aionlogs | EVENT #1: THE EMPTY THRONE

Entry tags:

EVENT #1: THE EMPTY THRONE

The Empty Throne

DESCENT

Nearly two weeks after being dragged from shrine caverns, you hear along the grapevine that the "the throne room is complete." It doesn't take long to figure out what that means; the ritual grounds that you have been hearing mention of are finally prepared, and it's only a short while before you are once again being gathered together for travel. As a small mercy, at least this time the journey is short.

Through a passage that has been blocked by a gathering of soldiers for the entire length of your stay, a stairway is revealed to you. It leads deep into the ruins, through unfamiliar structures and into the bowels of the earth. Though your feel your are mostly going downward, the walk is still long on account of how many stairs their are, and the soldiers escorting you are restless. They are now being led by the stray, mask wearing Achamites that have been accompanying the group till now, silently observing. Whatever place this is, it seems that they now hold court.

Funneled into the chambers below, you are greeted by a massive, domed enclosure of stone. Positioned around its circular radius are twelve thrones in various states of disrepair, sized as if meant to seat giants. The backs of these thrones all differ slightly in design, though most have great cleaves of stone broken loose from their architecture, as if subjected to some great cataclysm. Each is engraved with a sigil, though some have been obscured by the destruction wrought. The throne closest to the entrance has been almost entirely demolished, making it impossible to glean much about.

The dome's ceiling appears to be hundreds of feet tall at its apex, its smooth surface disrupted by stalactites that puncture through its form like teeth. As a result, many chunks of the original structure seem to have cracked and collapsed in to the floor below. When examined closely, these fragments of the domed ceiling seem to be made of a material strangely reflective in quality, though caked in many years of dirt and grime. If large enough sections are cleaned, patterns may emerge, revealing designs that look almost like star maps. The floor beneath your feet as a similar, but subtly different quality, covered in wreckage and ruin but can be cleaned to reveal complex patterns of intersecting lines.

A careful eye will indicate that these lines all lead towards the center of the room - the one space that has been cleared and scrubbed prior to your arrival. Here, the lines converge, with carefully preserved marking in the stone that bely increasing levels of runic complexity the closer you look. This is where the ritual will be held, you are told.

THE RITUAL

There is not much time to regain your bearings before you are being shuffled forth towards the ritual space; no, all the waiting has already been done. Under the command of the smaller group of Achamites, the Hylicians will make heavy use of the whips in leading everyone to their places along the rune-inscribed circle. Before that, however, small cuts will be made to each prisoner with an athame, either on their hand or arm. With a sharp, burning sensation in the afflicted skin, these cuts will spread into wounds reflecting the image of one of the eleven sigils displayed on the thrones encircling the group, and matching the shrine they were originally pulled from.

With this accomplished, they can finally be taken into the circle. With a design comprised of four triangles overlapping, the design of an open eye carved at its center, all prisoners will be led to separates points on its design where the lines cross. Seemingly arranged by their shrine sigil to be closest to whatever throne represents them, they will be brought to their designated positions one by one. Any attempts to flee or disrupt the process will be dealt with swiftly and harshly, exacerbated by the increasing levels of paranoia and fear in the soldiers themselves. Whatever is being done here, they don't seem happy to involved with it either.

When everyone is in place, the seeming master of ceremonies will finally emerge. A dark haired woman will appear from the shadows, motes of golden light fluttering about her otherwise darkness-clad visage. Moving towards the center of the circle, she will stand over the marking of the eye and begin working her magicks. As if on cue, the soldiers will withdraw any remaining whips and scurry to the outside of the circle, only for new bonds of ethereal energy to lash out of the ritual circle itself, binding each and every prisoner and dragging them down to their knees. Among the soldiers, you can hear mutterings identifying this woman as "the Aion."

"Come," she says to the coterie of robed Achamites, who will approach the circle with an assortment of vials collected into cases. There is enough for each prisoner to be given a drink, and so they will; a vial of abyssal liquid will be forced into each one of your throats, no matter how uncomfortably it must be done. While no less ruthless, the Achamites have a different way about them as they work, forcing themselves upon you with a strange familiarity that feels more akin to a mother forcing their child to take medicine than the suspicious hostility of the soldiers. As the foul liquid touches your tongue, it takes on a consistency almost like a living thing, crawling down your throat even if you refuse to swallow, all while the Achamites stroke your hair and make saccharine assurances.

