"Don't die."


Rocio.jpg Kaskan.jpg

Date: Jan 1, 2011
Location: EW: Central Bowl
Synopsis: Kaskan and Rio run across each other and sneak a few moments alone. Both struggle to express their feelings - only to have the weyrling's gold intervene.
Rating: PG
Logger: Kaskan

[ Eastern Weyr: Upper Bowl Center ]

Most of the traffic to and from the Upper Bowl passes through this section of the bowl. There's a path of sorts worn into the otherwise uneven ground, just wide enough to permit the smaller carts and wagons. To the west are the hatching grounds and the infirmary weyr; to the east are the weyrling barracks, feeding pens and lakeshore. Though the walls of this bowl are high and steep, there is always plenty of sky to be seen here. The shadows cross here only in the earliest and latest hours.

A string of Weyrlings dapples the edges of the bowl, with some of the Weyrlingmasters dotting the inside of the bowl to account for 'cheaters' — those who might make smaller circles in the interest of conserving effort. Strung out within her line, the diminutive form of Rio is not in the front, but she is not near the rear either. Her footsteps pound the dust at the edge of the bowl, and her veil becomes its own entertainment, requiring her to pull it back up, try to re-secure it, as she jogs. Sweat cords her hair and sticks the pieces to dark skin, and stains the shirt she wears. The distance is the same for all Weyrlings; some must take more steps than others, to get there.

At one point along the wall a hitching post is being used to secure two runners. Off to the side, Kaskan is kneeling by a small pile of satchels and bags as he pokes around and shifts the contents. The runners stand passively patient, their lack of nervousness when there are dragons all about is from repeated exposure to the weyr. One, darker brown coat shiny with a recent brushing tilts it's head toward the kneeling guard and whuffles hard enough to shift of the man's hair. Kaskan laughs and waves a hand. "I haven't forgotten, hold your sails!" Reaching for particular satchel he draws out something small and stands, giving the animal several long caresses along it's neck as he slips the redfruit in his hand to it's eagerly waiting lips. Munching happily the runner's tail whips back and forth. As a few of the weyrlings go by, Kaskan starts to take note. It isn't usual to see so many folks running like that.

Bronzeriders all have this pride thing going, and that seems to extend as well to bronze weyrling riders. Those are the front of the pack, jeering one another's efforts, goading one another on. Then the blueriders, as competitive in their way, by and large, as their metallic counterparts. Brownriders range through the pack, some vying to compete with the bronze weyrlings and some loping along beside the spread-out greenriders. Rio trails the rest, not due to lack of endurance, but instead because her leg-length simply does not match many of the larger riders. And breaks are acceptable, as long as the course is completed. It's been a long day, and Rio does, finally, jigger to a trot, then an extended walk, around where the runners are secured. They're an interesting change for the usual Weyr scene and the familiar figure of Kaskan poleaxes Rio to a full halt. She watches, in silence, at the gesture of kindness to the runner. Slowly, automatically, her hand reaches to push the veil back into its friction fastening.

Kaskan watches the first few runners pass and grins at their overheard jeering. The next few he gives a nod of encouragement, and by the next few he's pulled out a redfruit for himself and decided to eat it while leaning on the runner's rump and taking a break to watch for a bit. A thumb's up goes to one churly young man who's breathing pretty heavy as he passes, the guard feeling in a good enough mood to be generous. Just as he takes a nice big crunchy bite the runner flicks it's tail and swats Kaskan across the face. "Blast it, Bub, next time you're getting a rotten redfruit!" he scolds, swinging a hand at the swishing appendage. His new vantage brings a halted Rio into view and his usual graceful ease goes right down the hole… the wrong hole that is. That bite of redfruit goes down wrong and sends him into a coughing fit. Pounding his chest with one fist he braces his other arm against the runner and dips his chin down while he tries to clear his throat, bringing that curtain of raven layers forward to hide his expression.

Rio casts a look toward where the next AWLM is stationed, and then steps neatly behind the bulk of the second runnerbeast. She's breathing hard as well, but manages to silence this somewhat. There was practice, in the halls of Crom Hold, when she's sneaked out of the women's quarters, breath hoarse in her own ears, heart pounding to deafen her, and bare feet found their way down the servant's stairs, to the stables, to meet with—


There's a sense of dejavu, though the solid feel of her dragon at the back of Rio's head twists the timeliness of the scene, and the hot Southern clime in no way resembles the north.

