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Ulfar Blackhands lived in a hut three miles from Torch; he did not like to get closer than that. Where sunset burned in the earth, atop Black Hill, none should walk. Those who did would carry its curse and come to bad ends.
The hut, which Blackhands had made large over many years, sat in the midst of a rowan grove that also held his goats. All along the edge, he made his mark on the trees and hung the skulls of rats, squirrels, deer, and other wildlife to warn those who came unasked. Ulfar stood apart, respected by many but loved by few.
More skulls, together with bones, stones, and fetishes of sticks tied together hung from the overhanging hut's branch and bough roof. They would stir in the wind, sometimes in the other direction from how it blew. Sometimes they seemed to speak, but only Ulfar knew what they said.
Those who came inside found the walls hung with skins. In the winter, the skins would have fur. In the summer, now, Blackhands hung tanned hides. No hide of a speaking race ever marked Blackhands' wall, except for one in the shape of swollen hand. Many stories said how the hand came to Ulfar's hut. It came from a man who asked of him what only flesh could pay. It came from a child, a thief, who tried to slit his throat in the night. It was all that remained of a son or daughter. He took it from the wise man who taught him. The Blackhands would not say. He let the hand speak for itself.
Just now, Ulfar stood over his firepit, stirring the coals with his much-carved staff. A ram's skull hung from the other end, swinging as he did his work. Blackhands was a very old man, thin so you could count his ribs. His hair and beard hung down to his waist. He wore little in the summer, nothing at all when he stood on his cloud rock and read the sky. Now a breechclout covered him and he wore twine in rows down his wrists, each piece with a kind of charm hanging from it. Teeth, fingernails, bits of bone, gems, berries. His hands were as black as his name promised, the color of coal with red cracks that glistened.
Ulfar stirred his coals firepit for a long time, not speaking. He called you here and waited for all to come in silence. Then proceeded in further silence. The Blackhands would not be rushed.
"The sunset that burns the earth has died," he said, finally. "If only that happened, it would be good. In my dream, I saw seven-and-ten ravens devour a man. The ground shook with his screams. A white goat was born with two heads. It died. The clouds make signs and move away. The bones whisper; they are very awake now."
"I said to myself 'what do these things mean?'. The sunset in the hill is gone. The men and women of Torch have no livelihood. The metal men will come for their tribute and find none. In Torch, they know this. They will fine the tribute or they will be it. None want to slave for the metal men. They will go looking, and go soon, to find slaves to replace them. They will take their bad people, but it will not be enough. They will look to the free people. They must do this thing, whether they want it or not."
Ulfar stared into the pit for a while, not moving.
"It is not good that they touch the sunset in the hill. It burns their spirits. But they are not the metal men. Where the metal men go, all become slaves. They work the Dark Arts and put metal things into you, then you are them. You become a thing. If Torch does not come for us, then they will. They may dig what must be left buried; it is their way. Torch does not do that."
Ulfar fell silent again, turning his head to look at Torch through the wall of his hut.
"My dreams tell more. I see a woman who is not a woman, holding the sunset in the hill. She is smiling. I see a metal man, his body rust and flame. He screams and people run. I see a dead man breathing smoke. I see another woman who is dead and not dead, and broken in many parts; with pieces of her missing. I see a spider and a night that hates and has skin. I see a man made of lightning that goes in straight lines and cannot turn. I do not know what those dreams mean."
Rikal listened to Ulfar in silence, respecting the wisdom of the shaman. He had answered Ulfar's summons, as, he believed, had these others. They were not of the Tribe of the Elk, and he did not know them. He did not believe his clan had a feud with any, for they did not bear markings from any. Still, the Blackhands trusted them, therefore they could be afforded a modicum of trust - but not too much. Certainly not enough to be told of his visions.
The Blackhands spoke, he told them what he had seen, of his visions. Rikal had not known that the people in the village around the unnatural fires depended on it to survive. This was one of many reasons he sought to avoid any of the strangeness. They were all unnatural. Still, he was discomfited at the thought of the people in the village being slaves to the metal men. This was a fate he did not wish on his worst enemy - or any clan his had feud with.
Bavmorda runs her hands through the wolf's fur at her feet while her raven preens itself on her shoulders. If Ulfar's words unsettle her, she gives no sign. Rather, she contemplates the coals, seeking meaning in his wise words. Ulfar has ever been a tutor and guide for the young wyrd-caster, and through him, she had learned the patience of stone and the wisdom of trees.