Once all the prisoners have been fed their vial, the Achamamites too will retreat from the circle - all except for one. Joining 'the Aion' at the center, the two of them will begin enacting a planned ceremony of sorts, that culminates in the following scene:

The Achamite kneels before the Aion, lifting their masked face to meet their dark gaze. They speak, in practiced tones.

"To the Kenoma my body, to the Kenoma my soul."

In response, the Aion holds the Achamite's face between their hands in almost a loving gesture. She speaks softly:

"By the blood of the Martyr, I accept your sacrifice."

From the Aion's hands a darkness spreads across the Achamite's body, as if they are melting and dissolving on a cellular level. She kneels along with them, cradling them as their body breaks down, pooling in a void-black liquid around their knees. It drains into the lines of the ritual circle, surging out towards the prisoners.

Within moments, the ritual is complete.

KENOMA SICKNESS

As this dark power surges throughout the ritual circle, you will find yourself almost consumed by the tide. Whatever foul creation you were forced to swallow wakes within your chest, and you can feel it move within your veins, inside you lungs, behind your eyes. As quickly as it begins, the flood of darkness washes over you, but not without leaving you stained.

Something has changed in its wake. As you return to your senses, you will notice the magical bonds of the circle have fallen away, leaving you free to move; for once, the soldiers will not move to lead or restrain you. Instead, the Hylicians warily back away from the ritual space, retreating towards the only path upwards, where they form a defensive line. The Achamites that linger make a series of ritual gestures, praying in voices too soft to hear. The Aion woman stands in the center, her hands blackened with residue from the person you just watched fall to pieces in her arms.

"You will be given time to find your truth," she says. "Use it well."

As you recover from the experience enough to stand, she and her Achamite entourage are already retreating to join the Hylician guard. Gradually, your situation will become clear: they intend to keep your trapped down here. However, it will not be the same as when you waited before. Instead, the soldiers simply intend to block your only exit out, and otherwise leave you free to roam the full diameter of the throne room, seemingly free to do whatever you want as long as it isn't trying to break free of the cavern's confines. Each day, they will offer to their prisoners a limit supply of food, water, and firewood, but nothing more. Beyond that, you only have your increasingly dirty white robes and the same bedrolls as before.

❖ COMMUNION
The first change you will experience is an itching darkness in your mind, like a psychic wound that is becoming infected. The sort of thoughts you would normally try to force down become increasingly hard to resist; despair, hatred, and fear will plague you, and requiring great feats of will to silence even temporarily. Phantoms of the things you'd rather forget will become a constant companion, all while a presence seems to whisper: when you accept your fate, the pain will stop.

Worse than this, the darkness of your mind may not remain private. As if awakened by the ritual, your empathetic sense has become impossibly strong, to the point that you feel the broadcasted emotions and thoughts of others, and in turn, your darkest thoughts will be psychically projected to others with a volume proportional to the intensity with which you feel them. This effect is most potent between those sharing Legacy, with the capacity for their identities to become momentarily confused. In all cases, this connection may bleed into your dreams, or manifest as hallucinations.

❖ TRANSFORMATION
Yet, your mind is not the only thing that ails. In proportion to the strength of your emotions, your body may begin changing to match your state of mind. Physical transformations akin to those mentioned here will begin to manifest, themed to your inner suffering and the most negative aspects of your self conception. These alterations may shift from moment to moment, depending on the turbulence of your emotional state. They may or may not be painful.

❖ AFFLICTION
Along with the above effects, characters may also experience various more mundane ailments; essentially anything traditionally associated with illness could fit. Weakness, nausea, body aches, and chills are all common options. Along with this, void-black ooze may start to trickle from virtually any orifice. While it may stain clothing and skin, the material itself will dissipate after a few minutes in a manner reminiscent of ectoplasm. This effect may also appear around your Shard, as if the stone itself has begun to bleed.

RESISTANCE

Even as the Kenoma threatens to overwhelm you, you still have the power to fight. Though it may be a grueling war of attrition, you can force back its advances with sufficient will to survive and resist the darkness. Of course, your captors are not going to make this easy for you. Those that fight hard enough to expel the Kenoma from their bodies and spirits will take at least a week to do so, and for that duration they will be trapped within this chilly cavern, haunted by their worst thoughts and emotions.