Rio swallows, draws a long breath, and with another few steps, inserts herself between both runners, on the other side of the brown one that partially shields the man who was her love. "Don't die." Like she might have said it, turns ago. Dry. One might imagine the smirk. But there's a veil there.

Kaskan shakes his head as the choking is slowly gotten under control, a series of expletives edging his tongue but lacking the breath to release them. Knowing there was no way Rio missed that little demonstration he consoles himself by imagining a few new ways to skewer a runner, particularly the dark brown variety. As her words are heard he closes his sighs, resigning himself to making the best of it, and lifts his chin with chagrin reduced to a few extra lines around his rugged features. So much for trying to impress her.

"I try not to make a habit of it," he quips back easily, trying for a waffling smirk. Moving to the runner's head he ducks below it's neck and comes up on the other side, now having joined her between the two animals. Still trailing one hand on the soft brown fur along the runner's neck he gives the weyrling his full regard. Daylight brightens his light blue gaze as it settles on her, a little uncertain, taking in her veils and obvious exertion. His expression warms as some of those same memories are triggered, his voice lowering slightly and taking on more of the northern lilt he usually hides. "G'day Rio." Pause. "Aren't workin' ya too hard, are they?"

Her breath catches in her throat — can he see? Rio's regard washes between full black, pupils dilating, then contracting to evidence some few flecks of the brown that so fully colors those orbs. Under the veil, she licks her lips lightly. Unsure. She started out with confidence, but he stepped to her hiding place, so close, and the woman struggles to regain her voice.

Rio's hand comes up between them, heel of palm toward him and fingers lifting to his chin before that hand veers into Rio's vision and she shivers. It's a poor attempt to cover, as she drops that hand to the same brown runner that he caresses, and her regard is pulled from those mesmerizing blue eyes to instead follow her hand. "Riders are expected to be fit. And they let me sleep at night." If she could sleep. If she wasn't pacing the depths of the caverns below the Weyr, where Rio finds her most private thoughts.

She draws in another breath and makes herself look back up at the man. Stares. And looks then at the packs on the runners. "You're—" The word does not come out, but Rio's attention flicks back to Kaskan's features. "I've been avoiding you. I don't want to. But I'm … Unsure if I can face you either, Kaskan." He may well get the sense that Rio has rehearsed these words, yet forces them anyway.

Kaskan swallows hard, watching those slight nuances of her behavior. The aborted gesture leaves him momentarily stiffened, his blood racing as if doused with a sudden dose of adrenaline. When she changes it and looks away he can only keep staring, clawing his way back up from nearly drowning in those gorgeous dark eyes. So many memories! He thought they'd all been safely packed away with the softening vagueness of a dream but every second spent watching her move, smelling her scent, hearing her voice, brings them flooding back with heart-wrenching clarity. His fingers curl where she can't see them on the other side of the runner's neck, his others threading into the runner's rough mane to keep from wrapping her in his arms. He won't make that mistake again. Having left her the freedom to leave their seclusion when she chooses he doesn't want to push her to using it. Taking her initial comment as a joke he chuckles, a soft rumbling that sounds somewhat forced. "Well that's kind of them," he offers.

Then she looks to him again and all joking is forgotten. He stares back, unable to look away. Her words enforce the ache that has been eating him up inside and he moans softly, his gaze finally dropping as he turns his chin away from her briefly. As usual his profile is partially masked by the fall of drifting layers, which he uses to his advantage. It takes a moment for him to get control, the inner struggle nearly undoing him. A stern voice shouts down the rest in his head, insisting he respect what he thinks she wants and not make it harder on her. Even if it breaks his own heart. "I'm sorry. I didn't want it to be like that," he finally says once he trusts his voice. "I was hoping…" Broad shoulders straightening he forces himself to turn back to her, seeking those eyes between the veils even though he knows he shouldn't. The danger is that she might still be able to read him too well despite how well guarded he's become. "Do you want me to leave?"

