ɴᴀʏʀᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴏsʜᴀ - ᴠɪsᴄᴇᴛ ᴛʀʏᴏᴜᴛ #𝟸𝟹𝟶𝟷

[Matreats]

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Two beings, one born from the sun’s rays and the other from the light of the full moon were brought into existence. They were equal, in power and in responsibility, meant to become the rulers of the land. The other gods created them to ensure that justice prevailed and to keep the balance between the people. Many were concerned about leaving the fate of the land in the paws of ones so young, but it was decided.
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And so the two brothers began to grow, learning from the gods until they knew enough to stand on their own. They ruled together and in harmony, despite their differences. There were many years of peace, but there was hostility slowly forming in the eldest’s heart…
ᴏʀɪɢɪɴᴀʟ ᴘᴏsᴛ ʜᴇʀᴇ
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The light of dawn painted the walls of the palace with sunlight and cast a golden glow over the stairs descending from the two thrones. At this hour, it wasn’t expected to be awake, but the rising of the sun was a special occasion on this day. Soldiers donned in shining gold and blue armor stood on either side of the grand staircase facing inwards, forming a line which descended downwards to the street. The two at the top had sleek horns attached to their waists with a belt, one paw placed on them protectively.

A crowd of viscets had already gathered below, staring up eagerly as they waited for the two rulers to exit the palace. Today was the annual celebration of the sun and all it brought to the land, including one of the two princes. After the formalities, there would be dancing, food, games, and what seemed like an endless amount of fun that extended through the night and to the dawn of the next day. Murmurs of excitement were passed between those around the viscets as they recounted last year’s celebrations and what would take place today.

The two soldiers sounded the horns, the call echoing through the crowd and silencing them almost instantaneously as the palace doors creaked open. The grand gilded doors moved out of the path as two viscets stepped outside. The first had fur that shone like the sun, with majestic horns and a regal air carried about him. His long fur drapes swished across the red carpet as he walked, and his mane shimmered. He was the eldest brother- Rosha. Standing by his side was another, this one with magnificent blue fur that reflected the sunlight with brilliant purples and long, smooth horns that seemed to make him taller. He had beautiful golden scales which adorned his nose, legs, and chest as if he was a soldier himself. He was the younger- Nayru.

The two took their places on their respective thrones, both looking down on their subjects with pleased expressions as an aged viscet stepped forward, clearing his throat and unraveling a scroll in front of him. He lowered his nose to see overtop his thin spectacles and began to read, recounting the tales of Rosha and his many great achievements. It was tradition to do so, though Rosha himself found it quite boring despite the others’ positive reactions. To the elder brother’s delight, the scribe had significantly shortened this year’s speech, knowing that the prince had a disliking for waiting long periods of time. Rosha could, however, handle at least this since it was all about him.

A cheer went up as the narrator finished the last words and raised a paw in triumph, gesturing towards Rosha. The golden stood and bowed with a flourish, sweeping his tail forward in a dramatic flair of beautiful fur. Nayru looked absolutely ecstatic and ready to burst from his seat as the old viscet pushed his spectacles further up his snout and declared the celebrations to begin. Rosha, seeing this, raised his nose in dissent at his younger brother’s actions. It was extremely childish, and he absolutely did not approve. In his eyes, rulers were supposed to be seen as strong, tall, and unmoving, and though they were not kings yet, he expected Nayru to act as such.

Nayru glanced over at Rosha before looking back out to the crowd, his eyes glittering with excitement and anticipation as he watched them collect around the merchant tents and the musicians that were beginning to play. A lively music started up, earning many shouts and whoops from the surrounding viscets. Nayru was already bouncing his foot to the beat. Traditionally, the rulers were meant to sit above the crowds and to just watch, signifying their importance and high status, but it was obvious to anyone that Nayru was not a traditionalist, nor did he care much for what Rosha expected of him. His subjects were important to him, and so he would engage with them whenever he had the chance too.

It was obvious Nayru was trying to hold himself back, but it didn’t take long for him to break. He left his long cape on his throne and rushed to the top of the stairs before giving a loud greeting to those below. The response was loud as the viscets shouted for him to join them. Accepting the offer immediately, Nayru pranced down the stairs happily, almost tripping over his own feet as the crowd embraced him as if he was their own. It was obvious that they loved him; he was kind, charismatic, and never turned down a single person. Rosha scowled darkly as his brother was practically engulfed by the crowd, his ‘friends’ laughing and putting their paws on his shoulders as they guided him through. Rosha absolutely despised it.

The old viscet noticed the prince’s discontent and approached him, looking as to inquire of his state, but Rosha waved him away. “I will be retiring early for the night,” he said, standing up and nodding curtly to his servant before turning and returning through the palace doors. Nayru, glancing back saw his brother disappear. Guilt was starting to sprout in his chest, but he forced it away, determined that tonight would be full of fun and play, not grief and guilt. Though there was still the part of him that lingered on the fact that today was supposed to be all about Rosha, his day of celebration...but Nayru’s thoughts didn’t dwell on it for long as he engaged with his kingdom’s citizens.

They all sang and danced long into the night, but the light of the moon didn’t bring weariness. Instead, it brought vigor, and soon all sorrow and sadness floated away with the music as if it had never existed at all.

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[Matreats]

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The morning came swiftly, too much so for Nayru. As the last of the tents and leftover mess was being swept away by the remaining viscets, Nayru found himself resting on one of the low stone walls with one of his friends. He could feel his eyes starting to droop, and the viscet beside him elbowed his arm.

“Worn out already Nayru?” He chuckled, resting his arms across his knees. The prince made a face, earning a laugh from the other.

“Ech.” Nayru flopped onto his back, lying across the top of the wall. The night had been fun, but with the joy also came the tiredness that followed after staying awake all night.

“Understandable,” the other viscet sighed, glancing around at the now almost empty streets. “I figure you have things to do else I’d invite you for a drink.”

“Unfortunately Schill, you are correct,” Nayru grumbled, his tail twitching. “I have no doubt that Rosha will be wanting me for some task or another.” If there was one thing he was not looking forward to, it was returning to the palace. An argument was inevitable at this point, and Nayru really did not want to engage in a fight. He was tired enough, and he didn’t need his brother on his tail.

“You always speak of him as a nuisance...but is he really that intolerable? I know as a ruler he can be somewhat aloof and irritable sometimes, but he doesn’t seem as bad as you make him out to be,” Schill noted, raising an eyebrow.

Nayru sighed, letting his front paws flop over the edge. “Rosha does not like me, to put it plainly. He sees my actions as childish and highly disapproves of my interaction with the commoners. He sees the title of prince as an extremely important responsibility.”

“Is it not?”

“It is, of course, but Rosha believes it should take precedence over everything else, no exceptions. I value the friendships I have with you and the others, and I believe that a good ruler should know the people he rules if he is to govern them well. But my brother–“

“Believes in the ways of old tradition,” Schill finished, and Nayru grunted in affirmation.

“Correct. In his eyes, a ruler should be imperial, show no emotion, become a figure of high stature and royalty, but I cannot see it in the way he does.” Nayru let out a deep sigh. “I love Rosha, for he is family, but with the way he sees me, the love is not reciprocated.”

Schill frowned as Nayru’s expression darkened, and shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I suppose I should be off. Things to attend to, as well as you should.”

“Mm.” Nayru sat up and gave him a friendly clap on his shoulder. “Alright, I will see you later my friend.” He stood up and stretched, a large yawn escaping him.

“Gods above, you’re making me tired just by looking at you,” Schill commented. “Get off to bed, won’t you?”

Nayru let out a hearty laugh. “I’ll do my best.”

The two exchanged goodbyes and returned to their homes, Schill to his modest house and Nayru to the palace.

Unfortunately for him, there were only two entrances to the palace; the front, and the back which led to the thrones and the courtyard. Both were far too conspicuous for Nayru, but he supposed that his brother would find him some time were another. It was better just to get this over with.

Not to the prince’s surprise, he found Rosha standing at his own window, his back to Nayru.

“Nayru.”

Blast.

The younger had attempted to sneak past to his own quarters, but he knew Rosha would have been waiting for the slightest creak in the wooden floorboards. Growling under his breath, Nayru stopped and stood in the doorway.

“What?” He asked, a bit of contempt sneaking into his voice despite his efforts to stay steady.

“I thought I told you that you weren’t to leave your position yesterday.” His tone was tight, and definitely held a hostility that made Nayru shrink back slightly.

“I did nothing wrong,” the blue-furred prince stated, straightening his posture to give himself more confidence.

“You broke praxis.”

“What does it matter? I’m doing what I think is best. You cannot tell me that what I do is inherently bad, not after the result of me doing so.”

“That’s not the point!” Rosha slammed a fist down on the sill, his back still turned. “Things have been done a certain way for centuries, and you have no right to suddenly change practices for your own sake.”

“Are you saying that we shouldn’t care for our own people?” Nayru contradicted without hesitation. Rosha visibly tensed.

“Fraternizing with peasants is not the way to do so,” Rosha snapped back, turning his head slightly to the side. “It isn’t right.”

“‘Fraternizing?’” Nayru repeated incredulously. “Are they so unimportant and lowly that you would speak of them as if they were but worms in the dirt?” He flung his paw towards the window in an angry gesture. “These people matter just as much as we do!”

“We are rulers, they are the subjects, and as such, you have the responsibility to hold yourself above them.”

“Just because we are in a position of power does not mean we have the right to see ourselves as better!”

“You are wrong!” Rosha shouted, facing his brother, nostrils flaring. “We were placed here and given the specific duty to be kings. We have a sacred responsibility, yet you shun it and descend to their level instead. You act like you are one of them, and it is unacceptable.”

