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In the beginning, when Rovagug perfected the way of destruction, the lands were littered with the dead. Crows, maggots, beetles, worms, and the other crawling things of the earth complained to Rovagug.
“You destroy and maim too quickly!” they cried. “We cannot devour all the meat you give us! Please, destroy the people of the earth more slowly.”
“What?” shouted Rovagug, in a voice that toppled pillars. “My glorious destruction shall never cease nor slow!”
Yet in the dark, delighting in the destruction god’s slaughter, watched Lamashtu, the Mother of Monsters, and she heard the base things cry. In those black days when all the land was covered with death and all the air stank, she watched as a few tribes of men, her followers and devout worshipers, ate the flesh of corpses as the crows did, plucking out eyes, savoring the bloodiest cuts. To these cannibals she led packs of hyenas, and their ways became as one. Of those louse-ridden beastmen rose the first gnolls, half-hyenas who love the stench of carrion and praise each corpse as an offering to their dark mother. And the demon queen delighted in her own perversion and reveled in these monsters’ terrible howling songs.
Born of devastation, and insanity, and the corrupt of soul, the man-beasts spread upon the world, and where they prowled they indulged in their hunger for murdered flesh. Surely, they are to be despised by any sane god, and so we make ceaseless war on those who seek to feed on the bodies of heroes and innocents.
And somewhere in the madness between the stars, the Mother of Perversion and the Mistress of Insanity still laughs her wicked laugh, as her ravening spawn, the bone gnawers and carrion eaters, grow fat off our flesh.
Gnolls are among the first abominations, and their death is a blessing. Remember this when their laughter haunts your steps.
The nation-state of Katapesh, evening.
A small camel train makes its way north, having left the western town of Solku over a week earlier. The camels and their riders travel now within distant sight of Pale Mountain, through dry and lonely rocky scrublands in the north-west part of the desert nation.
They near their destination, a place that the caravan’s master, a grave man called Garavel, calls the Sultan’s Claw. There the six adventurers who travel with him will at last meet their patron, the merchant princess Almah, and the rest of her party.
It has been a long, dreary journey for some, recruited by Garavel in the distant capital of Katapesh, far across the sand sea, but even those who joined the caravan more recently in Solku are no doubt by now tiring of the heat, the sand, the rocky uplands, the smelly, bad tempered camels. Still, the journey has given all an opportunity to get to know Garavel (a little at least; the man knows how to survive in the desert, and appears to be competent with a blade, somewhat unusual traits in a major-domo, but seems to have the emotional range of a stone), and their fellow travelers, those who will be their companions in the quest to restore the lost village of Kelmarane.
Al’Kazeer stands 3’ 3’’, and is clothed in a fairly standard travellers outfit, small backpack bulging on his back. He has swarthy skin and dark hair, and could in many respects pass for a human child. He wears a small rapier at his belt, and sometimes when camp is made he can be seen practising with a sling, which he is quite accurate with.
Through out the expedition so far Al has came across a little unevenly to his companions. Most days the small man is bubbly and talkative. He tells stories of his life growing up on a pesh farm in the south, and of his time as a guide in the city of Katapesh. These stories are usually funny, and often far fetched, but the way the halfling spins his tales make it hard for listeners to disbelieve them. He is also keen to hear tales of his companions lives and past adventures, and is full of questions and comments. He is full of jokes, and seems to thrive on being at the centre of attention.
At other times however, the little man is quiet and withdrawn, a bitter look on his usually merry face, and in these instances his fellow travellers will find it hard to get more than a few words out of him. These dark moods seem to be brought on by the mention of Gnolls or Al‘s father, although when the mission they are embarking on is discussed a harsh smile and a look of grim determination will cross Al’s face, and he will clench the hilt of his rapier tightly.