There's a distant hollar of the AWLM. Tinny voice that echos, bounces on the rock. No doubt more than a few of the last-lurching Weyrlings see one of their two queen Weyrlings between the runners. One fellow twists so much in passing that he bumps into another fellow and is shoved heavily away, so that he bounces against the Weyr wall; the two head on. Rio is oblivious. "I…" She swallows, then, eyes widening even more, glances down and reaches … Across her body… To the hand that remains visible. Her fingers brush it lightly, then, with a tremor in the slight woman's body, lay lightly over it. Rio watches this, for a long moment. Her hand touching his. A gesture that, once-upon-a-time, was a flirt. Then it became secretive, casual in privacy. Then, once promises were spoken, the gesture was expected. Bonding. Reaffirming.

Rio stares at her hand on Kaskans and wonders what the hell it means now. How she answers him.

She swallows down vague words, meaningless sounds, and slowly watches her fingers curl, each finding a place between each of his.

There's another call from the AWLM. Are you the last? The greenrider looks back and in that moment recognizes that something of import is happening. Yes. Yes, she is the last, sir.

Rio's fingers slide with some pressure, between his. Then she looks up at him, from this awkward position with her own arm crossed in front of her, her thumb on his. "I want you to be happy. What will make you happy, again, Kaskan?" He can feel the tremors, in that connection, in that hand on his.

Kaskan is just as oblivious as Rio to their surrounding. The world has shrunk to a man-size strip of dirt between two living walls of runner hide. Even the musky smell of the animals, the oil he so recently brushed them with, and the perpetual tang of the straw they sleep on is working it's wily fingers into the recesses of his memory and pulling on those of other times spent with this woman around runners and their stalls. Sweet, sweet memories.

The runner's themselves are not so clueless, their graceful legs shifting as they react to the shoving of the passing weyrlings. Tails swish and ears twitch. The second animal, more of a carmel hue, turns it's head to sniff at Kaskan's back and poke at the young man's pockets as if looking for some hidden treat. Kaskan, however, is of no mind to pay any attention to anything but the woman standing next to him.

The tremor that washes over him at the first touch of her hand is almost tangible, stilling the breath on his lips. Frozen like a statue, he watches the slow change as their fingers twine, not daring to so much as blink until the joining is complete. His hands are rough from hard work and harder play, if one can call fighting for survival that. But his fingers are strong and with the supple tapering she'll remember from the gardener's son who once handled the finest flower with gentle care to present it to her. Only then does he return the pressure, his breath flowing outward on one long sigh.

Seeing her turn toward him out of the corner of his eye he does the same, only his head turning as the rest of his body remains still with anxious impatience. He would leave if she wanted it. Every step would feel like his feet were encased in stone but he'd do it to make her happy. But then she turns the table and puts the question back on him. Dark lashes flicker a couple times, his thoughts having trouble staying coherent with the distraction of her fingers laced with his on the runner's mane. So many possible answers rise to his lips; evasive, vague, and outright lies. But the longer he looks at her the more his resistance fades. Finally he wets his lips, squeezes her fingers again, and says in a tone bereft of feeling, "I don't know that I can ever be happy again, Ro… if I can't have you."

"You… Don't know who I am, anymore, Kaskan." Rio looks back up at him. Drinks in those eyes. It was that view, sans the nearby scar, that was her refuge when she was imprisoned. His eyes, blue like the sky she did not see for months, that she kept as her private sanity, though even then she knew she'd never see them again. Kaskan's eyes, that she can compare to those in her memory. Rio's fingers curl more, then, to lift his hand off the horse's mane to draw it, by shaking increments, to touch her chest. His fingers, on her sternum, covered with her hand.

Rio's heart races. A runner's quickest pace thuds through the thin cloth, despite the woman's seemingly calm exterior. "I…Belong to Eovarijath."

Then his hand is drawn under her veil. He can feel the light touch of her lips, against his fingertips. "Someone I was, who is the base… The premise… For who I am now… Belonged to you. First." Rio's eyes close then, as she tilts her head and brings his hand along the scar on her right cheek. "I am different than who I was, Kaskan. I have had to be. Much stronger." Her head lifts from the touch and she looks at him again. His fingers are drawn back to her lips, and he can feel the smile. "In some ways, much happier. In some ways," sober expression, "I… Will have, deep within me, the weight of what I lost. You. My child. My family. But I look forward. I belong to a gold dragon and through her, to a Weyr. Do you understand that part? That I am not free to go with you. That if I am… With you…" Not possessed by him, "I am only on loan. And she is jealous of you. None others."