“And the way you act isn’t?” Nayru retorted. “You sit up there and stare down at them all with a soulless expression, refuse to talk to them or hear their worries or sorrows and then expect them to love you? No,” he shook his head, laughing darkly. “What you are doing is becoming a heartless villain who cares more for the ways

of tradition than he does for his own people. It’s no wonder why I am more favored in their eyes.” Rosha had been watching his brother speak, managing to hold a somewhat stern expression, but at Nayru’s last words, the facade was dropped.

“You do not understand the words you speak!” A guttural growl accompanied his words as he advanced on his brother. “You are young and illogical, and I will not hear another word! Enough, Nayru! Cease this unruly behavior. I will not ask you again.” His statement was meant to be final, as was apparent by his tone and the way he looked down upon Nayru. His will was powerful, almost too strong...but Nayru had had enough. Too long he had been subject to his older brother’s commands and wishes. He had been overpowered time and time again, been shut down by Rosha’s devotion to the old ways, but this time– this time he would not take it a second longer.

The younger prince stared the older directly in the eye, seeing his anger shine like firelight, and spoke two simple words.

“I refuse.”

Rosha’s eyes widened in disbelief, and he raised his head, his paws quivering furiously. “You do not know what you say.”

“I mean every word of it!” Nayru hissed. “You cannot force me to bend to your will, just as you cannot force the mountains to move or the sun to set.” The two were just inches apart now, both fuming with rage and frustration. Rosha was so close to breaking; his entire being radiated a malevolence stronger than Nayru had ever felt before. Nayru almost thought he would attack when suddenly, he straightened, pushing his shoulders back and returning to a regal posture and forced a calm expression onto his face. It almost looked as if he had never engaged in the argument.

“I’ll be damned if I don’t try.”

He stepped around Nayru and silently exited the room. He didn’t speak another word, he only left his brother alone to contemplate. For what seemed like several minutes, Nayru didn’t move. His brother’s words stung and weighed heavily on his heart...he could almost feel something pressing on his chest, making it hard to breathe. He had done it– he had finally stood up to Rosha and said what he really felt...so why did he feel so horrible?

Nayru shook his head, trying to clear his mind and left the room as well. All he could feel was anger and sadness as opposed to the triumph and victory he should have felt. As he walked down the hall to his own room, he clenched his fists, class digging into the pads of his paws. Locking his door, he stalked to his window and glanced outside at the awful brightness of the noonday sun before yanking the drapes across it in disgust. His black curtains did their job well, and the room was plunged into almost complete darkness.
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[Matreats]

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A dark mist covered the floor, thick tendrils curling as Rosha stepped through them. It was cold, freezing almost. The cold reached through his thick fur, pricking his skin like millions of icy needles. Despite his desire to stop and find warmth, he kept walking forward, determined to reach….somewhere. He forgot where he was going, but he only knew it was important.

The area around him was desolate, a vast expanse with nothing but the scarce dead bush. He had never seen such a place before, but before he could think too much about it, a familiar building came into view.

The palace was soon looming over him, all the previous bright colors and intricate engravings now heavily muted and grayed out until all but the faintest idea of color was lost. With a quick glance around, he instantly noticed that there was only one throne instead of two placed at the top of the stairs.

Rosha frowned, an odd feeling coming over him. The banners that hung from the pillars no longer bore the insignia of sun and moon, but instead were blank. They flapped sadly in the slight wind.

He ascended the steps, continuing to look around him as he went. The atmosphere here was hostile and unwelcoming, as if someone had purposely made it to frighten others away. Rosha stopped, having reached the enormous palace doors that stood in front of him. He looked up, growing dizzy as they seemed to grow every second that he stared.

Suddenly, the doors creaked and started opening outward, the hinges screeching. They stopped, settling with a thud that echoed ominously into the dark. Rosha didn’t want to go forward, but his body acted against his will and entered the palace. When he passed the doors, they slammed shut behind him, and he attempted to flip around in order to see, but his head remained fixed forward.

In the middle of the massive room, a figure began to take shape the closer he got. As he neared it, the silhouette transformed into a familiar viscet.

“Hello dear brother.”

The voice was unmistakably Nayru’s but it held a level of anger and malice that Rosha would have never guessed possible. He tried to respond or say anything, but he was unable to move.

Nayru slinked forward, his tail dragging across the tile. His manner of dress was unlike anything Rosha had ever seen; a long cloak trailed behind him, and shimmering threads of gold hung from his horns and ears. A crown sat upon his head and golden armor was set on his shoulders and chest, reflecting Rosha’s own face. Nayru’s eyes were dull and narrowed.

“You’ve finally returned then? To take back the throne?” Nayru cackled as if his statement was a joke, holding a paw to his chest. “Oh...you should have never come here brother. I told you it would be the last thing you would do.”

An uncharacteristic fear entered Rosha and he had the overwhelming urge to run, but again he was frozen in place.

“Oh, you are so brave-! Standing there like that with no emotion in your face, just like you always did.” Nayru moved forward, drawing up to full height. He loomed over Rosha, casting a dark shadow. “Too bad that strong attitude will be wasted.”

Rosha opened his mouth. His eyes widened as he realized a chance to speak, but before he could think of what to say, he had already spoken. “Who are you?”

Nayru laughed. “Why, I’m your younger brother of course! Understandably you don’t recognize me, but that’s because I’ve reached my full potential.” He sighed happily and turned his back on Rosha.

“I have become the sole ruler of this kingdom. I’ve taken my rightful place as king.” He turned back. “Now there is no need for you any longer.” Nayru suddenly leapt forward at Rosha, his jaws opening as he came down and swallowing Rosha in complete darkness.



Rosha jolted upright, a cold sweat making him shake as he felt around him to confirm where he was. He could feel the bed covers, and when his eyesight adjusted the rest of his room was visible.

His heart was beating as fast as a mouse’s, and his paws were shuddering uncontrollably. Had it all been a dream? He knew it was, but there was the part of his mind that was furious at Nayru for taking what belonged to him. He had stolen his right to the throne, insulted him, and….

The image of his brother attacking him flashed in Rosha’s vision, and he flinched back, squeezing his eyes shut. It had felt so real- he had seen it, felt it. This could not be any ordinary dream.

This was a vision of the future.

Rosha stood up, his claws clicking against the floor. Dream and reality mixed in his mind until they became one in the same. He stared at the door, his thoughts in turmoil until one rose above the rest. He must be eliminated. If Nayru continued to live, he threatened everything that Rosha worked towards. His brother would overthrow him and take everything if he didn’t take action.

Mind muddled with hallucinations of dreams and an unprecedented fear of the future driving him, Rosha unlocked his brother’s room with a hidden key and stood in the doorway for a second before approaching his bed.

As he stared down at Nayru’s sleeping form, doubt of his intentions started to appear. Was this truly the right thing to do? Rosha’s vision blurred and when it focused, Nayru was staring at him with that same murderous look as he had before; his teeth bared in a threatening smile and his eyes flashing with an inner fire. Fear sparked in Rosha’s heart again, and without another thought, he let out a cry and slashed his claws down onto Nayru.

The younger prince’s eyes snapped open and he reflexively rolled out of the way a split second before Rosha’s claws raked across his throat. In the dark room combined with the daze of sleep, Nayru was unable to see who his assailant was, save for a glowing golden eye. All of his instincts on high alert, Nayru bolted out of his room and down the hall.

Rosha ran after him, arriving in the front hall just as Nayru sprinted out of the doors. “Guards, chase after him!

He’s gone wild!” Rosha screamed, and the soldiers responded quickly, not daring to take the time to ask what was happening. Rosha’s command was unheard by Nayru- he was already out of the palace and running down the steps as fast as his paws would carry him.

Two soldiers ran ahead of him, cutting Nayru off and forcing him to stop. They drew their swords and the prince backed up, confused and scared. Another soldier had snuck up behind him and jumped forward with a shout. Nayru flipped around just in time to see the soldier bringing down the hilt of his sword and smashing it into the side of the prince’s head.

Nayru collapsed on the ground, his eyes widening in surprise before he went completely limp and slipped into unconsciousness.



“My lord...we have captured Prince Nayru as you requested.” The soldier addressed Rosha, turning to the two that held Nayru’s body behind him. Rosha nodded. “But…” he hesitated, “If it is my place to ask- what happened?”

Rosha straightened, raising his head authoritatively. “He came into my room and attempted to murder me while I slept. When I tried to reason with him, he was crazed and wild and refused to hear any of it. I managed to chase him off before he could injure me.”

“What would drive him to do such a thing?”

“Jealousy most likely,” Rosha stated simply. “He was always jealous of me. I suppose this time he took it too far.” The prince could see the hesitation in his soldier’s eyes, but he ignored it. “He is a danger to me and everyone else, and he must be taken away for his treasonous act.”

“Would you...have him killed?”

The question caught Rosha off guard. Did he want Nayru dead? He had almost killed him on impulse and out of fear just minutes before, but now…

“No. Take him to the Ruins of Gomorrah. I never want to see him again.”



Nayru stirred, his mind slowly coming back to life. As his eyes fluttered open, he remembered what had taken place and stood up suddenly, looking for the soldiers that had been pursuing him...but there was no one.

His head ached immensely, and he remembered that the last thing he saw was the soldier’s sword coming down towards him. A shrill yelp escaped him as his head pounded painfully against his skull.

What happened?

His brain was so full of blurred images and muted noises that he could hardly make anything out. Slowly, he retraced his steps, going back to when he woke up. He gasped as he realized that someone had broken into his room and had tried to kill him- and they would have succeeded were it not for his fast reaction.

Nayru looked around, trying to place where he was. He was in a small room encircled by cracked stone columns weathered from age. Beyond that was a vast desert with massive dunes and bleached sand from the sun beating down upon them for centuries. It all looked vaguely familiar…

He walked forward unsteadily, his paws slipping in the loose sand. It shifted underfoot and he lost his balance, falling forward. He expected to land on his chest, but his paws flailed forward and hit an unseen wall. A current of energy jolted through his arm, paralyzing him in an instant as he fell backwards. His muscles were locked up and so tense he had no power to move. Only after minutes passed was he able to shift his paws and eventually pull himself to his feet.

