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Chapter 71 - An Autumn Dream
Berdusk 1371 DR, Eleint, 11 – 12th day, afternoon, night and early morning hours
The door closes behind the priestess, and the cool afternoon air flows across her face and ruffles her red locks. Of Immerine, Jezbodiah, Nik and the newcomer, the young barbarian Tarim, there is no sight. From a side door, a young lad appears, holding a wicked looking pole-arm. “Ma’am. I’m to escort you to the temple. Orders of Mumadar.”
With a nod and a smile, the Kelemvorite says, “Well, my friend, I’m glad to have you along. Your name?” Even as she asks the boy’s name, she begins to head off into the city.
“Tenson Nomephel.” The lad replies, “I’ve been with the militia since this summer. I’ve learned how to wield the ranseur.” The lad – somewhere in his 15th or 16th year – is full of pride being counted among the grown-ups now. Stepping up to match the priestess’ stride he walks beside her, the pole-arm sometimes wavering a bit awkwardly.
“I’m sure you have, Saer Tenson, thank you.” The priestess enjoys the spark of the boy’s eagerness. She silently says a soft prayer to Kelemvor of an uneventful passage to the Mansion. The last thing she wants is to have the boy give his life to protect hers. With the added burden of looking after her ‘guard’, Portia does her best to move quickly through Berdusk.
It doesn’t take too long to reach the Crystal Mansion, though the sun is already much closer to the horizon, and the temperature is dropping steadily in preparation for a cold night – probably close to freezing.
As usual, one of the pair of doors is open; allowing entrance to the inner part of the temple to Velsharoon, just as usual there’s someone on ‘guard’ duty, though now there’s two guards instead of the usual one. Also there are more signs of mourning adorning the building as well as prominently displayed symbols of Kelemvor’s faith. The entire building seems cloaked in an aura of solemnity and sorrow.
Portia pauses before the Crystal Mansion, taking in the added mourning paraphernalia, nodding sadly. “Come along Tenson. The least we can do, is make sure you get some food into you before you return to barracks; to show my gratitude for you protection.”
Portia leads the way to the inner portion of the temple, saying, “It’s almost time for devotions, lad. If you wish to attend, you’re welcome, but we lost one of our own today, and events may be a bit more extreme than normal. Interested?”
“Ehm… if you don’t mind missus, I… ehm… would prefer to return.” The lad seems a bit intimidated by all the trappings of the Judge of the Damned. “I mean, you’re safe now here, and… ehm… I’d rather… I mean… I have some chores to do back at the Stag.” With an easy smile, Portia waves her hand at him. “No worries lad. Head on back. Thank you.”
The sound of a dirge being sung by several priests and laymen drifts through the interior of the temple. Following the sound to its origin, Portia arrives in the grand chapel where the actual shrine to Kelemvor is located. Upon a bier lies the deceased half-orc, dressed in ceremonial robes. Numerous candles light the interior of the chapel, and in a couple of locations incense is burnt or bowls with scented oil are placed.
Garron, one of the young acolytes, and the first fellow priest of Kelemvor Portia met in Berdusk sees the red-haired woman arrive and makes his way across the chapel to her. “I offer you my condolences,” he whispers, bowing his head with his hands folded before his chest, “I understand you were close to him when he fell in battle with the undead. Our lord will welcome him as a hero.”
The redhead smiles her thanks, and then says, “I was near. He fell, but he helped take down two ah… Lord Sillisten called them Baneguards. They were pretty tough. I have no doubt that Kelemvor will cherish him.”
Squeezing her shoulder briefly, Garron takes his leave, “I’ll let you pay your last respects.” With that the young man leaves Portia to observe in silence her service to Tempest and her Lord. After her farewell and prayers for a safe journey through the Gray Wastes, Portia makes her way towards to her cell to change for tonight’s prayers. As she is about to climb the stairs a slight shuffling noise attracts her attention.
Moving through the solemn hallway is the figure of the old High Priest. Holding something in both hands he approaches Portia.
“Portia,” Lord Sillisten says in his raspy voice, “You have proven well in the service to our Lord, and he seems to favor you. During my vigil and prayers over brother Tempest, our Lord spoke to me and He wants you to be put to a test. What the test entails He did not share with me, only that if you pass you will be on a path to become one of His vigilant crusaders in the endless battles against the undead and those that create them.”