From a small sack at her side, she pulls forth bits of colored stone, pieces of wood carved with witch-markings, and small bones. She tosses them all upon a small mat, seeking knowledge from the ancients.
What does she know of... Torch, the sky-people, metal men, controlling metal stuff, and interpret Ulfar's omens. I have +2 to identify alien monsters’ abilities; treated as though i have Technologist feat for all knowledge (geography) checks and knowledge checks to identify aliens
She pokes and prods amongst her castings, reading them this way and that. Bavmorda is young for a wyrd-woman, barely older that eight and ten summers. Yet, her rough-spun dress and leather trappings somehow make her seem younger in contrast to her snow-white hair.
Chotka squatted with the others before the elderly shaman and listened carefully to the tales of the old man's visions. When he finished, Chotka sat for a moment in silence before speaking. "I have seen firsthand what destruction the metal men can bring. The first time I met them, they killed almost all of my men and left me with this," the gravely-voiced orc said, touching the black stains on the skin around his unnaturally solid black eyes. "My people sought peace with the humans of Torch so we could gather our strength to fight our true enemy, but the next attack came too soon. The metal men overran my clan's warriors and have killed or captured our women and children. The metal men are skilled fighters and waste no time tending wounds or resting. If Torch is their next target, there is little time before the iron tide comes to them as it came to my clan.
"We must strike first, before Torch is destroyed. If they do capture slaves, then there may still be time to rescue my kin. And if that thing you say has changed them, then we can release them from their bonds. No one deserves the fate the metal men bring."
Owen sat stone still as Ulfar recounted the portents. He could feel the weight on his shoulders pressing down harder with each new revelation. It had been a long time since he had received a premonition. He had hoped to speak with Ulfar and hear that his concerns were groundless. That he should go home to his family.
He wondered how long it would be before he saw them again.
Owen waited for the others to finish speaking before adding his own observation.
"This morning a flock of meadowlarks flew over my camp. One tumbled from the sky and landed at my feet. It had a third wing growing from its back."
Bavmorda knows that Torch is a village near to here, on a plateau at the foot of a high hill. There, a purple flame rises from the earth. Sometimes it flares bright, seen for miles around. The people of the village use it to forge the sky metals, with which they pay their heavy tithes to the Technic League. In turn, it leaves them be. It is a town almost like the free people would have, but larger and in places built of metal. A wyrd-woman lives there, an elf called Jhestine, but also a worker of the Dark Arts and a slave to the Mother of Gears, She Who Whispers in Bronze.
She also recognizes Ulfar's omens as grave, but cannot specifically match any of his visions to what she knows of the strange creatures save that the woman who is not a woman may be one of the lies of skin. They appear from a distance to be flesh and blood, but are in truth made things that rise up when that which should not be disturbed is roused. The metal men may be similar creatures, without the semblance of flesh, or those who control them. It's hard to say in Numeria what metal men serve the Technic League and which have their own purposes.
Owen sat stone still as Ulfar recounted the portents. He could feel the weight on his shoulders pressing down harder with each new revelation. It had been a long time since he had received a premonition. He had hoped to speak with Ulfar and hear that his concerns were groundless. That he should go home to his family.
He wondered how long it would be before he saw them again.
Owen waited for the others to finish speaking before adding his own observation.
"This morning a flock of meadowlarks flew over my camp. One tumbled from the sky and landed at my feet. It had a third wing growing from its back."
Ulfar nodded, "Something stirs."
Rikal looked at the black-eyed Orc, thinking of the stories that had reached them of a large gathering of the Orc tribes in the land. They were led, it was said, by a tribe called the BlackEyes, and had in their midst it was said one touched by Gorum. He was surprised to hear one such advocate for saving the people of the village. Those Orcs he had fought in battle were vicious and fierce, and not ones to show mercy.
As the two seers spoke to each other, Rikal thought back through the legends of his tribe. Had such portents been seen before? If so, what had the warriors done in this situation?