Softly, into his fingertips again, Rio speaks, "You're the only other one with a claim. She knows that."

As if sensing the height of emotions boiling between them, the runners shift and whinny nervously, the hide of their gear crinching and metal bits tinkling. No consolation is swift in coming as usual, however, their caregiver momentarily engrossed. Kaskan goes through a series of reactions to Rio's explantion. Denials are cut short in just a syllable or two, anger and frustration raising ember's dark hue beneath his southern tan. His fingers keep hers with constant pressure, earnest with the desire not to let go. Longing catches his breath several times as she gifts him with intimate access, his teeth grinding at the reminders of what was done to her and what she has endured. A single shaft of relief mingles with the rest that she claims to be happy. But then, in the next instant its gone in a renewed sense of loss.

It seems an unbearable length of time before she finally finishes - so many thoughts whirling in his head that his expression reveals nothing but a shade of confusion. Still keeping her fingers with his he moves to set his palm along her jaw, their joined fingertips brushing along the curve of her neck. Turned toward her fully now, his regard grows intense as he looks into her eyes silently for several moments. Searching. Sifting. Blue irises darken to slate, hues shifting like storm clouds about to break.

Finally, as if dragging every word out, he speaks in a tone meant for her ears only, "I don't want to take you from here. You're safe here like you wouldn't be anywhere else. Not.. not even with me." He pauses to swallow, his chest visibly rising and falling with the rush of blood through his veins. "I'm not the same person either, Ro. You wouldn't…" Words stop abruptly as he can't bring himself to finish that thought. Instead, with a touch of bitterness, "What good is a claim if I can't get what I want to claim?" Without thinking he moves slightly closer, his grip firm on hers with the strength of his muted emotions.

The initial moment of claustrophobia, being here between the runners and now with this man stepping forward, sends a fluttering anxiety through Rio. But then that's countered by…

By what she's considered every night, once Eovarijath has gone to sleep… Since the moment Rio realized that Kaskan was here, in the Weyr.

Revisted, over and over: The girl's fantasy of her wedding night with the gardener's son, laced with the woman's understanding of the mechanics. And Rio's leery nervousness about… That. And who he is, indeed, clouded to give the entire consideration a surreal quality that pales in the face of a sort of distant reality. Rio's other hand comes up to lightly touch the man's chest. The gesture is almost shy, not the bold advances she'd made long ago in stolen moments in a rose bower, where sometimes clothes would be shed in their novice, daring explorations of one another. Now, just the trace of her fingertips up to the man's chin, then to his lips, comes slowly and with Rio's full attention. "What… Do you want to claim, young man?" Soft, those words. Suggestive? Maybe. He'll remember in the twang of title, another flirt of yester-years. Ago, Rocio was the toast of the party; now she's a silent observer, sometimes the young, wise matron-sort. A different role, and it suits.

So intent is his regard, so keen his observation that Kaskan notes her hesitation in a hundred tiny ways. Every one of them lances his heart for the loss of the young girl who used to be so much bolder. It only strikes home again how harsh her experiences have been to have smothered that flirtatious confidence so thoroughly. The encouragement that follows with the rise of her other hand washes down his spine with a force that nearly buckles his knees. His arms ache with the desire to hold her, a tremor running through the length of those wiry muscles as he forces himself not to make that move for fear of scaring her again. His eyes drift closed once as her fingers brush his lips and his chin drops, the sway of those over-long bangs falling over one eye. A single word sits on his tongue. So close. All he has to do is say it. One word.

Doubt is an evil thing. What can he offer her? Nothing. Only more heartache. She can't leave the weyr and she can't be wholey his. So what can he ask of her that can be his? She will soar and lead a weyr. He can only bring her down. If he makes that claim she'll try to give it to him. And she'll regret it. He's bred of a holder's way of looking at things, without the more flexible view of a rider's lifestyle. That single word dies unspoken, disolving in a bitter pit that used to be his soul.

Swallowing hard he can't mask the pain that weighs on him so heavily. "Something I can't have," he answers, softer still.