“No doubt He will make His wishes clearer to you in a vision.” The High Priest continues as he offers her a silver cup filled with some aromatic liquid. “Drink this after your prayers and your vigil. It will facilitate the communion with Him. Though you are on your way to be a full fledged priestess of the faith, your powers are not sufficient yet to allow for a strong connection with our Lord.”
Portia is astonished by Sillisten’s revelations. Hesitantly, she takes the cup, and offers one of her abbreviated bows. “Your Grace,” she says, her surprise evident in her voice, “I – I don’t know… I don’t really feel worthy of our Lord’s attention.” She blushes, realizing that what she’s said might be seen as second-guessing both the senior priest before her and her god. “I mean, ah…” Portia, taking a deep breath, regains a semblance of control and finishes with, “Yes your Grace.”
She takes her leave, and makes her way to her cell. Shedding her armor and gear, she dons a simple black robe. Kneeling at the small shrine in one corner, she begins her prayers. The routine task seems to fly by. As she finishes her regular devotions, Portia rises. The Kelemvorite makes her way back to the chapel, kneeling before her fallen comrade and begins her vigil.
After her prayers and her vigil at Tempest’s side, Portia rises to make her way back to her sleeping cell in the Crystal Mansion. When she is about to exit the chapel, the Death’s Hand of Kelemvor is making his way once more to her, followed by Garron. The young priest carrying a bundle wrapped in black cloth.
“Your equipment has been returned from the Running Stag safely, and returned to our supplies.” The High Priest says, though clearly he has something else on his mind. An almost youthful spark fills his eyes. “It is my wish, Portia, that you become the heir and new owner of ‘Death’s Head’, late brother Tempest’s weapon of choice.
Garron unwraps the black cloth and reveals a polished and shiny mace; an obsidian rod topped by a metal ball in the shape of a human skull. Black leather is wrapped around the rod like hilt, giving a good gripping surface. Despite its color of night, it shines brightly, the result o some sort of coating. “‘Death’s Head’ is not an ordinary weapon,” Lord Sillisten continues, his face and balding head reflecting in the shiny surfaces of the mace. “It has a history which each wielder of the weapon should know.”
“In 1368, Errington Lucuis, a human cleric of Kelemvor, believed he had a vision from his Lord to go out and convert the remaining clerics of Myrkul and Bhaal to his lord’s worship. In order to do that, he felt he might have to beat some sense into the other wayward clerics. To accomplish this, he commissioned a dwarf named Rendril to create the dark mace. The dwarf toiled over the mace for over a month, crafted the hilt and then the head. Using a secret process of his clan, he forged the obsidian mace handle as well as careful carved the outline of eye and nose sockets as well as teeth in the ‘head’ of the mace.”
“Impressed by the look of his new weapon, Errington had the misfortune of trying to convert a cell of Myrkulites in the slums of Neverwinter. The temple of Kelemvor found his mutilated body in a trash dump a tenday later without any trace of the weapon.”
“Next time the mace was seen, ‘Death’s Head’ turned up in the Undermountain in the hands of ‘Whiskers’ McGee, a gnomish thief. He met his demise at the hands of a mind flayer who had his head for a snack. The flayer took the mace and traded it for two slaves at Skull Island in Skullport. The mace was lost during a bar brawl and resurfaced sometime later in a Waterdhavian curio shop, where it was bought by Trillian, a cleric of Ilmater.”
“The Ilmatari cleric felt strangely pulled by the weapon and purchased it. It was not until later he encountered Tempest, at the time still unaware of his destiny with Kelemvor, that he knew why he bought the mace. When Clem Rogerson, another priest of Kelemvor from Waterdeep, took Tempest to Berdusk, Trillian gave the mace as a present, in order for Tempest to do good things for Faerûn in the name of Kelemvor.”
Scraping his throat after the reciting of the weapon’s history, Lord Sillisten adds, “The rest of the weapon’s history is known to you by now, and with you it will make further history in the name of our Lord.” At a nod of the bald High Priest, Garron steps forward and kneels before Portia, presenting the weapon reverently.
Reverently, Portia takes the relic. “I’ll wield ‘Death’s Head’ to the best of my ability, your Grace,” she says in thanks. “I hope I can do it justice.” With yet another of her respectful curtsies, this one much more fluid now that her armor is off, Portia takes her leave.