The Spirits are silent on many things, and loudly, they speak of others. In the City of Purple Flame, there is a woman.. Jhestine. She speaks in wryd-tongues, but listens to the voice of She Who Whispers in Bronze. The Spirits speak her name and are silent. Foe or friend, they do not say. Bavmorda sighs and puts away her bones and colored rocks. The Spirits speak when the Spirits will, and will say no more nor less than they wish. Torch is our doom, that is certain.
Rikal looked at the black-eyed Orc, thinking of the stories that had reached them of a large gathering of the Orc tribes in the land. They were led, it was said, by a tribe called the BlackEyes, and had in their midst it was said one touched by Gorum. He was surprised to hear one such advocate for saving the people of the village. Those Orcs he had fought in battle were vicious and fierce, and not ones to show mercy.
[dice=Knowledge (history)]1d20+5
As the two seers spoke to each other, Rikal thought back through the legends of his tribe. Had such portents been seen before? If so, what had the warriors done in this situation?
Rikal has heard of such things. To ignore the omens would surely bring disaster. The way of things was for young warriors to swear oaths before a wise man and wise woman that they would go forth and set all to right. They would be tested. They may go and never return. They may return changed, dark things that must then be destroyed. Or they may return as heroes, their names remembered in song. The only sure course was to do nothing, lay down and accept ruin. But the bold and strong could prove mightier than the omens, turning destruction to come into newfound glory. The first Black Sovereign did that, long ago.
Shaking his head, Rikal says, "Doom or not, these visions cannot be ignored. In the legends of my tribe, ignoring these omens brings disaster and ruin. In the old days, young warriors would swear oaths before a wise man and a wise woman. They would then go forth to be tested and set aright the dark portents. Such events have often resulted in deaths, and many of those who embark on these tasks that did return were scarred from the ordeal, in mind, body, and spirit. Some, however, through their strength and will, would emerge as heroes. This is the path walked by the first Black Sovereign."
Looking at Ulfar Blackhands, he says, "We have here a wise man to swear the oaths before. Could this...Jhestine...serve as a wise woman?"
He was loath to trust any who listened to She Who Speaks In Bronze, but if the spirits would embrace her, perhaps she could serve.
"Death comes for all men. Whether you die in glorious battle with an axe in hand, or old and grey surrounded by your offspring that will tell the tales of your victories through the ages, all of us will die as we have chosen to live. But the metal men demean us even as they murder us. Their butchery has no passion, no rage, no bloodlust. They do not die because they do not truly live.
"You are right. All of us are doomed. But we do not have to be. My tribe has been shattered, but others still have a chance. The iron host is a plague upon our way of life. We must be the cure."
"Death comes for all men. Whether you die in glorious battle with an axe in hand, or old and grey surrounded by your offspring that will tell the tales of your victories through the ages, all of us will die as we have chosen to live. But the metal men demean us even as they murder us. Their butchery has no passion, no rage, no bloodlust. They do not die because they do not truly live.
"You are right. All of us are doomed. But we do not have to be. My tribe has been shattered, but others still have a chance. The iron host is a plague upon our way of life. We must be the cure."
I speak of fate, not endings. Our destiny, good, or ill, is in the City of the Purple Flame. She pats her wolf and idly feeds a scrap of meat to her raven. I will swear the words and speak the oaths.
The tall tribes man came into the hut and sat quietly through all of the talk, looking towards the hill he finally spoke,spitting some of the red chew into the fire, "I have seen things, heard things, they don't make for a good telling. North of here, the Black Soverign demands more tithes from travlers, and only because he knows the tribe would go full to war does he not take from us our places. It is heard abouts that he is a drunk, and that he has sold his soul to the Keepers of the Skymetal. Indeed many tales could be sung about the omens that each brings here, as could any who would one day be Soverign. My Tale is towards that I think, whether I make it to the final stanza will be another matter."
Taking the deerhorned knife from his belt he looked the Wise Man in the eyes, as he cut into his flesh and let the blood well before it spilled into the fire "I see ruin in the future if we do not stop this, I hear it with each clash of sword on shield, and with each bellowed warcry. Gorrum doesn't intervene in matters of this nature, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't push his faithful towards the goals. I will go up the Hill, and I will find out whatever there is there to find out. By my Death or by my Life we shall not all die, and I name all here Brother and Sister that will take oath to stop that which causes these omens. I will stop at nothing to make our peoples safe, no matter the clan, or tribe we are all one in this. Let us swear whatever Oath the Wise Man will have us swear, and then let us be about our business."