Soft voice sotto tone: "What, Kaskan. Make no decision for me. I am a weyrling. But I am a Weyrwoman." There is power, that she'll wield in that, someday. Maybe not lead a Weyr, but help. And her power will be the supple strength that even a Lord Holder's wife would wish to have. "What can I give you, Kaskan?" Now it's her turn to step closer. A certain boldness, perhaps, precipitating from his hesitation. "What do you want of me? This is a nightmare. Knowing you are here. Being terrified to talk to you. Wanting you. Being afraid of you. Kaskan. Help me." Rio murmurs, dropping his hand in hers, to her waist, and hesitating — hesitating, before she leans her cheek lightly against his chest.

Indulgence. She's wanted to do that… So much. Since she saw him again. Her other hand slides down to rest, chaste, on his waste, while she listens to his heartbeat, holds her hand to her waist.

Then the doubt creeps in, and Rio steps back to look up at him. "Help me. Or tell me to go away. To forget you." Those black eyes pick up the flecks of gold that reveal her certain distress. "Kaskan."

All the pain of every fist that connected, every knife that cut, every lie he told, and every nightmare-filled night for the last two turns does not compare to the anguish that assails Kaskan now. As she steps closer a soft moan slips from the straight line of his lips. When she drops her hand his slips further around her neck and up into the soft folds of her hair. The scent of her rises as she leans on him and her words snap through him like a bolt of lightning. All his stubborn pride and hard-earned determination shatter in a flash-fire of desire, their ashes blown away by the all-too-real feel of her against him. Her words are everything his dreams and nightmares delivered on a nightly basis. Afraid of him. Help me. All those times he'd awaken in a pool of sweat, unable to resolve the scars left behind.

Now he could. Her touch was real. Her voice was real. She was real.

His throat nearly too closed for words, his tongue darts out to wet his lips and ease the way. His free hand rises, ever so slowly, to the side of her face where the veil is connected. If she will let him, he unfastens it, his eyes fixed on hers with an unspoken urgency. His hand nearly shakes with the effort to take his time, not to rush as he releases the veil and sets his palm lightly on her shoulder. Then, tilting his head downward, still so slowly and not taking his eyes off of her, he'll pause at the last moment to breath a reply to the last two of her requests, "I can't," then setting his lips with a whisper-soft touch to hers, the motion as non-threatening as he can make it but still vibrating with the intensity of his emotions.

The veil, having been accosted by the motion of a near half-mile or so of uneven jogging, is easy prey to a light tough, and the whole of it falls entirely away from Rio. She freezes, revealed, staring, staring at those gorgeous eyes. No doubt she understands his intention. Has read that body language before, though never so somber, so stressed. Within Kaskan's arms, Rio begins to tremor, involuntarily. Tension shoots through her, and there may be a split second that he he might, rightfully, think she will bolt. But her lips are there, when his touch her.

Her groan is belly deep, and her entire frame seems to meld with his, slight to tall, yielding. A kiss, just a kiss, but her mouth opens and Rio's hand comes up, fumbling, to feel his hair in her fingers, those ebon locks. Rio's eyes close. The tremors do not stop, but she will tug, ever-so-lightly, for another kiss.

The dragon had sat at her rider's urging, and simply contemplated the feelings, the sensation. Red-eyed. Jealous. Now she sleeks out of the barracks, takes to the air, and seeks.

The restraint it takes not to deepen that kiss is monumental. It takes every last reserve he has to simply feel her hair around his fingers, the delicate curve behind her neck and lower still of her shoulder without pushing for more. Because oh how he wants more! Not just lust but the need to fill in the hollows of an all-consuming love, the grooves of which had left immutable scars on his psyche. The tremors that move through her are impossible to miss and serve as anchors for his control. Gently increasing the pressure of his hands he tries to reassure her while responding to her encouraging pull by covering her lips more thoroughly with his. Tilting his head further he aligns his effort to best advantage, ignoring the tickling sweep of wisping locks to layer that kiss with all the sweet intensity he can safely muster without losing control.

Dove-grey wings cut through the air, circle higher, as the dragons delicate head dips down to examine the pattern of running Weyrlings. Each is recognized by the context of his or her dragon. So&soth's rider. And So&soth's rider. Eovarijath catches the thermal, determines the direction of Start, from Finish. And she begins at Finish, sharp regard pinned on each runner, as she wings toward Start.