“Oh, one more thing,” The raspy voice of Lord Sillisten sounds, “In order to aid you in your quests, the weapon has been blessed to perform its duty for the faith.”
Returning to her cell, Portia places ‘Death’s Head’ with her gear. Moments later, stripped down to a simple shift, she prepares to roll herself into her blankets, pausing only long enough to quaff Sillisten’s draught.
It is at night in her cell at the Crystal Mansion that Portia finds herself walking through long autumn colored grass somewhere outside of the city, somewhere unknown to her. Wisps of cold mists drift past her obscuring her vision every so often. Yet the cold doesn’t seem to reach her despite wearing only her night shift. On silent wings something glides overhead, followed several heartbeats later by the screech of an owl. Other than the grass and the mist, the landscape she is walking through appears featureless… yet not soundless. From somewhere there is an almost rhythmic creaking sound accompanied by light splashing.
A glimmer of Selûne’s light penetrates the fog as it drifts thinner for a moment. Ahead a light is burning in some building or other. Moving closer, Portia involuntary folds her arms, wrapping them around her chest to ward of the watery cold that she can’t feel. Mists obscure where she’s going once more, but the general direction is firmly in the young woman’s mind. Yet she is surprised when she almost bumps into the wall of the building suddenly looming out of the mist before her
The wall is made from once stout logs, which now appear covered by moss and algae, the moist smell of rot thick in the air. The sound of the creaking and lapping which came closer with every step appears to come from around the corner. Feeling her way tentatively along the slimy wall with her fingertips, the red-haired priestess moves in the direction of the sound; the ever present mists once more forcing her to go by that sound alone.
As the young woman gets to the corner, the next step in the blindness of the mist causes her nearly to stumble. Throwing herself against the building, she avoids falling into a cold, stream. As if on cue, the mists part a little, revealing the origin of the rhythmic creaking and splashing noises – a waterwheel. Disentangling herself from the clammy and slimy structure – heart beating furiously with the sudden rush of adrenaline, Portia kneels down in the wet grass to steady herself.
Shivering as the flow of adrenaline subsides, the red-haired woman looks up and across the stream, eyes pulled there as if on their own accord. Somewhere, across the water on the other bank, something is moving, something on two legs.
Holding her breath as if not to give herself away, Portia tries to will the veil of water vapor away to get a better look at that what seemed to have drawn her here. It takes several heartbeats – even at the faster pace her heart still beats – before some of the fog lifts again. Across the bank standing feet slightly planted apart is a cloaked hooded person, silhouetted against a backdrop of a series of weeping willows.
Despite the wisps of mists clinging around the figure, she can make out he – there is something masculine about the stance of the figure – appears to be armored, wearing leathers of some kind. Adding to the distortion of the person is the cloak he wears, wrapped partially about him and the hood revealing nothing but shadows beneath. Somehow the whole scene confers on Portia a feeling of anguish, a silent plea for release. Yet at the same time there is a serious undertone of malice and un-holiness…
As he steps forward, drawing from underneath his cloak a large hand-and-a-half sword, another beam of Selûne’s light illuminates the scene briefly, glinting of the untarnished steel of the blade and something silver pinning the man’s cloak… Then the beam of moonlight changes color – a shade of purple and darkens, obscuring more and more of Portia’s vision. As the sword-wielding figure steps closer, the young woman finds herself rooted to the spot, unable to move in the sightless world she finds herself.
A wishing sound reaches her ear – a blade slicing through the air, coming down in her direction…
Drenched in sweat and panting heavily, Portia blinks and looks bewildered around her. No waterwheel, no sword, no sinister cloaked figure… just her cell at the Crystal Mansion. Yet the image of the blade, the cloaked figure and the silvery pin are etched in her mind.
Moments after waking, Portia realizes that the dream must be some sort of sending from Kelemvor. The man wielding the hand and a half sword, Kelemvor’s chosen weapon, was quite possibly a vision of her lord himself.
The feeling of anguish that she felt though… For some time, Portia lies in bed, running through the vision. Autumn fields, north of Berdusk? Maybe. Some sort of abandoned mill? A waterwheel anyway. A plea. For release? Someone trapped, or… A chill courses through her as she thinks of how a soul might feel if it had been trapped in an undead form. Anguish would be the least of the feelings…
Regardless, the one thing she is absolutely sure of is that this vision was a message from Kelemvor himself. As such, she must, absolutely, explore the possibilities.