Thinking in his head, "That being the Business of War and Death"
Ulfar watched Izzak closely as he spoke his oath.
"I hear your words," he said.
"I died the day my clan was broken. Only by destroying my enemies may I live again. I swear to fight until my final breath with any who will stand beside me to end this threat." The burly orc stood and looked at Izzak, then drew his own knife. The blood welled up, but rather than tossing it to the fire, Chotka brought his hand up and smeared the bright blood diagonally across his scarred face, then stamped his hand print on his armor over his heart with a loud clang.
Karek stays silent, much of what is being said going over his head. All he knows is that Ulfar called him, and he will do what Ulfar requests.
Nodding to Izzak and Chotka, Rikal draws forth his own knife, slashing his hand. "Whether death, madness, or glory awaits us at the end of this journey, ignoring these portents will grant us only ruin. I swear by blood and honor in the presence of this wise man that I shall battle to my last breath, and see that these visions do not come to pass. These matters are beyond tribe and clan, and must be dealt with by all who are able." He allows some of the blood to freely drip onto the floor of the hut before smearing it across his forehead.
Owen looks down at the faded line of the scar running across the palm of his hand. He looks at his missing finger. He closes his eyes and sees the faces of missing friends. He crosses his arms, tucking his hand out of sight. Blood oaths, pacts of vengeance... he's lost his enthusiasm for such things.
Yet Ulfar's words weigh on him still.
"What must be done, will be done."
Ulfar listened to the oaths carefully, then nodded.
"I have heard your words, if you spoke them aloud or not. They are here," he produced bone rings, one for each of his guests. "These come from the thighbones the bull moose. He is slow to anger, not like the white bear or the knife-tooth, but fierce when roused. He is heavy and the thigh carries his weight. His strength is there. But remember that a pack of wolves will take a moose."
That said, Ulfar gravely handed over the rings.
Chotka took one of the thick bone rings, clenched it in his fist and closed his eyes, feeling the connection to the great beast from which it came. After a moment, he opened his eyes again and put it on, completing his vow.
Rikal took one of the rings. His tribe had great respect for the bull moose and it's steady, unrelenting strength. He knew they would need the same strength in their quest. Placing the ring on a finger, he acknowledge the completion of the oath with a simple nod.
Karek respectfully takes a bone ring and puts it on his finger.
Their oaths witnessed by Ulfar, if not a wise woman, and rings taken, the sworn band took their leave. The plains of Numeria stretched out before them, all flat save where the plateau and Black Hill rose up at Torch. No trail joined Blackhands' hut to the town, but the level ground made for quick travel all the same. After a mile, the road crossed the band's path, making for a steadier pace still.
The band passed by a dozen or so farmsteads at the foot of Torch's plateau. All clung to the banks of the Seven Tears. Many of the houses were wood, but often with odd sheets of gray metal incorporated. The farmers looked warily at the band as they passed, eventually crossing a bridge at the foot of the noisome cascade of water falling from above in a narrow, silver band. Just to the other side of the bridge, opposite the cliff, the water gathered in several large ponds.
The road climbed the side of Torch's plateau in a smooth curve, lifting the band more than fifty feet above the plains and affording them a view of the surrounds to Blackhands' hut and beyond. It only became truly steep in the last stretch, where the road turned and drove up a wide defile to reach Torch itself.
The village was one of stone, frequently augmented with metal. Even the stable that greeted them at the moment of their arrival had heavy metal doors to go with its stone walls and tile roof. It was a crowded place, with buildings blocking vision in every direction save out across the plains, and full of people, mostly humans and dwarves. They must number in the hundreds, at least, despite the town's troubles.
The people about paid the band no more mind than the occasional glance before going bout their business. A pair of women stood just outside the stable, conversing loudly.
"I'm telling you, it's the water what's the cause of these headaches. My man's cistern's set us right and we've not had a one yet. Someone's done up the works at Crowfeather Palace, they have."
"You think? Don't seem so likely. Old Joram blessed it for The Whisper in Bronze, he did. And Councilman Bhaine put the magic and machines into it. He's never been one to steer any wrong. Uses the water for that little girl of his, no less."