Rio remembers kissing him. Stolen kisses. Quick kisses. Lingering kisses. And, some nights when they both managed to escape the restrictions of parents and guardians and watchful eyes, deep, passionate kisses that sent aches through her entire frame, that had her writhing involuntarily and moving to an awkward unseen, invisible urge.

Rio opens her mouth, seeks that last kiss, tries to collect the shreds of memory and anger and fear and love, and forge a new memory. Runnersweat. Her own sweat and odor of dragon oil, and this man's distinctive, beloved smell, and the bowl's dust and Rukbat's unrelenting heat. Her mouth opens to Kaskan, welcoming further explorations.

The bowl curves, and there's the center of it. And runners….

The runners shift first, skittering and nickering. Their sensibilities already on edge from the pair standing between them are now sparked further by the nearness of a queen dragon. While casually lounging in the midst of those much-bigger creatures is a normal enough occurance for the pack-animals, being the focus of so much energy is not. And Kaskan, who's job as a guard is to remain alert and watchful at all times, is completely oblivious.

His hand slides lightly down her arm, hovering over the material of her clothing while the other plies further into her hair adding just the slightest amount of pressure to pull her into the kiss. Nothing else matters but right now, this moment, as everything that has consumed his life since the first time he saw a beautiful young girl pause by his flowers in Crom and smile at him comes crashing to a resounding crescendo. A soft moan rumbles from his lips to hers as she opens to him, his tongue deftly pressing forward to seek hers in a way both achingly careful and hauntingly familiar.

She voices a muted cry at this intimacy, trying to subdue her own shaking, and yet welcoming it as well. Rio tastes his mouth, reaches to pull him down, more, pulls herself against him. Sensations whirl: Kaskan. The feel of him, both familiar and new. His odor. The pressure of bodies held against one another, and a sense of dizziness, of flight, of —/Oh Shit/ —

Such sweet moments, broken, shattered. Kaskan will feel the entirety of Rio tense, abruptly, and she jerks away, twists and steps into the blast of air from a deliberately snapped backwing.

Some eight or nine months now, the gold dragon has filled out enough to be a fairly significant representation of her species. But more impressive, at this precise moment, are the livid red eyes, and the snakelike strike of a wedged muzzle, that stops abruptly as Rio steps in front of it. "No! No! No. Stop." Firm words, hissed. "I /can/ too." Kaskan can hear the one end of the conversation, before Rio flicks a quick, wide-eyed look at the man, "Go." —In case she loses this fight, and the jealous gold does something stupid. Eovarijath is silent, but her wings half-furl, as if she might leap into air once more, and she hisses at the man.

Then he'll feel his head nigh well split, the thundering cascade of violence, so many hoofbeats pounding toward him, and choking dust filling the air. « She is MINE. » Soprano may well be at odds with the dire promise implied. Rio harries the gold, dumping her every attention in trying to back Eovarijath off. Step by step, the gold goes, until she realizes that Rio follows. Then the gold's retreat, the luring of her weyrling, is quick. And her presence snaps off, in Kaskan's mind. Simply gone.

A second danger follows closely on the heels of Eovarijath's arrival. The maddened runners begin to buck and fight the reins that hold them to the hitching post, eyes rolling back in their heads out of fear. Kaskan is slow to respond at first, lost in the bliss that is Rio, but as she stiffens he eases all of his hold thinking that he caused her reaction. In the next instant he registers the crazed runners and tries to wrap Rio fully in his arms to protect her, panic quickly out-paced by confusion as the weyrling steps away from him and toward…. the gold! Kaskan's eyes widen with shock at the fearsome sight of a dragon in full fury, especially realizing it's aimed at /him/. Ignoring Rio's first directive he braces his arms to either side in an attempt to keep the runners from bucking toward each other and crushing the smaller woman.

As she steps forward out of their range he steps back and stumbles as the most terrifying feeling he's ever encountered rips through his mind - another voice, choking him with thick emotion and imagery. His back hits the hitching post, keeping him aright and the darker runner knocks its muzzle into his chest with a solid thud. Then the voice is gone and Kaskan nearly collapses with the void left behind. Grabbing the post with whitened knuckles he has to take a moment to catch his breath and refocus. When it does Rio has moved her gold off but the runners are still in a panic. For the moment, he forces himself to attend to them but he'll look over his shoulder often for a while, lips still ghosted with the feel of an aborted kiss and a new determination setting his jaw.

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