The bedrolls barely strand up against the cold, your clothing doesn't at all, and to be comfortable you'll require fire. Yet, there is a limited amount provided to you, along with food and water, and the soldiers do not seem to be making any effort to distribute it evenly. Achieving basic warmth and sustenance may become a battle against your fellow inmates, all while you struggle against the enemy infecting your body. Cracks in the dome of the cavern lead into some smaller caverns and crevasses in the stone that can offer some privacy or protection, but the more splintered the group becomes the less the supplies will hold up. Fortunately for you, neither the cold nor starvation will kill you, but it will make you suffer.

Yet, you may still persevere. As you fight back the Kenoma, something else will be cultivated in its place. Bit by bit, a comforting and warm presence will grow within you, gradually disrupting the maladies afflicting your body and mind. Your faith and perseverance has been rewarded with an attunement to the Pleroma, the Kenoma's cosmological opposite; given enough time, the Kenoma will be forced from your being entirely, in the form of void-black sludge. Only then will your power begin to shine through, the abilities of your past life slowly returning.

You must keep your guard. With or without otherworldly power, escape will be a struggle.

ACCEPTANCE

Or, you may choose the easy option. Maybe the Kenoma resonates with your history and emotions in a way that makes it seem like it isn't the enemy. Maybe the depths of your despair are too deep to escape. Maybe your simply lack the strength to fight. Whatever the reason, sooner or later, the Kenoma claims you. The more you let it in, the less it feels like a poison and the more it feels like strength. The darkness settles comfortably into the cracks and holes of your spirit, and you awaken to its power. You feel the change viscerally.

This world is not good enough, a voice seems to speak through the Kenoma. This suffering you feel, the cruelty that has birthed this darkness in you... it is simply the rot that is consuming this existence. A better universe awaits, one forged by your own hand, and all you need do is first bring about this broken reality's end.

Whatever effects you were suffering from the Kenoma's presence will fade away, and in its place, you will feel your endurance bolstered. The clarity is stark in comparison to the mire you were trapped in before. As the other prisoners suffer around you, the Aion woman from before and an accompaniment of a couple Hylician soldiers will approach you among the ruins, as if summoned straight to your location. She looks you over, her dark eyes impassive, and then asks:

"Did you feel it?"

She doesn't actually wait for an answer, your expression alone enough to assure her. She'll tell the soldiers that you are free to go, and that you are to be given a share of their food and a change of clothes. She'll escort you out of cavern and towards the upper ruins, where the soldiers and Achamites have set up camp. This feels natural to you, somehow, like you and her are on the same wavelength in a way that is hard to comprehend. She is like you, you sense. That dark power is within her as well.

She doesn't linger with you for long, but she will see that you are on your way before heading back to the caverns. She'll say that the voice you heard, that promise, was the Regent, the ruler of this land. They spoke of a power that could birth a new, better universe, and they weren't misleading you. It's within their reach, closer than ever, and if you help them achieve it you will be rewarded lavishly. For now, you are free to regain your strength while the others make their choices. She only asks that you stay in the area and be ready to join the Regent in Achamoth when all is prepared.

If you're prone to boredom, though, she will mention that you'd really be doing the prisoners a favor by convincing them to accept the Kenoma like you did. You could convince them with words, or by making their situations so unbearable they won't have a choice but to break. However you'd like. It won't be worse than what's coming for them if they carry on this way.

When she parts ways with you, you are left to your own devices. Somehow, you feel inclined to cooperate. After all, the Regent did have a point.

QUESTIONS

Are the involuntary transformations during the Kenoma sickness period temporary afflictions or permanent ones?
By default they are temporary, but characters can also keep a couple keepsake changes if you'd like! An Aion's physical appearance is something that is generally in flux, and so even if you keep something from this event, you can always alter it later.

What kind of supplies are going to be distributed to those who accept Kenoma and leave the caverns?
They'll be given food, water, and clothing. They'll be given more/better rations than they were as prisoners, but it's still the sort of food that is limited by the fact that they are out here on a mission. The soldiers will have some fresh meat from prey they've been hunting in the forest, and will generally be having a lot of stew-based food going. There are actual spices in it, though, so that's cool. This is all set up where the Hylicians are camping.