He was shaking from the experience, and it hurt to move anything. He looked forward for what he had hit into, but he could see nothing except the ring of columns surrounding him. Taking a pawful of sand, he flung it at the empty space and jumped back when it sparked and flew backwards.

Nayru had never seen something like this before- he wracked his memory for anything that looked like where he was…then it struck him. There was the ruins of an ancient temple somewhere in the Neparta desert said to have a magical power imbued into the ruins to trap phantoms and other evils that used to plague the world.

The more Nayru looked, the more he was sure that this was the same place as he had seen in the old history books. “The Ruins of Gomorrah...it can’t be–“

His thoughts ran wild, the legends and stories told of the monsters that were once held here now surfacing. How had he gotten here? The wind whistled around him and he whirled his head, childish fears now returning. What kind of spirits still resided here?

He knew he had to escape, no matter how he had gotten here in the first place. Nayru began to hurl himself against the magical barrier, screaming on each painful impact. He was determined to get out, no matter how long it took– but each try was harder, longer, and hurt more. Nayru was starting to slow, tears filling his eyes as he realized that it was hopeless.

A fatigue came over him, hitting him like a wave and knocking him to his knees. Nayru’s willpower was waning quickly, and his eyes were forced close by the sudden force. He knew what was happening- this was the spell that forced those trapped inside into a magical sleep that lasted indefinitely until their soul lost the will to continue. He fought against it with everything he had, but he was so tired– it overcame him within minutes and he collapsed to the sand.

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[Matreats]

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Rosha sat on his throne, his long mane draping over his shoulders. His horns were long and sleek, and the cloak set on his shoulders was clasped together with a sun-shaped brooch. He was indeed the epitome of a king.

The servants bustled around the front room, preparing for the annual celebration of the sun as Rosha watched over them. He tapped his claws against the padded arm of the throne, reveling in the light that reflected from the golden floor. The sunlight was everything to him; it gave him life and energy, and served as a rejuvenating power. After these many long years as a king, he welcomed it.

The banners that hung from the walls held only a bright sun, symbolizing Rosha’s vitality and the strength of his kingdom. The days were long forgotten when the younger prince had disappeared. The people believed Rosha’s story, and he had assumed the throne not a day after Nayru had been taken.

Rosha has forbidden the mention of his brother, and had instantly ordered the redecoration of the castle to strip it of all signs that there had been another. The citizens and guardsmen were alarmed at the sudden change, but they were forced to go along with it. Some justified Rosha’s actions as a stage of grief, but there were many who suspicious. All though, were saddened by the loss of one of their princes and a dear friend.

Although the years came and went, the banished prince’s name was still passed around, legends of a time when there were two rulers instead of the one they had always known. Although Rosha did his best to rid his world of his brother’s remnant, part of him lingered within his mind. No matter how hard he tried, there was always the residual of guilt that lied inside him.

A young servant viscet approached Rosha timidly, bearing a plate of seaside delicacies. She bowed respectfully and offered the food, which Rosha took and ate. After he finished he dismissed her and she turned away shyly before running back off to the kitchen. He really couldn’t wish for anything else- he had everything he ever wanted and more.

He sighed contently and settled back, running his claws through his mane and feeling the silky strands. Today was going to be absolutely perfect.



A paw stepped down into the sand, the weight of a fully grown viscet pressing down into the glittering dust. His eyes opened and he squinted against the harsh light of the desert sun. Slowly, he moved his eyes around, taking in his surroundings. His eyes widened as he realized that he was back- he was back in the real world.

Nayru looked down at his paws, marveling at how big they had grown, and swiveled around, his massive mane following him. He stepped forward, wobbling slightly. Everything was so different- he could hardly recognize his body as his own...but that wasn’t what mattered. He was free.

For hundreds of years he had been subjected to torment by the magic placed here, seen and experienced things unimaginable to any. He missed his home, his missed his friends, and he missed his brother. Even with all his faults, Rosha was the only thing that had kept him going all these years. He was family, and they had grown up

together. Despite all the times they had butted heads, Rosha was important to him, and he would have done anything to see him during those years.

Nayru would imagine his brother’s blasted face when it seemed as if everything was hopeless- when he couldn’t go on any longer. He couldn’t imagine leaving this world knowing that the last thing he did to the person he loved was hurt them.

Closing his fists, Nayru looked up at the surrounding sand. There was no way to tell where he was or what direction the palace was, but he could feel something deep inside him; an instinct telling him where he needed to go. He was going home.



Viscets in the streets were staring at the newcomer as he walked through the streets, confused by how much had changed. He didn’t recognize anything- all the old buildings and houses had been either rebuilt or torn down...Nayru supposed he couldn’t blame everyone for staring though. He had seen himself in a pool of water and he looked like a old hermit with his mess of a mane and unkempt fur.

Despite the odd looks he got, Nayru kept going, heading straight for the palace. He stopped at the base of the steps before bolting forward, his emotions overcoming him as he burst into the throne room.

The bustle of the servants and preparers stopped as they all turned to see who it was. Rosha looked up and immediately stood, his eyes wide.

“Rosha!” Nayru cried, seeing his brother for the first time in centuries. When the older viscet didn’t respond, Nayru stepped forward. “It’s me- your brother– I...I came ba—“

“How?!” Rosha roared, seeming to shake the entire room and everyone in it. The servants scattered and the soldiers drew their weapons, all facing towards Nayru.

“W-what?” The blue-furred viscet looked up at his brother, confusion written across his face as opposed to Rosha’s rage. The way he looked down at him…Why was he angry?

“How are you still alive?” Rosha spat, his tail lashing furiously. Nayru’s face fell at his reaction, still not understanding why his brother was acting like this.

“I came back for you–“ Nayru started uncertainty, fear creeping into his voice. “It’s been so long and I could finally return-“

“You’re supposed to be dead!”

Rosha’s words rang in the younger’s ears, resonating again and again in his head. Why was he acting like this? There’s no possible way he could still be this angry about their argument, surely not–

Rosha’s golden eyes flashed with sunlight, catching Nayru’s attention. What was so important about that...golden eyes…

Then suddenly it clicked.

The memories of that night replayed in Nayru’s head as he saw his attacker’s eyes glint before he ran. They were

Rosha’s eyes. He had never even begun to consider that his own brother might have been the one to make an attempt on his life. What had he done to anger him to such a level as Rosha would try to murder him? He didn’t understand, he didn’t want to believe it, but the evidence was physically staring him straight in the face.

A tear rolled down the side of Nayru’s cheek as he stared at Rosha’s eyes. They were glowing with hatred and malice, and he could not deny it. Nayru could feel his heart breaking in two and falling to the pit of his stomach as the soldiers around him advanced.

His emotions boiled like a thunderstorm, thunderclaps of anger and lightning strikes of pure sorrow mixed together in a storm of confusion and disbelief. It was too much.

Nayru let out a cry of pure agony, a blast of power shooting from him and throwing back the soldiers into the walls, where they dropped to the floor, unmoving. His breathing increased speed until he was stumbling forward from dizziness, and fell to the floor.

Rosha looked down in disgust as Nayru’s body was wracked with sobs, a cry for the one he believed still cared. He stepped down from his throne and stalked forward, readying his magic that he had been improving for years. It was time to end this for good. An orb of golden energy formed in his paw, and he threw it forward, satisfaction sparking in him as it hit Nayru and exploded, sending the younger viscet skidding across the ground.

Rosha came closer, ready to throw another, but Nayru didn’t move. He stayed on the ground- he didn’t even attempt to stand back up. All Rosha could see of his face was the tear tracks running down his fur. He scoffed, clenching his teeth together. “This is exactly why you should never have been given the mere chance of being king. You are weak, and a pathetic excuse for royalty.”

Nayru shifted, lifting his head enough to see Rosha’s face through his matted mane. Without warning he leapt towards Rosha, claws outstretched and teeth bared. The two rolled and engaged in a frenzy of teeth and claws, both ripping violently at each other. When they finally broke apart, they were both injured from each other’s attacks.

Blood stained Rosha’s nose and flank, his orange and yellow fur slowly turning red. Nayru’s fur darkened, indicating the places where his brother had managed to claw or bite. Not giving the younger a chance to rest, Rosha got to his feet and flung a blade of glowing energy at Nayru. He had no time to dodge; he screeched as it cut through his shoulder and dropped to one knee, holding a paw against the wound.

Rosha knew that his brother was finished. He was weak from his trials and traveling, and he stood no chance against Rosha’s increased magical abilities. Seeing the blood soaking through Nayru’s paw, Rosha charged his magic, letting the orb grow larger and larger with every passing second. This would finish him off. Finally, he released it, shooting it directly at Nayru.

The blue viscet stood, and with a final cry of desperation launched his own beam of energy, meeting Rosha’s in the middle. Time seemed to slow down as the two fought for the advantage, but Nayru was quickly being overpowered. His strength gave out and Rosha’s magic hit him, sending him flying. He hit a column with a crack, and slid to the ground, falling in a heap.

The king approached, a snarl distorting his face as he kicked at Nayru’s body. Dead, as he expected. It was over.