Rising, the priestess gathers her gear and somewhat laboriously climbs into her armor. Slinging her crossbow and settling the rest of her gear, Portia takes up ‘Death’s Head’ and hooks it to her belt. After a moment, she also takes up her heavy mace, the one given to her by the priests of the Mansion.
Making her way through the early morning light of the halls of the Mansion, Portia heads for the armory. With a smile, she nods to the young acolyte within, and says, “Here you are. I don’t seem to need this one anymore.” She hands the heavy mace over.
Seconds later, the young priestess pauses in the hall, head cocked thoughtfully. Then, with a nod, she moves in another direction. Minutes later, she arrives in the training hall and eyes the assortment of training weapons and practice dummies. Portia divests herself of most of her gear, keeping only her armor. A bit hesitantly, she takes up one of the hand-and-a-half training swords. Somewhat surprised at the weight, she sweeps it about.
“Ah, our Lord’s preferred weapon.” A voice says from somewhere behind Portia, “You seem to have a good grip, but your stance is wrong. You’ll leave yourself wide open. The sword is no mace, it requires some technique.” A senior priest, hair already graying at the temples and receding on the top of his head, steps towards Portia and holding out his hand for her to hand over the sword.
Portia freezes for a moment, her heart racing and a blush rushing across her cheeks. Handing the sword to her senior, Portia says, “I’m not really trained in it. I had a vision last night though, of a man wielding a hand and a half blade. He seemed troubled, but it must have been an aspect of our lord.” Portia nods toward the blade the man now holds. “I was thinking it might be wise to learn as much as I could. I’m Portia Coldspring, from the Abbey of the Fallen.”
“Johdar Arsalan, weapon’s master of the Crystal Mansion.” The man introduces himself, “I have heard a lot about you Portia Coldspring – nothing but good in the name of our Lord.” Examining the blade for a moment, a grin forms on the weathered man’s face, “It will be an honor to teach you the use of the hand-and-a-half sword. It might very well be that your vision has to do with our meeting here, and who am I to stand in the way of the designs of the Lord of the Dead. Though I would advise you to seek out the Death’s Hand after the training, he can probably explain more about what you saw last night.”
With that, Johdar swings the sword through a couple of attacks and parries with the ease of someone born with it. Impressed Portia follows the movements and tries to learn as she does so. A good start, since it turns out that the training takes up the rest of the morning, and after a lunch continues in the afternoon. The weapon master’s words were not mislaid, the red-haired priestess does seem to have a knack for handling the weapon, and by the end of the practice session in the afternoon, she feels confident in wielding it two-handed. The one-handed use of the weapon will require some more training and bonding with the type of sword, the bruises she received in the sparring testimony to that fact.
After the communal dinner and evening prayers, Portia seeks out the High Priest. Finding him in his office on the second floor. After knocking for admission and receiving the answer, she steps in. Dressed in simple robes of a priest, the Death’s Hand sits behind his desk, silver band removed from his head. The collar of the robes are lower cut than Lord Sillisten’s robes of office, and Portia can see parts of tattoo’s sneaking around the man’s neck and below his clothes.
“Yes my dear Portia. What can I do for you?” The raspy voice asks, “You seem a little troubled. Is it because of the effects of the dreaming potion?”
Portia nods. “I suppose troubled is as good a word as any, your grace,” the young priestess says. Over the next few minutes, she describes the dream, and her suspicions of who the man with the hand and a half sword was, her impressions of his feelings, and as detailed a description of the location as she can give.
When she finishes describing the dream, she somewhat sheepishly admits to how she’s spent her day in the company and under the tutelage of Johdar Arsalan. “I know you’ve just given me Death’s Head, but I have the feeling that knowing how to wield Kelemvor’s favored weapon can only be a good thing.”
“I don’t suppose,” she asks, somewhat hopefully, “that you might know if there’s an abandoned mill in the area? One with a water wheel?”
The Death’s Hand, High Priest Sillisten sits nodding his head during Portia’s relation of her vision and listens intently. “It might be that our Lord wants you to see a message, though the vision comes across as rather sinister – even for His doing. Anguish… hmm… And a mill, with a waterwheel. Those are not too uncommon in this area, but I’m not aware of one that could bear specific significance to your vision.”