"Well it's none of their doing! No fault of there's if we've got a poisoner. Probably come from the League; that's what I say. And Bhaine's a good man, but the gods only know what's become of him now! That's all our troubles. First the flame, then the headaches, then Bhaine went to poke about. Haven't seen him since, not even when the Council put down that reward."
"You talked to him just four days ago! I saw it myself! It's only later he's gone and they made the reward."
Karek strives to remember the advice Ulfar gave him on talking to people from the more urban places. "Excuse me ladies." He starts off. "Who is Councilman Bhaine, and what is the problem with him?"
'That was good.' Karek thought, relaxing with a puff now he had managed a civil Question.
If needed?
Karek strives to remember the advice Ulfar gave him on talking to people from the more urban places. "Excuse me ladies." He starts off. "Who is Councilman Bhaine, and what is the problem with him?"
'That was good.' Karek thought, relaxing with a puff now he had managed a civil Question.
If needed? [dice=diplomacy (Untrained)] 1d20 + 1;
"Oh, you must not be from around here. Everyone knows Councilman Bhaine. Khonnir Bhaine. Wonderful man. He's the owner of the Foundry Tavern. Uses it to show off his inventions. He and Old Joram are always talking about those things. Properties of the skymetal. That kind of thing."
"But...he's gone missing. The Council don't say much about it, but he's gone. Went poking down underhill. People would be in an uproar -you know how people are- but the fire's gone out so there's worse that's happened just now. Poisoned waters too, you know."
She looked over the newcomers.
"Don't suppose it would matter much to your kind, but there's a reward to bring him back."
Karek looks at the rest of the party. "Sounds like the local Wiseman has gone looking for the source of the problem, and is missing."
He turns back to the local women. "Thank you for your help. Is there anyone we could speak to regarding this Councilman?"
He is still mystified by how well this 'Politeness' works, compared to demanding something and then hitting them if they don't give it to you. He will have much to share when he returns to the Hearteater tribe.
"Underhill? Owen asks, glad to hear that somebody has already started investigating recent events but saddened to hear the results. "Did he bring anybody with him?"
In Owen's experience, most underground mysteries aren't the kind of places a man should explore alone.
He turns back to the local women. "Thank you for your help. Is there anyone we could speak to regarding this Councilman?"
"I think you'd want to ask Old Dolga about that. She's probably in the Town Hall this time of day. Saves her mornings for the forge."
"Underhill? Owen asks, glad to hear that somebody has already started investigating recent events but saddened to hear the results. "Did he bring anybody with him?"
In Owen's experience, most underground mysteries aren't the kind of places a man should explore alone.
"Did he?" one woman asked the other. She shrugged.
"Think he went on his lonesome."
"Bhaine is missing? He is a good man even if he is odd. He helped convince the people here that my tribe's desire for peace was true. He may have found clues about what is going on, or he may be in trouble. Either way, we should find him."
As the group makes the trek to Torch, Bavmorda sends her raven out to the skies to scout. She sends Gwalhur, her wolf, out to scout the path ahead. As they approach Torch, she has them keep close to her so they don't attract attention. The closer they get, Bavmorda moves to the back of the group, keeping herself out of eyesight.
"Perhaps we should speak with Old Dolga, then. She seems to be a leader of the town, and may be able to tell us more of what has happened. Could you give us directions to the Town Hall?"
Owen is content to listen rather than speak for the moment, though he's always ready to aid another who is having trouble getting their point across.
"Perhaps we should speak with Old Dolga, then. She seems to be a leader of the town, and may be able to tell us more of what has happened. Could you give us directions to the Town Hall?"
"No problem at all. You just need to go down this road here," she pointed to the road leading off to the east across the plateau. "Take the first left. You'll go on a ways past Jhestine's Tonics. She's a strainge one, but don't pay her any mind. Then it's over the bridge. The Hall's the biggest building at the square. If you get up on the gravekeeper's shrine or the orchard, you've gone too far."
The barbarian stood just over Six-feet Seven-Inches and towered over most people, he however stood near the back, listening to the common trade langauge but refusing to speak in it, turning to one of the other Barbarians he spoke in the Kellid barbarian tongue, "I am not sure what they blather on about, but I am certain that if we go and speak to this person they will tell us how to get into this Undermountain or whatever you call it. Fix the problem then go back to the Wise Man."
Izzak wasn't very good with talking to the non-barbarians but he was willing to let those that were good at it to speak up.