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The story of the two princes does not end with this. After the battle, Rosha believed that his brother was dead. Unbeknownst to him, Nayru survived. Torn by grief and anger, he dedicated himself to destroying Rosha and all he had worked towards. Nayru became a being of chaos and destruction, the only motivator being to get revenge on the world and his brother for what happened to him. Little is known about the whereabouts of Nayru, but some say he stalks the perimeters of the city, waiting for a chance to invoke justice.
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[Matreats]

[ceenter]

x━━(Ａ̵̡̦̥̤̙̩̙͖͉̲̅ ̸̨̘͇̫̗̥̺̇̈́͊͋͛̄͒̽̓̈́̂̔̚͠͝x̸̧̟͙̘̖̬̤̤̺̍́̀͆͑͗̅̇̋́̈́͘̚̚͜͝ ̶̡̳͕̦͈̤̘̯͎͖͔̌̍̿̐̌̀͐ͅＭ̵̠̥͍̟̾͋̍͗̋͐̿͌͑̀̈́͠Ｅ̶̛̘̓́͆͂́̐̓͋́̀͛̕̚Ｔ̶̡̜̪͙̬͍̱̱̩̭̀͗̓̇͌͐͜Ａ̶͔͉̲̱̰̗̳̊̐̐̓̈̇Ｐ̸̢̡̢̧̛͕̯͔͓̖̪̗̘̦͔̈́̔͗̋̑̿̂̽Ｈ̴̞̤̜̮̪̌̀͗̈͆͋̋͊͂̒̎͐͘Ｏ̷͍̘͔̘͇̣̲̪̺̍̚͝͝͝Ｒ̷̛͈̠̣͑͂̿̿̍͋̀)̶̢͈͇͖̻̮̮̣̺̘̬͍̑̓̆̀͒̈́͗̓̀̄̇̚̚͝͝━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