“Could you describe that silver pin-like item in more detail, or is what you told me all you can remember? It is just that a certain number of people who frequent this city are also wearing silver colored pins.” The elderly priest stares at the wall behind Portia, his thoughts trying to puzzle things together. “It would not be a surprise to see that those who harp have taken an interest in the activities of you and the others – and by extension this temple.”
“I need to think about this a bit longer Portia. Thank you for sharing it with me.” A sincere smile – though brief – appears on the High Priest’s face. “And do continue with the training. Brother Arsalan is a good teacher – and it seems Kelemvor has indeed plans for you if he thinks the sword suits you. And about Death’s Head, you’ll find that there are situations where bluntness is a better way of overcoming an adversary than a honed edge.”
Taking her leave, Portia makes her way down to her cell and spends the rest of the evening in meditation on what the vision could mean for her. The night is spent in quiet and dreamless sleep, and once more Portia awakens before dawn. After dressing she heads out to the sparring room and tries to repeat the training of the day before.
***
It is already half-way during the morning when Portia finishes her exercises and moves back towards her cell to refresh herself and change into a dry set of clothing. As she walks through a corridor, she sees a familiar figure waiting in the foyer – Matteo Ashgale.
“Saer Matteo!” Portia calls, then blushes a bit as she remembers her current condition – sweaty and grimy from her exercises. The priestess enters the foyer though, glad to see the man. “How did things go with Captain Zaina?”
Matteo likewise looks a little worse for wear, as though he spent most of the night out of his bed and hasn’t rested since. He is, however, freshly bathed and attired in expensive black clothing of simple cut.
“Portia,” the young man replies, the beginning of a smile turning the corner of his mouth as he inclines his head at her greeting. “Let us just say the Captain was not too pleased that I claimed the rank of lieutenant at the warehouse the other day and gave me a telling off. But she then turned around and made me a lieutenant.” The smile broadens as he adds, “It is no wonder that we poor men fail to understand you ladies.”
Rolling his shoulders as though to ease some stiffens there, he continues, “We discussed places in the forest where the Zhentarim might be hiding out, with a view to us investigating those. And I have been down on the docks exchanging drinks for information with some people I know. Trade is down a little, even for this time of year. And caravans are losing their cargoes to Zhentarim raiders. More interesting, trade of timber and construction tools into the region are up, with most of the timber disappearing in the wilds east of Scornubel.”
Scratching his shoulder for a moment, he adds, “It’s enough to make a cynic like me think the Zhentarim are building something in the forest.”
Portia frowns at the news. “I’ve been here. I stood vigil on Tempest the other night, and had a… I suppose you could call it a dream vision that night. There’s something happening outside the city, to the north I think, that needs my attention. His Grace is looking into the meaning of the images. You’re here to see him?” Portia swipes at her face, perspiration still rising from her pores.
Reaching into his doublet, Matteo extracts a white handkerchief which he offers Portia. “I thought I’d drop in to see that Tempest had been taken care of in a fitting manner. From the sounds of things I can rest easy on that score, at least.” Pausing for a moment he adds, “I think I’d like to discuss this vision of yours with Lord Sillisten though. Will you come in with me?”
Taking the handkerchief with a nod of thanks, Portia does her best to wipe the sweat from her face. “Well,” she says, “I’m not exactly dressed for it, but since I’m here anyway… Yes, I will. I was going to see if his Grace had anything more for me today after I’d dressed anyway.”
Together the priestess and the merchant make their way to Sillisten’s office. Knocking on the door, the High Priest’s raspy voice asks them to wait briefly. It doesn’t take long and then the door opens, the familiar sight of the old man’s face, silver circlet once more adorning his head, appearing in the door opening. “Ah Portia, and ehm… Saer Ashgale if memory serves me right. I received your message the other day.” Gesturing the two guests into his office the elderly priest continues, “Much appreciated for the tidings, yet my Lord had also seen to warn me and I was already on my way when your missive reached the desk over here.”
“Have a seat if you want.” Lord Sillisten points out two simple but sturdy chairs at his desk as he moves to sit behind it. “I know why my young ward has come to see me, but what brings you here Saer Ashgale?”