As for clothes, they will get a fresh set (including boots or shoes) and some soap to clean themselves up in the nearby creeks and ponds. Hylici has an aesthetic that leans towards ancient Greek/Roman, so while they won't have anything fancy with them, you are free to assume they are able to acquire anything in that general ballpark. They do also have pants, though. While it is now spring and Horos has a generally temperate climate, it can be chilly at night.

Will Pleroma attuned be able to escape once they've regained their powers?
Yes, they will be allowed to escape at that point, and a second log will be going up to cover that part of the event. This log should generally cover up until shortly after Pleroma start ejecting the Kenoma's influence. Characters are permitted to escape by their own power if they somehow devise a plan to do so, but as we know the Pleromas are at a significant disadvantage in this situation, some characters who have fought against the Kenoma particularly valiantly will be given some magical assistance to help the survivors escape.

Will the Kenomas be able to try to stop them?
Yes! The second log will be set up to contain some PVP, though given the Pleromas do need to escape, we ask that you play nice. There will be a battle, but it will be structured in the context of the Pleromas having to hold off the Kenomas long enough to escape, so it will be relatively brief.

Can we speak to "the Aion"?
Yes, she will be around for the full length of the event. All characters will have the chance to find her watching over the group whether they are Kenomas or soon to be Pleromas. She will not be that talkative, though, so anyone tagging her will have to lead the conversation. She will not make small talk. Martyrs will recognize her as one of them.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I: the throne room

( in the aftermath of the ritual, memories both distant and recent shatter like panes of glass and rearrange rearrange themselves in curious patterns, the shards still sharp enough to cut. he stands in his given place in the ritual place in array with the rest of the prisoners – then he kneels upon a similar circle drawn in far smaller scale on the floor of his bedroom, pressing a bleeding palm flat to the floorboards. that pain still itches and burns in the hollow of his hand. he looks down to it to see a symbol etched into the soft flesh there: he’d seen it where he’d first awoken and he’d seen it in this cavern as well, one of its wings partially broken off where the stone obelisk of the back of the throne had crumbled away.

he tastes the rise of bile in his throat before he realizes that something about those stylized wings reminds him of J. even here, in this alien place at the end of the world, that demon finds ways to inscribe his claim into him.

sensing a foreign, invasive force twist itself down his throat, coil in his gut, and then slowly suffuse throughout his being strips away every layer of congenial and civilized veneer he has. he is reduced to animal instinct, and makoto is not a creature given to running – he fights tooth and nail and he fights viciously, less out of rejection of what is being promised to him but out of the sheer principle of the thing, of refusing to lose the last shreds of himself and his agency that he still has. it doesn’t matter what the words promise him or the unspoken emotional force wills – even if it was anything and everything he’d ever wanted, he’d bite the hand that offered it to him, stubbornly refusing to accept anything that hadn’t been hard-won through his own efforts and conviction. )

a) ( any and all previously-observed sociability vanishes in the demon. he retreats like a wounded dog to lick his wounds, staring blank-eyed and with clenched jaw into nothing in the best of moments and curling in on himself to ride out the near-overpowering waves of influence in the worst. days pass, and makoto doesn’t seem particularly interested in taking care of himself. his formerly-white robe is spattered with the rusty color of dried blood and the black ooze that occasionally runs from his nose or crowds into his lungs until he’s forced to cough it up. he doesn’t bother to budge when the meager rations are brought down to the throne room, choosing instead to remain huddled where he is. the cold wracks him with shivers he seems content enough to ignore; he only seems to sleep in brief snatches between the rising tide of the illness that he battles within.

this pattern of isolation might make him into a beacon to kind-hearted souls misguided enough to try to extend a helping hand to him or individuals more predisposed toward simple, idle curiosity or less neutral or magnanimous aims, though fair warning to anyone who approaches: the moment he senses it, his body gives a sudden, jerking thrash – a long, thin, whip-like tail scours out towards the new presence, and makoto growls. or, well, he intended it to be a growl, but as it is it sounds far more like a choke. )

b) (cw: vore mention…) ( “most either cling to their hate until it overwhelms and ruins them or they let it fizzle out. they forget it and settle into whatever they’ve become. everyone who survives forgets their hate. everyone. even you will, someday, mako-chan.”