g̵̨̡̩͓̘̩̺̪̭̭̩̩͉̈̿́ǫ̸̤̯̮̼̼̹̠͇̻̗̠͕͇͓͎̖̖̳̩̖͌̆̌́ň̶̨͕̮̮̞͖̮̭̥̐̓́̌͐̒̈̃̀͑̑͆͛̆̃̀̊͛̕͘ͅę̷̮̻͎̬͈̩̹͇̫̂͒̇͆̓͆́̃̑́̒̄̀̇̂̆̾̒̐͘͘͜͠ ̶̡̜̮͈̲͙̮̖̬͈̣̝͍͎̠̭͈͊́̀̇́͐͒͋͑̊͊̚͝g̸̡̝̓̇͑́͒̑͐̚ǫ̷̥̘̤͌̏̽͆̊̈́̀͗̋͒̏̀͂̔͛̈̒̉͒̿́̚̕͜͝ņ̵͍̹̩͍̣̗̺̥̱̯̄e̴̛̮̠̓̐̈́̋̒͌̊̕̚͘͘͠ ̵̡͓͚͉̪̣͓̝̤͂͋̈́̐̅̓̕͝g̴̡̬͙͍̻̘͛̄͊̃̄̾̐̂̔͜͝ǫ̶̛̦̣̥̪̘̲͙͖̝̭͙̫̣̹̻͌̌̊̀͌̓͂̊́͋̑͋̏̄̈́̐̋͛̚̚̚͘͜͜͜n̵̡̧̧̢̨̖̥̹̞̞͎̰̠͍͚͚͖̗̻̲̔͛̍ͅè̴̡̨̲̼̦̞̗͓̖̲̬͉̰̌ ̷̢͈̠̬͈͖̜͈̗̳̟̹̘̙̥̆̔͐̈̀̊̓́̀́͒̈́̔͘̚͝g̸̡̢̨̻͖̬͇̻͈̼̺̞̭̪̼̪̩̣̯̝̈̐̀̔̂̀̀̕͝ͅǒ̵̢̧͖͓̪̻̻̱̦̬͕̖̤̫̠͉̮̩̘̰̾̾͋͌̊̀̒̾͂͌͘ͅņ̵̛̛̟̞͉͗̌̂̌͂̉͛̅͛͒̈́̀̽͑̒̈́̚̕̚̕͝͝ě̶̩̟̖̳̪̲͇͖̯͚̒͆̅̉̎͊̾͂̋̉̈́͒͆̑͌͆͐͐͒͛̈́̓g̵̛̻̙̺͖͓̺̠̊̉̏͘o̴̻͚͙͚͔̹̬͙̪͍͓̫͕̥̩͛̅̋ǹ̸̜̥͈̥͔͇̮̝̥̲͈̝͕͙͍͉̒͑̍̒͜ͅe̵̡͖̤̹̣̞̥̘͔̜͍͉͍͔̹͎̠͕̲̒͗̈́̈́͒̈́̇̅̏̑̒́͌̊͌̀̀̔̈́͘̚̚̚͜͝͠ ̴̺̻̩̲͕̙̯͔͖̘̰̜͚̃͐̊g̷̢̛̪̰̞̹̺̃̌͂́́͗͊̇̒̍̊̏̐̾̇̀́̌̆̾͘͠ỡ̴̧̠̬͕̝̖̻͍̱̰̖̞͉̱̊́͒͆̾̆̇̒̇̏͊́̌̍̉͊̀̚͘͘͠ͅͅn̴̦̖̳̗̩͆̒͆̄͒́̑̔̅͂̈̍̈́̅̿̚ẽ̵̡̝̰͈͇̫̹̲͙̦̓̈́̓̄̀̐̄́̐̋̎̉͒͂́͘̚͜͝ ̵̡͎̟̫̤̣̘͚̭̠̔̇͌̂ͅg̶̡̡͍̙͇̪̰͖̗͈̔̑̍̽̎́͂̑̌̒̃͋̏͒̚o̴̧̡͓̜̼̜͇̠̰̙̦̥̳͎͕̹̰̳̹̱̊͆͆͐͋́̿͗̌̇̀̅͑͋͜͝͝ǹ̶̢̜̬̼̙͚̪̬̬̬̞̼̹̠̼̪͓͕̃͒͑͛̑̀͗̀͛̅̂́̈̈́̅̋̈́͘̚͜͝͝͝ͅe̵̫̼͔̺̯̖̩̘͈̳̲͕̟̰̥̖̲͙̣̿̾̉̽̅̀͠ ̸̨̡̢͍̠̫̱̜͎͍̖̭̦͔̤̭̗͎͙̣̻̊͛̃̈́g̵̡̟̞̖̫͙̩̻̗̘͚͓̤͍̲̻̾̈̑̚͘͠͝ő̷̧̡̯̣̰͇̮̙͈̙̦̞̥̜͕͈̠̱̠͗̍͐̈̊͒͗̐̀̓́̈͌̌͊̄̒͊̆̈͐̕̚͠n̷̨̯̙͖͍̞̜̖̪̻̑̿̍̂̏͋̃̆̽͒̈̽͊̇͛͐̾̈̂͘̚͘͝ḛ̴̙̼̥̙͂̽̌̐̂͒͑̓̀͒̿̀̏̆̎͛̔̚͠ͅv̸̡̢̺͙̼͎̹̘̮̝̝̪̭̺̭̜̫͍̩̼̽̆͂́̇́̎͒̎̈̌͂̒͒̑̆̒̏̾̑͘̕͠͝͠g̸̡̢̮͇͓͔̩̲̭͇̖̮̰̻̳̟͖̗̣̲̱̀͜ͅǫ̶̛̰̜̝̗̬̺̺̊͛̍̋͂̏n̶̢̹͈̩̰̩͈͈̼͙̮͇̱͈̣̩̯̞̙͖̭̒́̈́ͅe̵̢̡̛̱̩̗͖̼̯̘̥͖̥̯̙͖̜̰̮̗̟͈̗͈̿͒͑̍̍̋͌̈̽̐͛̈̋̒͜͝͝ ̴̼̙͚̘̝̙̔̎̈́͊͊̊̄̓̉̿̆͜g̸̡̡̡̡̧̧̩̝̮̜̠͎͉͇̣̺͙͖̿̽́ỏ̷̩̘͖̘̦̟̄̋̒̏̋͗͋̾̑̈́͂͂̅̓̚̚͝n̷̡̢̨̢̥͖͕̻͓̱̦͕͍̘͚̰̿̅̇̏͆͐̀̒͗̋̃̇̈́̾͂͌̄͘̚͝ě̸̢̨̛̯̮̩͎̙̻̞̣̼͍̫̺̝͆̽̐͂͆̐̂͂̊̀͐͑͛̕̚̕̚͝ ̷̡̡̛̻͕͚͖̠͖̗̺̱̣̰̼̯̟̰̜͖̫̖̮́̀̇̑̑̆̊̓̀̚̚͜g̶̡̰̫͖̳͖̭̪͙̯̦̳͓͕̲̻̝̠͖̈́ͅo̶̞̿̊̅̔̃͒̄̄̍̓̉͛͘͝͝n̵̡͓̫̬̱͍̦͖͒̄̈̇̑̇͒͌́͋̈́̚͜͝͝ͅe̴̢̝̥̺͍̖̞̦͈̦̝̝͎͚͕̫͈͙͉̫͑̀̏̓̀̽̐̀̅́̇̂̀̀͝ ̶̧̛̦̾̄̽͋͐͒̈́̅̇̔͋͘̕g̸̡̛͖͓͔̝̳̫̟̩̰̱̳͕͓̋́͆̇̓̓̆̋̿̇́̓̐̚̚̕͜ö̸̯̭̠͓̼̗͑̃̑̎̃͂̔͑̃̑̋̑̍ņ̸̨͍͈͓̞̰̤̱͉͉͖̺̤̦͆̿̎̃̈́͂͒̇ẽ̶̡̢̧̩̲͈͉͚̪̠͍͓̝̜͇̼̤͇̰͙̱͉̑̓̆́̾̏̾̎̓̎̌̐̉͑̕͘ͅͅḡ̷̢̛̙̖͇̤̹̪̳̬̠̻̭̬̪̪̏́̃̓̃͐͜o̵̢̧̝̲̞͕̝͍̲̙̭̮̲͛̈́͆̀͂̏̍̇̒̈̒̉́̀͊̕͝ͅń̵̢̮͖̼͍̣͉̀̀͂̓̈́̀̿e̴̮̤̭̣͕͆̈̐͆̿́̊̀̋͂͝͝ ̸̛̖͈̭̪̅̀̀͑͑̍͊̑͠ǵ̸͔̲̦̫̠͎͙̬̤̖͋̈́͛̕o̴̢̨̢͓̼̣̟̪͎̟̺͖̯̮̠̠̪͚̳̻̲͍̭̔̊́̀̓̿̾̎͂͗͛̽͘͘͜͝͠ͅn̵̫͕̐̈́̂̿̃́͑̔͋̉́͌̈́̓̑̈̎͘͝͝ẻ̵̞̀̄̆͐̍͂͌̅̃̌̌́ ̶̢͔̦̣̮͈̤̲͔̥̲̖̫̤̭͓̯̻̯͙̪̤͘ͅg̶͚̯̥̐̃͋̓̆͋́̉̀͑͌͊̕o̶̳̠͂́̀͗̈́͋̓̍̾̎̍͝͝n̵̢̟̻̖̝̦͕̹̞̲̮͙͕̖̓̂̀̈̀͗̍ȩ̷̫̞͍̮̖̙̞͓̼̣̝̫̗́͜͝ ̷̯̠̣͐̄̚͠g̴̨̮͚͔̫̮̀̅̐̔̊o̶͎̞̭̣̣͑̑̈́́̂̉͛̽͐̑̅͐̕͝͠n̶̹͚͙͍̘͚̭̄͛̒̓͠ĕ̶̢̜̺͎̞͓̺̺͍̯̘̟ͅǧ̴̡̳̪̦̹̼̦̭̘̩̖̙͊͛̓̿̐̿̓̍̾͊̓́̃̉͘̕͝͝ơ̸̡̡͓̰̻͚̺͎̼̮̲̘̹̼̘͒̉̄̀͑͋̑̀̅̄́͆̓̇̔̐̓͛̌̕̕͜͝͠n̶̢̢̢͚̱̮̙͈͈̙̜͈̘͈̪̘̯̱̻̏͂͑͆̌̃̈́̅͐͐̿͂̔̀͌̍̀̍́̀̂͊̒͝e̴̢̺̟̭̝̖̻̖̙̪̦̲̱̺̫̲͕͖̹̩̒̈́͜ͅ ̷̫͍̩̠̦̱̫̖͖̜͔͕̺̰͆͆̅̂́̄̍̋̈́͛̃̿̓̓͋̐̎̕̕͘͠͠ͅģ̵̪̼͖̳̻͕͙̬̼̗̺͎̲̌ͅơ̴̡͍̜̲̤̪̞̩͚̼̦̼̝̘̤̱͍̫̓́̒̓̆͋̆̆̋͑̈̈́͆̏̈́͆͒̉͗̀̈́̚̚͝ͅn̸̛̛͖̪͕̠͈̦̥̬͔̖̝̽̇̅̒̅͐̽́̅̇̅͗͑̋̀̅̐̐͝ȩ̶̧͔̤̳͎̙̗̱̖͉̮̭͕̝́̓̄̽̈́͒̾̋̈͑̓͌̈͌̚͝͝͝ ̴̢̨͎͉̭͌̒̓́͘g̸̨̪̝͍͇̭̺͇̭̩̹͇̲̥̺͚̞͈̏̾̾͂͂̈́̀̀̓͂͒̍̈́͗̀̃͂̂͑̚̚͜͜͝͝ͅo̸̧͎̺̼̩̰̯̼̠̭͕̬̓͑͒̌̓̊̂̽͆́̈́̀͊̉̆͊̓͌͝͝͠n̸̡̥̦͚͓̟̩̗͍̱̱͉̲̟͈͔̙͈̲̘͎͉͊̔̓͜͝e̷̢̧̢̜̺͎̠̘͎̬̙̩̬̩̪̱̿͌̎̓́̎͆̅̏̊̓̅͜ ̴̡̹̮̜̓̆̑̏̽̃̽̎͐͐̍̐̏͑͆͘ģ̷̢̼̱̘̝̹̼͓͉̫̖̰̣̗̯̎͗͆̃́͑̈͆̎̒̾͐͒́̒͂̀̑̀́̔͑͘͘͘ͅỏ̴͈̺͚͕̘͉͎̹͚̝̦̳̍̓̍̏̅͌͋̆́͐̓̍̕͝͝ņ̸̠͈̺͎̹̞̫͉͖̱͙̺̘̝̥̺͉̐̓̐̿́̽ͅͅe̴̡̪̗̼͇̹͖̞͔͋͐̓̃̃̑̇̏̿̆̄̄̅̎̍͗̕͝g̷̢̱̳̠̘͎̭̱̼̜̤͉̦̠̖͆͑̾̆̅̑̄͐̀́͑̽́̃͜ỏ̶̧̨̥͇̳̥̩̭͚̤̣̣͈̘̠͒́̏̃̓̅́̉̎̈̾̆̏͆͊͐̂̉͑̃͘̚͝n̸̘͖̫̟̤̥͕̬͖͉̏͐̌̓̄ê̶̡̨̧̟̦͇͚̯͍̩̞̪̺̾̌̅̊̈́ ̸̡͇̖̹͎̦̱͓̘̝̭̭͖͇̼͖̮͖̖̌͗̾͂̑͒̐͆͂̉͐̔̄̈͌̐̑͋̈́̚̚͘͜͠͠͠ͅģ̴͉̙̱̲̱͍͓͍̣̱̻̂̌̃̃̚o̶̢̦͖͍̝̯͓̻̥̱̳̞̞͖̰̻̘̝͈͕͂̔͒̏̎̎͒͂͊͂̀͛̋͊̽̉͝͝͠͝ͅͅṇ̵͓͕̯̞͚̭̪̖̟͓͕͇̙̓͂̏͐͋͛̊̆̿̓̊e̴̗̩̭̱͍͋̿͗̒̾͛̌̔͋͑͊̐̀̐̀̑͂͌̀̆̚͝͠ ̷̨̢̮̤͇͖̲̻̟͍͈̼͕͕̘͇͕̜͕̮̫̥͉̯̊̃́͗̊̂͋̌̌̽̆̈̍̐͑̿͑͘̕͝g̷̛̤̟̭͇̗̓͊̓̒́̎̑̀̋̏̉̅̉̐͘̕̚̕̕͠͝͠ó̷̭̩͋̿̇͆́̽̽͋͒͂́̋̏̄̃͛̍̀͋͛̅̕͠͠ǹ̸̢̡̧̛͚͖̘̱̖͚̮͚͉̹̪̞̹͇̹͉͓̙͓̈́̈́͆̉͆͐͋̎̃́͂͑̓̒̓̍̏̄̕̚͘͠͠é̴̡̛̖̭͍̱̘͎͚̹̦͙̣͇̝̹̠̙̥̲̱̭̀͐̿͐̒͊͆̂̈́̐̀̀̉̄̐͑̄̊̚ ̵̨̘̟̺̩͎̾̊̄̈́̇̓͗̏̄̆̾͐̚g̴̛̗͍͖̈̔͗̌̂́̈̈͌̊͗o̶̯͖̳̝͚͐̌̽̄͗̀͌͒̔͌̊͐̍̓̈́͝ͅǹ̴̢̢̰͓͚̙̗̣͎̟͇̗̯̱̠̼̈́̿̾̈́̒̈́͒̀̌̎̑̽͗͜͝ͅḙ̴̛̱̖̠̰̗̩̦̲̻̤̺̮͒͌̀̈́̑̀̈̈̐́̊̍̊̅͘͘͜͜͝͠
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━̷━̶━̷━̷━̷━̶━̸━̶━̷━̴━̴━̶━̵━̵━̶━̵━̶━̷━̵━̵━̶━̶━̶━̷━̸━̸━̴━̶━̷(̵Ｉ̷Ｎ̷ ̸x̴ ̸Ｓ̴Ｔ̴Ｏ̶Ｒ̶Ｉ̶Ｅ̴Ｓ̸)̷━̵━̵━̸━̴━̴━̷━̵━̷━̵━̴━̵━̶
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(Ｏb̸͔̫̠̪̺̹̣͒̾̔̿̈́͐̀r̸̬͙͕͈͐͒͜ó̶͇͇̝͍̀͐͐͝k̴̡̅̒̔͋̆̆̚̕è̶͇͂̋͑̑̽͝n̴̨͎̪̬̪̪̟̖̤̺͌́͊͋b̸̜̪̥̣̥̬͚̿͜r̶̡̨̫̲͉̝̥͓͖̒̏̐̇̀͋̊̐̚͘o̴̭̬͙̼̠̪̦̣͓͆̈͘ķ̵̨͚̺̪̖̱̰̜̊͗̉̍ͅę̸̖̱̣͕̩̭̀̃͝ ̸̛̬̥̤͉̺̮́͑́͛̂̄͆ͅg̸̨̼̯͔̣͖͖̝̃͌ő̸̧̲̠͍̺̮̟̟͊͐̈́ͅn̶̗̦̽͆̔͝ͅe̸̝̝̦̯̙͈͋͒̊̈͝ġ̷̢͍̬̺͊͌͋̾ö̵̗͎̮ͅn̵̢̛̝̦̠̥͚̮͚͜ë̷̱̤̘̗́̍͛͛̅͊͝ ̵̜̰͉̽̿͂̂͘ĝ̵̦̂̚̚o̶̢̲̙̞̟͚͐̍͆̆͒̋̕̚͠ͅn̵̺̦̰͎̩̞̺̆ ̴͔͎̱̻̠̣͌̾̑̽̒̕n̸̙͂̅̊̏̇͘̕͝n̴̖̙͍̻̠̜̤͉͒͠͠'̶̲̰̞͕̜̱̙́͒̀͌̔̚̕͜;̷̦͇̱͋̂̅̃͊̚͝;̶̢̬̹̃̇̓̊͑̈͝h̵̹̥̑͛͛͋͋͠9̶̢͓̦̝̤̯̜̀́͊̐̎̀̐7̴̤̺̊̀̍̊͝ḏ̴͚̣͍̝̜͉͔̦̻̋̈́̈́̀̿̅͋̒̇̓j̶̫̓̾̀k̷͙̥̀͘͝ͅx̵̲̼͕̱̣̝̼͒́͊̌̊̾̓̆̈́[/