Sefu stands at 5'8" and wears a garb similar to that of the Katapesh nomad tribes. He is of dusky skin common to those of Garundi decent. He shares his stories of his people, and of the deserts In his deep voice, rumbling and booming Like the sound of the earth itself. His eyes seem piercing more like that of some type of predator then a man. He wears well worn leather armor, a small wooden shield and an scimitar of undetermined age. He often leaves camp to be alone in the evening often coming back with a hare or some other small animal for the evening meal. He seems to bask in the harsh environment of Katapesh, often staring at the oddest things, the lone cacti, a nest of insects or even vultures flying above. It is clear to all who see him Sefu is at home in this harsh place
Farasha is a priestess from the south of Katapesh. A dark-skinned black-eyed woman, she would be attractive it if wasn't for her piercing stare and the gleam of fanatacism in her eyes. She seems to be dedicated to just one thing: The Dawnflower. If there are any co-worshippers she leads them in prayer. If there are others, she attempts to convert them. She wears a heavy aba and carries a scimitar.
Mus'ad is taller than the average elf, a little shorter than the average Human. It is only after a few days of traveling that he is seen with his hood down or turban off long enough to catch a glimpse of the gently but distinctly pointed ears that reveal his half-elven ancestry.
He wears the loose, light colored aba of a desert traveller along with a turban or large hood up to help protect him from the elements. Around the camp at night when the Aba is not required, it turns out he is fond of bright, primary colors in his pantaloons and loose shirts. Tucked into his sash is a Jambiyah of exquisite workmanship that seems to be his one pride, and the one possession he never lets out of his sight.
He is accompanied by his Gen, Zephyr. A tiny man no bigger than a housecat with light blue skin and long, flowing white hair. Zephyr wears garish purple pantaloons held up by a bright maroon sash and matching maroon curly-toed shoes. He tops his ensemble with a tiny purple turban and no shirt. "The better to impress the ladies master!" The tiny man replies proudly if asked about it. Despite his size, Zephyr serves Mus'ad with eagerness and enthusiasm, and is as protective of his master as any of the much larger caravan guards.
Together Mus'ad and Zephyr are an affable and likable pair. While not as gregarious or entertaining as 'Honest Al', they enjoy talking to the others members of the caravan. And it makes no difference to them if you are young or old, rich or poor, they spend their time traveling talking to everyone, Mus'ad occasionally sending Zephyr to fetch him a bit of magic to aid in certain situations.
After traveling for about a week, Mus'ad seems to be comfortable enough with the members of the caravan to begin approaching certain individuals and surreptitiously showing them his Jambiyah. If you appear to be well-travelled or well-learned he has probably approached you and asked if you can identify the strange maker's mark on the blade of his Jambiyah. He has so far been seen talking to the gregarious halfling 'Al', the solemn priestess of Sarenrea, and even the taciturn caravan master.
Occasionally, usually late at night, he can be seen looking back in the direction the caravan has come, as if wistful for something left behind. Or possibly to see if there is anyone following,...
‘Morning Mus’ad, Zephyr, another glorious day of travel ahead of us ey?Lets play I spy to pass some time! I spy something beginning with ‘S.’’ Al’Kazeer roles his eyes at his new found companions, having become fond of the half elf and his strange servant on the trip.
“Ah, that is a fine blade, and no doubt. I bet I could find you a buyer willing to pay a pretty price for that ey? Ha, though I can see you don’t wish to sell. Hmmm, not sure if I have seen the marking before, though if it was made in Katapesh I may have, I know many merchants who deal in weapons.’
‘Have I told you about the time I had to offload 12 crates of Jambiyahs? No problem if there all as good as your one, but the merchant had bought a load that were pretty enough, but useless in a fight, you couldn’t even have given yourself a quick death with one of those. At the time I was showing around these two merchants from Tian Xia, they had lots of coin, but little sense, the best type of customer ey? ....
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The ravishing young woman known as Nasir is an enigma to her travelling companions. It seems odd for one so beautiful to seem to be such an experienced traveller, commenting on desert features and old histories as the group passes. Yet this same woman entertains the travelers at night with intoxicating dances around the campfire, adding a liveliness and joy to the harsh procession.
In the harshness of the desert sun, her light, sparse clothing makes much sense, while proving quite distracting to the eye. Her long dark hair is always slightly wind-tossed, her clothing always clean and an aroma of desert jasmine seems to follow her every step.