whether in part or in whole, through the feeble channel of communion that is beginning to assert itself through the fledgling aions, the words filter into your mind. the voice is patrician, refined, oddly lamenting – all attributes which feel mismatched with the overwhelming wave of fury that accompany them. their source is makoto, deep in the worst fit of illness he’s had yet. crumpled on his side atop his bedroll, which he had drug a good distance away from others, he claws ineffectually at his chest and the pale sweep of his throat, the memory of that dark, living liquid forcing its way down his throat still feels as present to him now as it had felt then. it’s accompanied by an overwhelming weight, bizzare in its simultaneous oppressive and messianic promise: give up, give in. it will all go away. the pain, the hatred, all, if you just let it.

he won’t. he can’t. at this point, it’s pretty much all he is, all he has left. the more you, the passing-by observer into this moment of inner turmoil, size up the nature of this unrelenting anger, the more you might begin to respect its construction. it’s not blind. it’s not aimless. it’s not capricious, dulling and flaring in haphazard bursts. it’s an armature upon which he builds something ambitious and potentially foolish – it’s a relentless core of energy that keeps him animated, perpetual. it’s a blaze that he keeps fueled to ward against the darkness of complacency and indifference, a fate he considers far worse than death. something rattles in this tentative emotional link, all of its lines leading to the linchpin that held all of makoto together:

“i refuse to forget until the day I finally devour you.”

as it stands, he isn’t aware enough of this connection of communion to obfuscate the determination and truth in those words. he also can’t block out a brief vision of violence: spattered blood, torn flesh, the slow drift of pale, plucked feathers. )

II: camp (kenoma)

( makoto might have joked that if the voice of the regent had started off promising fresh clothes and the opportunity to bathe with real soap, his struggle against the Kenoma might not have gone on for so long.

the options in fashion presented to him did not even begin to match the aesthetic he had cut out for himself back in hell, but beggars cannot be choosers, given the circumstances. he elects for a flowing tunic and trousers once scrubbed clean of their weeks of captivity. once he finds a short length of cord suitable enough to tie his hair back, he finally begins to feel like himself once more. so much so that, as he reaches both arms skyward in a catlike stretch, he senses something returned to him that hasn’t been in reach since he’d awoken in the shrine of the firebrand. grinning, he reaches out to it and revels in it, satisfied in the veracity of his choice.

any onlooker might notice an odd rippling beneath the tunic at the thin young man’s back before two huge, red-violet wings billow out from the trailing hem, like sails unfurling from the mast of a ship. draconic, with scales and clawed fingers, they seem to complete the motion of his stretch, reaching out to the fullness of their span before giving a few hopeful beats. for some reason, he can’t seem to catch the air in them properly – even as new to these wings as he is, they had not been so unresponsive when he’d used them to fly over the gate and into J’s mansion.

this partial disappointment leaves him all at once in a rush of a sigh. ) Ah, well. That would be too much to ask. ( he turns on his heel and just seems to notice you – whether you’re fresh from the caverns below, just getting used to the benefits of accepting the Kenoma like makoto, or have been here for longer than he has, he greets you with a wide, bright smile as he carefully folds the wings behind him. he addresses you with bright geniality: )

Good to see you’ve joined us!

III: what demons do best

( ooc: this prompt is for anyone who wants successful or unsuccessful temptations to Kenoma! )

( makoto was accustomed to the sensation of human desperation. its sound, its shape, its color. it was what had called him back to earth when people, driven by fits of greed, wrath, envy, betrayal, lust, or despair, had managed to find their way through all the steps to summon a demon to their aid. the way that makoto attended them was simple enough. he would promise them their heart’s desire in exchange for their mortal soul, and then he would bind them to the satisfaction of that contract – he would name a small condition, and upon its delivery, he would grant a taste of what it was they wanted most. breadcrumbed by these tantalizing “rewards,” he weakened an already desperate heart until, upon the completion of the contract, it was already more than prepared to collapse at the slightest touch. it had actually disappointed him to find how easy it was to reap the soul from a living person – and not just that, but to get them to a point where they seemed all but eager to relinquish it to him.

he uses intuition now to sift through those that remained in the domed chamber of the throne room and find the one he stands before now. he stoops to kneel before them and, if allowed, will reach out to delicately frame their face with his fingertips, guiding their gaze to his – those bizarre eyes, like chips of ice floating in pools of blood, are oddly beatific in their generosity, his words as flowing and sweet as milk and honey: )

Poor thing. Do you truly wish for your fight to last forever?