ɢ̷̳̲͕̬̺͙̼̂̓̉̔ᴇ̵̗̅̈͒̇̔̍̕ɴ̷͔́̄ᴅ̵̮̗̾̓̈̀͐͜ᴇ̸̞̻̹͚͖̭́̒͌̀̆͠ʀ̴̘͂ ̵̖̝̭̳̥͓͋̂̽̽-̵̡̨̣̼̯̰͉͎̉̐ ̷̤͓͌̓̅̉m̶̻͕͊a̸̪̰̻̿̾̋̀̑́l̸͚͂́̀e̶̱͎̖̮̅̐̾̐̔̒͜͠
̴̨̝̱̱͎̝̋ʀ̶̗͍̼͓͠ᴇ̴̢͍͍̘̙̲̍͐͑̎͆͋̓͠ʟ̴̨͙̋̿͋̽̾͠ᴀ̶̥̬͖͕̼̮͂͌̈́͒̀ᴛ̵̝̰͈̭͕͇̐͜ɪ̷̨͈̘͔̳͕̍̐̿ᴏ̵̳̣̥̖͎͑̅͝ɴ̴̨̈́͌̌̿̑s̴͙̣̗͂̅̃̈́̀̾̾ʜ̵̧̧̛͍̮̝͎͕͛̉͒̄ɪ̵̮̠̮̠͇̮͛̔̽̓̎ᴘ̶͉͈̉ ̸̧̟̹̬̲̭̆̎̉̆͆-̴̨̡̰̘̣̻̘̾ͅ ̷̢̡̨̛͈̦͚͕̥́͒̿ḅ̷̨̹̫͚̑͜ͅr̸̢͚̣̫͇̦̱̒͊̒͛̆̊ö̶̙́̍́̎̆̒͜t̴͈͖̆h̷̪̯́̚e̶̞͛r̸̭̟̾̚
̶̨̭̩̣̝͕̉͊́̇̚
̴͎͔̥̭̻̖̜̍̍̓̽̇͂͝ᴘ̵̺͍̰̼̘͓̒͒͒̏̾̆ᴇ̶̡̥͔̂̂̔͊ʀ̷̰̖̋͌̋͝s̸̢̫̞͖͍̽̄̎ͅᴏ̷̧̥̤̠̣̹̯̜̊̈́͋̍ɴ̵̨̨̖̜̖̖̥̉̀̉̒̑̕͝ᴀ̶̥̭̏́͒̑͐̕͠ʟ̶̹̼̠͕̱͆̽̊̒̐̄̓̕ɪ̶̡̡̛͎̤̺̋͜ᴛ̷͙̏̓͆̃̉̐͝ʏ̵̼͕͇̯͍̫̮͔̒͊̽͗̒͝
̶̢͓͔̥͕̻͑̀̏̅̉͘̕͜ͅl̵̡͕͈̣̟̝͋̎͆͝ơ̴̢͆̈́̀̿͗̌y̴̥̒̒͒̿̏͌̍̄á̴̹̯̼̤͙̼͛̀͘̚l̶͖̞̜̎ ̶̯̯͓̱̪͙̩̌̾͆̅|̷̨͔̮̗͇͉̤͠ ̴͇̰̰̜̊̕ḧ̵̡̯̞͙̩̅̀̑̾͌͐̂a̸̯͓̰͎̝͂̆ͅr̸͙̺̥͇͂̒̔ḑ̶͇̖͑̈́͂w̸̨̡̯̗̙͎͚͌̀̔̓͌́̈́͆ǩ̵̫͉i̸̡̭͚̮̥̼͇̗͛̓̄̾̈́ņ̸̛̪̞̲͇̼̮ǧ̵̡̡̱͙͖̻̲͇ ̵͕̥͂̏̍̋̍̓̋̚|̴̭͇̆̏́̑́ ̵̝͖͎̫̮̿̉̓͝ḑ̵̨̧͚̗͕̊̽̊̓̚ȩ̸͓̖̮̳͌̔̋̒̈́d̵͎̑͌̎̒̾͛̎i̷̛̺̺̬͌̎̔̉̀̐c̵̢̧̦̺͇̥̠̜͆̒̏̋ạ̴͇̀̄̿̊̍̇̕͝ṱ̷̦͂̃̃̌͗̄e̵̢̛̗̖̣͈̠͐̒̾d̵̛̺͓̏͗̉̆̓͝ ̸̲̪̮̯̟̗̘̽̋͝|̸̡͇̥͚̳͖̽̉̅̓̀̓̿͜͜ ̸͖̥̈́̋̋̓̄̽͂i̴̛̞͉̰̬̪̮͂̀̋̀͝ͅń̶̳͎̱̎̓̑̐͝͠t̷̢̠̹͈͛̈͒̿͒e̵̛͓̫̮͂͐͌̃̉ǹ̶̡͓͙̻̪͎̋́͑͜t̸̫̞̳͕̹̱͒ ̸̡̯͕̼̓̂̍̈́̚|̸̨̯̭̪̮̘̭͂̉̇͜ ̸̡̘̻͙̼͉̆g̸̣͉͇͕̦͊r̷̪̦̖̱̒́͂̽͐̊̂e̷͚̣͓̘̗̦͔̓̂̅̀e̵̯̿̄̋̓̈́̐̀d̸̨͇̟̰̲̞̑̃̀͑̕͝y̸̲̮̅͋
̵̭͌͊̚p̶̧̛̰̱̦̗̮̞̑͋̊̒͘͜o̴̰͕̩͕̳̜̟̽͗̏̀͂͑̚͠ŵ̴̢̮̖̞͙̀̋́̌͜e̶̺̾̈́͆ȓ̵̨̛̛̤̬̹͉͇̘̳̅̍f̴̧̺̺̹̲̝̳̫̀̎̔u̵̩̦̪͖̖͚͈̘̅̒̎̓l̵̥̀ ̴̧͔̤̲̻̗̠̀͑|̸̛͔̮̬̞̻̻̰̅͛̀̒͒ ̶̣̝͇͕͎̾̌́̉̐̑ṃ̸̜̱̱͈͚͖̅a̴̧̛͊̑͌̃̆n̴̪̜̜̙̻̩̈́̾̾͊i̸̘̟̍́ͅp̴̧͖͖̼͉̳̙͙̕͘ȋ̷̺̘̞̬͐v̴̻̲̱̀̇e̴̯̬̓͌̍̂͌͊́ ̸̧̝̈́̽͗̍̈̊̕|̵̨̧̢̭̱̩̅̈́͗ ̸̧̙̻̘̜́͜j̷͚͓̒͑̓ĕ̶̦̬̲̖͍̫̩͔̈͝a̶̜̮̹̘̦͕̽̓̾́̋̎̚l̴̥͙̪͋̍̋͆ǫ̸̜̬̰͎͌̾͑̓̇͛̏̄ů̸̢̫̦̓̂͘s̸̳̔͠ ̴̲͈̪̘͈͕̮͙͝|̷̲̮̲̬̙̥̲̒͗͝ ̷̤͈̰̜͒̃̒́̚o̴̼̱̎͗̽b̵͎̮̎͑̇͒̈́͠͠j̸̢͙̼̹̎͐͐̌̂̆̕͝e̸̻͒̀̋c̸̗̜̎̐̃͊t̸̫̦͌̍ḭ̶̤͊f̵͍̝͉̤̾y̸̟̣͙̣͖̐̒͜ī̷͈̈́ͅņ̵̺̰̫̬͇̫̎g̴̻͈̗̘̥͎͖͙͊̅̊͆̂̐̈͝ ̴̘͉͗̿̅|̷͙̤̟̬̬̭̹̣͒̓́̌̓̈́͠ ̸̨̭̬͐s̵̘̿̀̇͆͠ẗ̵̨̝͙̠͔͙͈̦̕u̴̝͙͓͊͛ͅb̶̡̛̲͈͍̬̖̤̈́̈́b̵̗͐̏̂̿õ̵̪͓̤͔͕͇̪̭r̶̺̖̳͐̓̈́̎̅́̕͜n̶̲̠̭̦̈́̎̏̚

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=1b̸͔̫̠̪̺̹̣͒̾̔̿̈́͐̀r̸̬͙͕͈͐͒͜ó̶͇͇̝͍̀͐͐͝k̴̡̅̒̔͋̆̆̚̕è̶͇͂̋͑̑̽͝n̴̨͎̪̬̪̪̟̖̤̺͌́͊͋b̸̜̪̥̣̥̬͚̿͜r̶̡̨̫̲͉̝̥͓͖̒̏̐̇̀͋̊̐̚͘o̴̭̬͙̼̠̪̦̣͓͆̈͘ķ̵̨͚̺̪̖̱̰̜̊͗̉̍ͅę̸̖̱̣͕̩̭̀̃͝ ̸̛̬̥̤͉̺̮́͑́͛̂̄͆ͅg̸̨̼̯͔̣͖͖̝̃͌ő̸̧̲̠͍̺̮̟̟͊͐̈́ͅn̶̗̦̽͆̔͝ͅe̸̝̝̦̯̙͈͋͒̊̈͝ġ̷̢͍̬̺͊͌͋̾ö̵̗͎̮ͅn̵̢̛̝̦̠̥͚̮͚͜ë̷̱̤̘̗́̍͛͛̅͊͝ ̵̜̰͉̽̿͂̂͘ĝ̵̦̂̚̚o̶̢̲̙̞̟͚͐̍͆̆͒̋̕̚͠ͅn̵̺̦̰͎̩̞̺̆ ̴͔͎̱̻̠̣͌̾̑̽̒̕n̴̖̙͍̻̠̜̤͉͒͠͠'̶̲̰̞͕̜̱̙́͒̀͌̔̚̕͜;̷̦͇̱͋̂̅̃͊̚͝;̶̢̬̹̃̇̓̊͑̈͝h̵̹̥̑͛͛͋͋͠9̶̢͓̦̝̤̯̜̀́͊̐̎̀̐7̴̤̺̊̀̍̊͝ḏ̴͚̣͍̝̜͉͔̦̻̋̈́̈́̀̿̅͋̒̇̓j̶̫̓̾̀k̷͙̥̀͘͝ͅx̵̲̼͕̱̣̝̼͒́͊̌̊̾̓̆̈́z