When asked about the mysterious Jambiyah her demeanour changes, looking at it with a practiced eye, she studies it, taking the time to sketch both the weapon and the detailed glyphs upon it.
Al does indeed know many merchants who deal in weapons, and would recognize on sight the makers marks of a good dozen weaponsmiths; this mark is not one he knows … but then, he doesn’t know any elven weaponsmiths, and this sigil has a vaguely elven look to it, to Al’s eye, though it’s not actually an elven word or letter, at least not one that any in the group recognise.
Elven weapons turn up for sale often enough in the markets of Katapesh City, if you know where to look, although you can sometimes buy elven weapons and other items in the western markets too, brought along the trade routes from the Mwangi Expanse.
Nasir does not recognize the blade nor the mark as having any historical significance … although she does half remember a tale of a group of adventuring heroes that were active in northern Katapesh and southern Osiron for a while about, oh, forty or fifty years back. If she correctly remembers, the group included an elven wizardess that bore a distinctive and well crafted jambiyah … could this be the same weapon?
‘Morning Mus’ad, Zephyr, another glorious day of travel ahead of us ey?Lets play I spy to pass some time! I spy something beginning with ‘S.’’ Al’Kazeer roles his eyes at his new found companions, having become fond of the half elf and his strange servant on the trip.
"An excellent Idea!" Cries Zephyr enthusiastically. The tiny man floats up into the air above Mus'ad's shoulder, held aloft by the breezes that seem to constantly surround the pale blue Gen. "But I must warn you, with my aid my Master is sure to win!" The precocious Gen shades his eyes with one hand and peers intently about the landscape. Mus'ad buries his eyes in his hand, and then gives 'Al' a mock glare.
" 'Sand', Zephyr. He sees sand." Mus'ad tells his gen, struggling not to laugh at his companion's earnestness.
"You are obviously a well-travelled and knowledgeable man Master 'Al'. Tell me, have you by chance seen a maker's mark like the one on this Jambiyah before? It has, sentimental value, and I'd like to discover where it came from. I have reason to believe that it's from the same region we are headed towards, if not the same town. Have you ever seen it's likeness before?"
“Ah, that is a fine blade, and no doubt. I bet I could find you a buyer willing to pay a pretty price for that ey? Ha, though I can see you don’t wish to sell. Hmmm, not sure if I have seen the marking before, though if it was made in Katapesh I may have, I know many merchants who deal in weapons.’
‘Have I told you about the time I had to offload 12 crates of Jambiyahs? No problem if there all as good as your one, but the merchant had bought a load that were pretty enough, but useless in a fight, you couldn’t even have given yourself a quick death with one of those. At the time I was showing around these two merchants from Tian Xia, they had lots of coin, but little sense, the best type of customer ey? ....
Mus'ad smiles and nods at the gregarious halfling as he rambles on about increasingly less-likely happenings. But despite the halfling's tendency to stretch the truth, or perhaps because of it, he finds that he likes the little man. And it is nice to find a companion who likes to talk even more than he does. Mus'ad sends Zephyr off to fetch the spell 'Create Water', and when the gen returns 2 hours later, he uses it to fill the waterskins of Al and himself, and whoever else has gathered near to listen to the halfling's tales.
Bashad is a big hunk of a man (1m90 with many muscles).In this group of extroverted personalities , he is mostly quiet .
He spends a lot of time drinking water and sweating because wearying a metal armor in the desert is a chore . Nonetheless , he bears it with fortitude ...
So far , he has not spoken of his reason to come here and more or less reacts to overtures with politness but also a bit a aloofness .
His reaction to Farasha's attempts to convert him has been a curt
'I do revere Sarenrae but she is not the only god I pray to '
His reaction to Mus'ad is one of respect and vigilance . He is not afraid of him per se but would not want to offend a wizard .
Sometimes he begins to flirt unconsciously with Nasir but soon stop when he realizes what he is doing . At these times , he grows silent .
