation than a serious hunch to bury Gorehound in her skull.
But soon, he would have the truth, Corr Vhett notwithstanding.
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Bralex Ordo
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Post by Bralex Ordo on Oct 21, 2013 16:59:48 GMT -8
Bralex returned his pistol to its holster, eyeing his rash vod through the visor of his buy'ce the entire time. He was unsure of his problem with the woman. Bralex disliked these religious types, they rarely seemed to think through their actions, doing what the wanted in the name of Kad. No, the world was more complicated than most wanted it to be. Bralex had learned this as Aliit'alor and Mand'alor. Bralex turned to Corr, techinically, his superior officer, but one, Bralex wasn't afraid to speak freely to.
Kyr'amu te dal'ika, ra nu kyr'amur te dal'ika. Ogir'olar, nu chayaiki te laandur adate.
{{Kill the girl, or don't kill the girl. Either way, stop teasing the weak people.
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Trull Ordo
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Post by Trull Ordo on Oct 27, 2013 21:25:37 GMT -8
Trull had stood silently next to Darian and Alena in the past few minutes, but at Bralex's words, he turned. Though he did not remove his helmet, the fervor in his voice was evident, and he did not need to remove his hemet for all present to know that his eyes were on fire. For once, Trull was about to speak in the passion of his faith.
"If the weak were meant to survive," he stated with stern ardor, "they would not be weak. This is the justice of Kad Ha'rangir; that the unfit are culled so that the dead weight is removed and life may proceed, like pruning dead branches so that a tree may grow strong and healthy. That dead weight which endures, and those who protect it, are servants of Arasuum; enemies of Kad Ha'rangir."
His hands clenched on his spear haft, but he stood stock still, helmet gazing inexorably at Bralex with unspoken challenge.
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Corr Vhett - puts the "Laughter" in "Manslaughter"..... 