ɢ̶͇̙͙̮̱̠̳͊͌̌̉͊ᴇ̸̨̛͍̦̜͔̜̜̯̹͆͑̇̂̈́̕̕͠ɴ̵̜͆ᴅ̵̼͎̠̠̘͔̃̋̚͝͝ᴇ̶̗͚̂̏̈̉̂̊̂̇̚͠ʀ̵̢̛̦̗̣̠̤̻̈́̏̾̽̇͘͘ ̵̡̨̱̹̯̹̩͎̍̿͜-̴̫̫̯̉͆̌̏̃ ̵͇̩̭̊́̀͋͆̈́̋̔͑͝m̴̠̀̋͒͐̔͆̈ả̷̰́̆͝l̸͉̠̖̈́͑̊͗̂͘͜ȩ̷͖́̕
̶̬̺̣̦̣͖̤̼͔̈́̋͆ʀ̷̢͍̠̝̈́̎̄̈̀̽͘͜ᴇ̷̢̨̠͔̼̟͉́ʟ̶̡̛̼͓̘̪͉̤̥̗͇̅̍͛̈́͂̈́͑̚ᴀ̸̨̢̙͚͉͒̊͑ᴛ̶̨̳̻͒̈́̋̌ɪ̸͉̃̄͂̽̾̂̚͝ᴏ̵̛̗̬̦̫͔̻͈̈́̓̓́͊̾̚ɴ̷͈͉̫̊̿̓̓̓͝s̶̠̺͚̓͝ʜ̴͎̫͚͓̺̦̗͇̙̹̑̒̈́̂ɪ̸̛͍̤̲̰̙͚̲̄̂̽͒̒̃͜͠ᴘ̵͔͍͙̥̣͉̌ ̸̲̜͇̰̫͑̀͆̓̏̉̓-̶̡̡͙͓̹̙͓͖̦̍͛̎̉̚͝ ̴̢͖̬̤̟̰͙̺̹͍͝b̷̜̫͊ͅṟ̷̨̢̥̫̮͈͊̃̄̾̿̐́̈́͠ͅo̶̡̭̠̳̯̼̿̐͆̾͂̐̈́̈́̎͜ͅt̸͚̙̞͚̯͉̕͜ḣ̷̙̪͇͑͐̅͌̏e̵͚̪͗ŕ̷͈̫͙̲̳̂̉̏̇͜ͅ
̷̧̭͚͙̭̱͕̲̰̕
̴̡̨̢̞̰̥̔̍͌̿͑͐͂ᴘ̸̮͙̤̌̑̂̓͋ᴇ̷̣͝ʀ̷̨͚̬͕̜͉̺̪͉̔̂́̓̀͑̀̃̚͠s̵̘͂͝͝ᴏ̴̨͍̬̅̅̃̿̚ɴ̵̡̲̞̠̺̬̱͐̄̊̓̈́͘͘̕͝ᴀ̸̟̟̝̙̳̑͑̀̊͊̾̒͠ʟ̴̭̪̥͔͇͔̣̺̲̑̀̿̊͊͐̕ɪ̷̺̗̮̰̗͕͎͝ᴛ̸̢̡͙̯̼̖̞͎̳̃̔̕ʏ̵̼̩̂́̃̎͘
̸͔̤͙̠̱̟̠̏̓̀s̵̤̪͈̺̍̿̈́͝o̶̠̦͖̮̣͈͎̭̩̔́͑̾̾̚f̸̥̮̳̬̣͖͗̒̉͜ţ̵̪̲͓̦̯̇̋̀͗̎ͅ-̵̧͉̤̰̞̞͌̄́̌h̶̥̖͌̓̊́̿͘͜͝e̸͑̐̅̿͘͜a̵̮̤͔̙͎͆r̶̢͙̖̀t̴̝̜́̑͝è̴̤̦̅́͒̑͒͗̔̄d̶̪̘̙͒̇͊̾͜ ̴̢̩͔̤̳̖̼̲̈̉̏|̷̨̢̱̣̹͈͇̼̪̊̅̾ ̷̯̤̜̺̱̩̻͈̏̈́̆̆c̶̥͈̍̀̂̈́̆̐o̶̙̼͂͒m̵̛̬̻̼͕͓̫͈̚ͅp̴̛̱͔͚̗͚̪͒̓̑͐̾͂̿͝ã̴̧̠̻͇̖̩͒̉͑̀͜͝ͅs̴̙̰͊͒͊̑̀̑͝ö̸͈̬̣̭́͆̎͌̎̎̇̕͝r̶̭̙͚͖̞̻͈̺̉r̶̙̹̯̤͗̈̍̆͠ͅi̶̲͕̪̳͈̯̩͚̋̓̉̍̂̌͑̕͘͝s̸̛͈̠͓̹̗̦̙͍̀͑̌̕͠ò̵̮͍̺͊͒̅͊̉͝͝m̸͚̮̰̜̘̟͓̙̘̱̏̀̓̅͛͑ẽ̶̡̪̤͔̯ ̶̪̩͎̩̱̲͆͐͂̊̕|̷̡̡̭̘̪̦̯͕͉̜́ ̴͇͖͐͊̂̉̆̕͠c̷̯͖̟̦̖̿͊́̎͑̈́͑͋̇̅ơ̴̙̪̥̓̌̕w̸̰͍̋͑͑̀̾͐̔͛͊ǎ̴̘͕͕̮̫̚͠ŗ̶̡͇͇̼̲̼̇͜͜ḑ̸̧̢͉̮͓̗̯͚̌̈́̕l̶̰̓̇̍̍͗͑͆͆̾̋ý̶̡̨͔͕̲̤̼̘͓͓̉̓̅͝ ̸͎̘̘̺̥͔̘͚̲̱́͝a̷͉͖̫̺͖̤̲͇̼̐̒̈́̕ͅp̸̛͓̦͉͕̼̆̓̌̃̕ą̵̡̡̛̯͇̤̰̅͂́̔̏͆͛̋t̵̛̫͔̱̯͙̜̭̞̊̈́̋̆͆̐̀̎h̶̛̝̤̲͆̂͐̓̈́͠ĕ̵͍͉̜̹̦͆̏̐̈̚̚t̵̛̪̟̓̆͌̀͘í̷̢̧͙͚̮̮̖̫̈́͘͜c̴͇̱͇͔͓͓̫̙̋͑̈́̃́̕̚ ̷̨̨̯̦̾̄̇̌̏̊̓̌̀|̸̟̪̗̼̪̱͔̫͂͆̐ͅ ̷͙̙̰̥̤͇͙̂̆̈́ͅi̴̬̲̣̖̊͌͋̄̄͂͝n̶̢͇͉̪͍̹̞̘͐̅̋̍́̊̐d̵̦͖͚̏̋͜ĕ̷̢̮͍̠͚̩̱̘̫̅͆̾c̷̺̦͔̜̼̘̒̎͊̿̓̑͜͠i̴͎̖͉̼̠̗̘̱̭̱͛̒͂ş̷̢̞̰̻̈́̋̊̈́ỉ̴̩̝̰̇v̸̖͖̳͇̪̻̳͆ͅe̵̢̟̬̤͎̻̠͚̓̑́̓̓