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Karek thanks the women and sets off, following their directions. He makes a note to investigate this Jhestine's tonics, it sounds very interesting.
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Rikal nods his thanks to the two women, before turning to the others and saying in Hallit, "They have given us directions to someone named Old Dolga, who may be able to tell us where to go to deal with this threat. It is this way."
Rikal turns and begins walking in the direction of the Town Hall.
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The Town Hall was an imposing building, its walls cut from blocks of stone that would come to the waist of a tall man. Seamless black pillars that seemed to eat light stood between it and the square, a bronze mask of a woman's face hanging from each. On the face of the building itself, large bronze gears slowly turned.
The largest of the gears had four metal plates in a flat gray hammered to it. They depicted a glowing sun (the one currently highest), a leaf curled at the edges, a snowflake (the lowest), and a seedling just sprouted. Second to it, another gear interlocked and bore the signs of the twelve gods of the months in their right order. The Stag God's antlers stood highest, though the Dead God's eye was poised to take the position. That gear joined another marked with with the names of the week's days, and more marked with numbers.
None guarded the hall, nor paid much mind as the sworn band passed within. From the front they went along a hall that seemed far longer than it needed to be, almost the width of a fair hut, under archways of gray metal with wide edges but narrow middles, which had regular holes pierced through, each large enough to fit a fist. Something to either side, behind the walls, made noise at a fixed pace, like a child striking two stones together.
The hall gave way to a large room with a dais on the distant end and hard benches facing it. A dwarven woman, her hair white, sat at one of the pews looking over a heavy book.
If no one else steps forward to speak Karek will continue his role as party diplomat. "Greetings. Are you the Lady Dolga? My friends and I wish to speak to her regarding the missing Councilman."
If no one else steps forward to speak Karek will continue his role as party diplomat. "Greetings. Are you the Lady Dolga? My friends and I wish to speak to her regarding the missing Councilman."
The elderly dwarf looked up.
"I'm Dolga, but I ain't no lady," she said. "Too damned old for that foolishness."
"You'll want to hear about the reward, I'm sure. Don't deny it; no harm in being paid to do good. Simple enough. Bring us back Khonnir, dead or alive. He's dead, Brigh bless him, we'll set it to right. Just be sure you've got the important bits of him, if it comes to that. If he's alive, you'll get the coin and Joram'll throw in the holy apparatus we'd use to bring him back."
"Any other questions?"
Karek nods. "Yes, is there anyone we can ask about what he was planning?"
"The old one speaks, does anyone know where the man known as khonnir lives?" Once again the Tall Barbarian speaks in the barbaric tongue.
Karek nods. "Yes, is there anyone we can ask about what he was planning?"
Dolga shrugged, "You can ask his little girl, but he wasn't the kind to keep secrets. The Torch went out eight days back. Khonnir went looking and found a mess of footprints around Weeping Pool while he was testing the waters. That got him to thinking, so he took a swim. Found some caverns down there, dry inside."
"Khonnir werne't no damn fool. He saw that and come straight back up. We put the word out and a gang of halflings signed up to poke around. They never came back. Bunch of troublemakers went in next; wasn't no loss when they didn't come out. But that's two sets of people and Khonnir's got some morals. He took it on himself to go back in."
"Them caverns had big bugs and such, and some kind of people that blend in the shadows. Weren't friendly one bit. Main thing, though, he found a metal wall. Glaucite like we mine up, but a whole wall of it and with a door in it. And there was a busted up robot outside. Khonnir figured maybe that's got something to do with the Torch gone out. Made plans to go back."
"Before he could a set of pilgrims on their way to Starfall come by to pay their respects. Thought they'd do a holy service by saving us. Nice of 'em. Never come back neither. So Khonnir went in again. That's just two days now. Only damn thing he had planned was savin' us all. Maybe them pilgrims too. Last anyone seen of him. I'd go myself if we weren't neck deep in it with people dumping their trash everywhere and these damn headaches. And the League coming middle of next month."
"You want to go, Joram'll spell you so you can get through the water without drownin'."
"That's a lot of folks gone missing. Did Khonnir find any bodies?"
Owen's no stranger to men chasing adventure, but it still surprises him sometimes just how many people will jump straight in to a risky situation when they ought to know better. He tries not to dwell on the fact that he's planning to do the same thing.