Taking the closest seat Matteo seats himself before replying. “It is really not much more than a courtesy call, my lord. I wanted to make sure that Tempest’s body was being suitably cared for and had not been forgotten in the chaos of the other day.”
Glancing at Portia, he adds, “However, Portia has just informed me of activity in the forest just to the north of the city that reinforces my suspicions.”
“Have you been able to locate the watermill from your vision?” The High Priest asks Portia, his eyebrows raised slightly in surprise, “Though I’m not yet sure if the personage you saw in your vision is Kelemvor or an aspect of him – the sinister setting is not quite like Him – I could be wrong, divine insights have to be treated with caution since we are mere mortals with only a fraction of the insights the divine have.”
“My strongest inclination is towards a haunting of sorts – which might be the test most of the Doomguides have to pass before their admittance into the order. My recommendation would be to look for rumors or folklore about a haunted mill, or failing that any haunted building within a reasonable range from Berdusk. Then again, if you have already located the mill, do you know if it is haunted?”
Shaking her head, she says, “No, I haven’t located the mill yet. So far I’m just guessing…”
“Still,” she continues, “checking on stories about a haunted mill shouldn’t be too hard. After all,” she gives a small smile, “people do talk. That precludes, of course, that there IS a haunted mill…”
Crossing one leg over the other, Matteo leans back into his chair and says, “I spent some time on the docks yesterday. It turns out that trade in almost all items is down, even after taking the time of year into account. And almost all types of trade caravans are being preyed upon by the Zhentarim. The exceptions are timber and construction tools. These are the only goods that the Zhentarim are not destroying. And most of the timber is disappearing east of Scornubel, and construction tools are likewise finding their way into areas the Zhentarim are active.”
“Add this to the fact that Zaina suspects that Zhentarim bands are hiding out in the woods to the north and there is enough to suggest an investigation of certain sites in the wood may be worthwhile.” Pausing, he adds, “In any event, I have told Zaina that I’d take a look for her. If this mill is in, or near, the forest I would not be surprised.”
“If it is a lumber mill, which is not unlikely, that seems plausible.” Lord Sillisten as his right hand moves up to stroke his beardless chin. “Zhentarim… They’ve grown to be quite bold, these damned Cyricists.” A strange cold flicker plays in the High Priest’s eyes for a moment, but is gone almost as soon as it appeared. “Portia, you know your history well enough. Don’t hesitate to diminish the number of these worshippers of the False Prince.”
With a cold smile, Portia nods. “That’s something that is a given, your Grace.” Her hand drifts down to where her mace would be if she were dressed properly. “To the best of my ability.”
“Once I’ve gotten my things together, I’ll head into town with Saer Matteo.” Looking at Matteo, she adds, “It shouldn’t take me too long.” Then, the redhead, addressing both men once more, says, “If anyone knows of a haunted mill anywhere near the city, I’m willing to bet Mumadar, the man that owns the Running Stag, is he. If he can confirm the location, well and good. If not, I’ll just wander about for a bit, asking other merchants and such.”
“Excellent!” The Death’s Hand of Kelemvor says to the priestess’ suggestion. “The man is indeed a likely source of information. Especially so since most of his clientele is woodsfolk – those ho most likely know of any haunted mill or other.” Folding his hands and leaning against the stiff-backed chair, the High Priest looks from Portia to Matteo and back to Portia again. His eyes seeing to once more size them up. Then he rises from his chair and slowly – almost shuffling – makes his way over to a small glass-paned cabinet. Behind the slightly smoky glass, Portia and Matteo see a collection of small boxes, vials and other small sized containers.
Lord Sillisten opens the cabinet, his form now obscuring what is inside and he starts carefully rummaging in the cabinet’s contents – clearly looking for something. A few moments later he reaches for something and after closing the cabinet, he turns around. A leather band with odd shaped pockets in his hand. From some of the pockets a piece of paper or parchment protrudes.
Holding the leather band out for Portia to accept, the High Priest says, “These scrolls might prove useful, though I believe two of the four scrolls are yet not easy for you to master, yet they might prove a way out of a dangerous situation.”
Nodding to Lord Sillisten, Matteo rises from his chair. “I’ll wait for you by the front door, Portia. Take your time.”
The content of Twilight Dawn are the property and copyright of J P Hazelhoff, and are not to be published or redistributed without permission.