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[im━̶͎̦̦̗̯̻̞͆͜ͅ━̵͙̥͙͕̍̿̊(̵͎͔̰̮̠͛͝Ｏ̵̠͑Ｒ̵̨̝͇̥̞̑̚̕ ̴̡̢̫̬͈͎̳̒̾̐̅̎Ｍ̷̫̼͓͈̅̓̂͝Ｏ̵̡͇̖̟̲̟͚̈̀͑̑̽̽̓͜ͅＲ̶̱͍͙̜̻̯̞̹̆͗̊̉͑͠Ａ̵̨̠͓͕̜͎̭̲̾͠͝Ｌ̷̡̯̻̘͕̻̜͇̃Ｓ̶̹̙̺̝̺̖̯͑̅̑̚͠.̸̧̞͍̙͚͔̳͊͌̂̉)̵̞̥̻̘̗͙̚━̷̨̡̨͓̭̳̦̲͛̂͆̽̄̌͠━̴̨̠̩̜̒͐͌̏͋̏͂̈́━̷̧͆̄̂̌̉̾━̷̢̝̙͛̇̀͒̾̾͋̀━̴̫̳̙̺̯̿̐
̷̛̤̮͚̱̜̰̱̽́̌͋̈́̈́̑̕
̶͚͙̦̓ᴄ̵̪͕͇̄́͗̈́̀̑͠ʟ̴̡̨̯̝͎̗͔̹͉͂̑͐̀̀̉̕͠͝͝ͅɪ̴̘̥̙̙̼̠̙̳̏̉̽̚͘͠ͅᴄ̴̗͎̙̯͕͙̽̇ᴋ̸̛͍̲͙̗̭̙͙̥̅̈̋̆͛͘̚͝͝ ̵̛̩͖͚̈́͌̔̾̄ʜ̷̯̞͎̟͎̲̉̈̋̉̓͝ͅᴇ̶̝͎̘̘̤͔̠͒ʀ̸͖̖̠͇̣̯̰̆͑ͅᴇ̶̨͖͓̰̣͖̈͒ ̸̢͚͍̲͍̝͚͉̅́̌̔͑̉́̿ғ̴̧̖͎͐̑̈͂͑ᴏ̵̧͖̞̻̝̈̉ʀ̸̧̡̜̠͚̍͛͝ ̵̭̦͖͙̹͚̥̞̙͆̇̉́͑̅̕̚ғ̷̧̧̮̥̰̼͇̜͎̋̔͘ᴏ̷̰̳̫̜̲̈́̎̈́͐͝ʀ̶̺͌̋ᴍ̴̘̲͖̥͓̤͑͑͗̌̍́͗̽̏̋
̸̡͔̜̦̹͕̥͈̖̓̑̌̽͗́͗͝͠͠V̵̧̝͓̪̳͕̓̿̌͌̕̕i̶̧͙̳̯̯͒̈̀̇̄̚̕͝͝e̷̛͚͖̺̪̺̹̭͌̔͊̈́̈́̍͜͠w̵̡̗̗̳̣͎̎͘ ̷͚̒̅͊̇͗̊͋͘̕͝o̶͓̳̱͆́͐̇̎̿͗̀ͅņ̸̢̨͖̜̰̲̭͎̅͆̅̄ ̸̩̲͈̤̰̗̬͉̦͉̀̀̈́͠d̵̠̘̟͈̭́̋͌̉̌̚ȩ̷̛̦͙͍͖̭̟̰̯̭̑̈́̏̆̈̊̄̔͠s̶̖̬̤̙͍̗̜̀͐̓̇̕ķ̶̤͎̭̬̦̥̝̙̖͋̊̄̎̑͂̄ț̴̛͙̱͎͈̖͚o̸̬̩̖̯͋̏͑̒̾̎́͒̆ṕ̸͉̻̖̗̫̥͓̭͓̠ ̸̺̭̪̳̥̙̥̰̱̩̊̾̿̄̐̂̌̚p̵̨̲̼̥̜̤̝̌̽͌͛̏̇̿͗͘ļ̸̪̙̿̇́̕͠é̸̢̻͎̻͛a̷̡̻̫̒̀̀̏͘̚͝ͅs̷̡̠̰̽͛͌̉š̴̪̿͗̌z̷̰̘͊̇̾̐͐̀̽̚z̷̝̈̂̄̒̌̚̚ź̸̗̹̤͍̱͚̤̹̦̗͛̒ǹ̸͈͐͐̅̈́͊̀̂̚ẽ̵̲̲̟̫͍͔̾̊̎̀͆̀̃͝ͅv̸̤̜̖͚̬̫̇è̶͍̘̥̺̦͙̹͌ŗ̸̹̫̥̼̦̞̖͑͛͆͑̀̚n̸̝̆͑̌̈́͛̓̌͂͘e̷͓̦̓̓v̴̛̻͔̠͌̎̀͐͗͆ę̴̨͓̦͓͓̖̺̞̌̎͂̚͝r̵̰̞͓̯̝͚̍̏͜n̵̨̢̪͍͍̟̦̞̲̾̐̄̆̓̎̀̈́͛͜ẽ̷̲̲̲͙̠̙̹̥̀̑͗̏͗͂̚͜ͅv̸͕̅͂̊̕̚ę̴̢̼̫͓͍̯̞̣̻̿r̵̡̰̝̙̟͖̯̪͗̀͒̒̄ ̸̢̡̳͈͍͎̜̥͙͖̓̄̿̂n̷͓͘͜͝͝ë̵͉̥͓͖͍́͠ ̷̨̛̣͖̫͙̭̟̙̜̽͌̔̽͗v̵̡̨̧̹͔̟͈̎́͆̓̓͆͘͝ ̵̢̘͙̥͕̼͙͓̭̆e̶̫̔͝ ̸̡̛̙̝͉͍̤͍̗̅̅̔̎̓̽̚ṙ̶̯̙̝̻̏̀͐͆̕̚͠r̷͎͎̀͑́͋̓̋̋̕͝ͅ ̶̦̺͕͇͇͍̋͊n̵͍͎͖͙̓̆̋e̵̤͇͔͛͒̀̈͂͂͠͠ ̵̧͖̳̣̜̅͘͠v̴̧̭̬͎̋̈͒͜͝ͅe̵̮͚̫̪͊̇̋-̵̝͈̤̈́̊̑͑̓k̵̛̟̲̀̎͆̓9̴̙̥̣̤͌̈́̀̍̑̿̕͠͝9̸̬̜͔͍͔͖̙͓̄́͆̇̌̍͜͝͝2̵̢̛̝͙̻̉̍̇s̵̮̹̬͖̟̗͆c̶̢͈̙̪͓̦͎͖͉̀̋̂̋a̵̢̢̛̰̹̳̳̘͎͗͊̇̿͜͝[̷̢̙̯̤̝̙̣͔̏̀͒ͅ'̶̨͉̭̜̳̣̹͓̊[̶̝̠̹̬̘̗͔̮̈́́̈́͆͂0̸̛̛̤͖̅̆̄w̵̥͊-̶̨̛̮̼̫̠̮͗̓́̋̂̚͜͜q̶̢̟̠̝̳̬̻͓̐͐͌͛͠f̸̖̲̻̳̰͌͗͐͜ͅk̷̢̖̭̺͉̖͇̥̖̯̉͂̂̋́͑̂̚͘z̸̪̗͈͇̳͓͕̥̘͕͐̿̀̈́͊͋̉̇̕͘ķ̵͔̦̦͒̋͋̀̃̂͛̋͘̚f̸̦̭̙̪̪̂͆̽ȩ̷̠̜̎̈̌͐̄̽̋̐̎
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ị̸̉̎͛m̴̗̲̘̬̓̌̚ ̵̖̟̀͋̿͝ș̷̬̹͍̖̤̔̒̈́̇̊o̵̤̪͔̎͌̌r̷̘͙̖͖̳̜͍̗̫͙͊̃̋͂̊͗̒̓̑̌r̴̞̯̙̟̜̝̔͊̈́y̶̯͈͔͈̫͗̋̆̀̌̕͝͝ ̷͚͚̩̻̖͇͍̣̋̔̌̈́ś̵̫͈̣̤̲̺̱͗͂͒̚͘ò̵͉͔̮̩̫̪̰̰̺̳r̵̢̺̜͙̈̏̂ͅ ̶̢̲̳̾̃̃̐͝ŗ̵̰͕̗̰̪̮̉̏̔͌̎̓̋̈͜͝͝r̶͇̗͈͙͎̰͙̪̅̏͐̈̍̓̀͒̓͠ ̵̢̡̱̫͕̝͓̽̓y̷̡̙̘̙͓̬̣͉̟͋͂͗́̆͐̎̏͘͜͝ï̷̡̡̤̣͗̑͗̊̏̍̈́͒m̵̨̠̦͊͜͜ ̵̡͕͎̞͂̋͌̂͊̿̈́s̸͚̣̹̖̯̗̠̈́͐̎̑̿̽̐͛̐ŏ̴̲̃ ̴̘͎̮͔̬̭͕͇̈́͆̉̿̔͛̈́r̵̜͇̯͎̒̌̔̀̋̓̽͗̓͛ ̶̧̛̰̠̬̘̼̫͔͔́̿̿r̵̛̺̻͕̤̰͂̑̆͌̈́̋r̵̡̛̹̞̎̽̽̄̕r̵̢̲͍̘͔̖͋̊̈͋ȓ̷̨͍͇̏̒͗̿̒̽͝ý̴͋́̿͐͜ý̶̨̞͇̣̲̫͇̻̓̐̋͒̒̕̚ ̴͙͍̂̓̌̂̀̓̑̃̕͘s̵͈̙̹̒͋ͅs̶̢̢̡̞͕̬̝̮̙̅͐́͋̒̓͜ò̵̼̞̇̃̃ŗ̴̩̙̤̳̙̦͕̤̲̆̉̑̀̀͗͝͝͝ ̷̖͈̰͛̃ỉ̷̲͉̱̹͚ ̸͙̟͚̬̳̭̗̭͊͂̃̈́͐̇͂̀̔̅ș̷̣̱͎̘̺̣̮͍̱̍͊̾̅͌͛͘̕s̷͉̙̈́o̶͇̳̺͌̽̿̋͐̈́̎̌͘ḿ̷̡̮̺̣͕̪͚̻̠͗̇̈́͊͐̋͜͠ ̸̗̫͂̓̎͑̂̈s̸̫̠̓̎̃͂̐ȍ̶̢̙̖͖͖̩̹̫͉̜̑͋͝͝ṙ̷̜̪̙͇̘̍͑̆͂́̈́̚̕̕y̷̢͚̭͉̮͖̓̆͊̓̿̆̄̋y̵̧̛͖͙̦͈͚̗̼̹̍̒̌̈́͑̓̓͒s̵̡͍͙̗̜̦͇̅̈́[̴̛͎͚̽͂2̴̗̪̽͋͠0̴͇͍̦̳͔̾́̃̈́̚͠-̵̛͇̟͓̾̓̎s̶͕̩͙̤̭̹̲̩̓̈̒̿̀́̽̋̀9̴͓̠͖̹͉̮̽̈͐̅̀̚'̴̡̩͉̻̝͈̈́͐̽͗;̵̢̨͎̥̙͖̞͛̒͋q̴̣̙̎̏̌͆́̚ͅf̴̛͙̻̒̈́͠͝d̸̫́̃̅̈́̐̇̏͒̀̕p̵̧̮̪͈̞̭̤̥̥̞̄̑̒̇̀̔̒

[Matreats]

total word count: 6351 words
all art by me
animation by me too!