IV: wildcard

( for any options not outlined above or alterations to them, etc. whatever you want! if you want to hash anything out with me, please feel free to reach out via pm or at lycanthropic! )

Edited (i should have proofread...) 2022-03-05 06:37 (UTC)

[ Howl had already recognized the young man for what he is. Or, at least, he had strongly suspected it, already being familiar with the demonic tint to his psyche. Howl said and did nothing at the time, electing to observe from his privileged position among those who'd surrendered early.

But this is different, now. They're up above, enjoying dinner and leisure after such a very hard day of babysitting. And the magnificent display of wings is just what Howl needed to strike up a conversation. When Makoto turns to greet the eavesdropper, he'll find Howl beneath a tree, his elegant legs crossed comfortably, with a half-dozen apples in the grass next to him. More than a single ration's worth. ]

Oh? Well — please, excuse my tardiness.

[ Smiling, his pale, marble-like eye move to his wings again. They're impressive. Demons don't look like this in the world he's from, but he's certain that he's looking at one. ]

Don't let me interrupt. That stretch looked quite satisfying.

( really, it's no secret. even without being asked, it's something that makoto would readily admit to with neither shame nor pride, presented as blithely as he might have commented on the weather or the state of their circumstances. he has nothing to gain from hiding what he was from the others, be they formerly mortal or not, and if the truth of it brings about others' ire, he'll just have to deal with it. he's found that many allow only their suspicions to be roused by what he is — they hold the promise of restitution for deeds done.

the fact of the matter is, separate by the natural laws that both governed and gifted demons in his own world, there's precious little that he can even do, anyways. that might save him from added inconvenience, or at least for the time being.

with all of the time they had been given to themselves both before and after the ritual, makoto has been sure to get to at least the point of visual familiarity with all of his fellow (former?) captives — to this extent he recognizes the other young man, though his memories of the last few days were scrambled enough that he can't recall if he had willingly left the domed chamber below before he had. given how comfortable he seems, looking as if he were seated for a mid-afternoon picnic beneath that tree, he's going to assume he had. makoto's smile twists into something a little more self-deprecating at this realization, and he replies in smooth conversational tempo, ) If there's anyone that should be begging forgiveness for their tardiness, I believe it should be me.

( he had fought hard against the Kenoma for days — he isn't exactly sure how long it had been, but when he thinks of it now he doesn't necessarily feel regret or satisfaction in it. it had been necessary; it had been an arduous and difficult fight to a tenuous compromise between the demon and what had entwined with its essence.

demons don't necessarily look like makoto where he's from, either. he's a curiosity — a human who had managed to adapt to a second life in hell without shattering down to his very core. still, it's obvious he takes pride in the acknowledgement of the wings. he gathers them up smartly behind him, giving a slight lift to his chin. they were wings he had earned, after all. he'd cut them from their original owner and sewn them into his back himself. )

Interrupt? No, ( he continues as he approaches a few paces, casual and meandering, ) Please. After that whole ordeal, I'm positively starved for civilized conversation.

( given how his gaze falls upon the half-dozen apples howl seems to have gathered for his solo picnic, it's not the only thing he's starved for. makoto hadn't exactly been taking care of himself in the throes of illness, after all... )

[ Howl had left the chamber before this young man — or, young demon, he should say. He remembers seeing him below, before he'd submitted, when he first started watching his fellow Aions struggle against the dark. But looking at him today, he wonders why it took him longer to submit than he did. Perhaps Howl's sorrow was simply too strong. Perhaps his quick surrender is a testament to his mental weakness. Either made sense, and either way, he would not judge the demon for taking a few extra days to come to his senses. ]

If you desire conversation, then — by all means.

[ he pats the grass beside him, on the other side of the small pile of apples. ]

I am Howl. It's a pleasure to speak to you, finally.

makoto | MADK | firebrand

ii

no subject

no subject

iii

no subject

no subject

ii

no subject

no subject

III

no subject

no subject

II

no subject

vore buddies

bless... taking off the kid gloves in this thread so yeah, cw vore

ia

no subject

ii

no subject

iii

no subject

shows up to 2 with starbucks

no subject