Al’Kazeer tries to get around to most of the group during the trip. He listens intently to Sefu’s stories and shares some of his own stories of growing up in a small community in Southern Katapesh. Although he has little to say to the priestess he always attends her prayer services in the evening, and seems to do so earnestly. If not talking to Mus’ad and Zephyr, Al can often be found puffing along next to Nasir. He is genuinely interested in her knowledge of the areas they pass and will often question her on her talks, and try to commit her words to memory.
When Al is in one of his moods he will often trail slightly behind the group, or travel next to Bashad, lost in his own bitter musings.
Sefu allows Farasha to lead him in evening services to the dawnflower, even if it seems odd to his upbringing. In the morning her greats his goddess with prayer as always. The prissiest is a strange one full of the fire he can see. He allows her to lead the prayer as that is her calling, he worships the Dawnflower in his on way. A way she could never understand. As each morning greets the camp he greets it in prayer. How he longed to stretch his limbs and meet the goddess gaze in his true form, some mornings he would leave camp and do so, never explaining where he had been
Farasha greets the dawn with a prayer every morning of the travel, unrolling a small prayer mat and facing the rising sun.
"Come pray! The Dawnflower arises!
Come pray! Prayer is better than sleep!
Come pray! Pray to the defender of the weak, the healer of the sick!
Come pray! Pray to the Lady of Light!"
The day passes. Travel in the morning, camp during the hottest part of the day, travel again in the late afternoon as the sun slips behind Pale Mountain in the west, and well into the evening.
This evening, as with most of the journey, Garavel rides in front, his eyes, still sharp for one in his mid years, scanning the shadowed badlands for signs of danger, his white keffiyeh and robe luminous in the moonlight.
Satisfied that no bandits, gnolls or desert scorpions lurk in ambush, the handsome, square bearded Kelishite turns in his high saddle to speak to the rest of the group.
“The Sultan’s Claw is near,” he says, his voice betraying no particular excitement at the prospect of an end to this long journey. “Soon you will meet Princess Almah, and receive your contracts for the task ahead. Please remember your manners, and show respect. Before we travel further, are there any last questions you have of me?”
Before we travel further, are there any last questions you have of me?”
Farasha turns to Garavel
"Noble Garavel. What can you tell us of our new patron and our mission?"
I thought I already signed to clear the place ?
Are you telling us we could be left without emplyment in the middle of the desert ?
'I assume your mistress is not waiting for us alone in the dessert. How many are with her? How many of us will make the attack on these gnolls?'
"Noble Garavel. What can you tell us of our new patron and our mission?"
Garavel nods. “The Princess Almah is the heir of one of our nation’s noble mercantile families. She is noble and fair. She undertakes to restore the village of Kelmarane at the behest of the Pactmasters. It is better that the princess provide further information on your task ahead when we arrive; her party has been in the area for several days, gathering information on the current situation.”
I thought I already signed to clear the place ?
Are you telling us we could be left without emplyment in the middle of the desert ?
“Yes, you have agreed to accompany me with the intention of restoring Kelmarane,” answers Garavel evenly, “but as you will recall, no price has been set for your services beyond the supplies you have been provided to reach this point. I have chosen each of you because you have your own reasons to be here, reasons more important than money. I have found that people better perform a task that they want to perform than one they are simply doing for payment. Rest assured though, you will not go uncompensated. The Princess Almah will offer you a contract of payment to finalise our agreement.”
He pauses for a few moments. “Having come this far, I do not think that any of you choose not to proceed now. If you do, you will not be left alone in the desert, but you not be viewed favourably, and will not reap any of the rewards that this task may bring.”
'I assume your mistress is not waiting for us alone in the dessert. How many are with her? How many of us will make the attack on these gnolls?'
“It would be most unwise to wait in the wilds on one’s own,” agrees Garavel, “Particularly within sight of Pale Mountain. A group of mercenary soldiers accompanies the Princess, and she is further protected by her personal guard, assigned by the Pactmasters. In addition, there are a number of servants and,” he hesitates for a moment, “experts.”
The cry of some wild beast sounds from the west, and Garavel peers out into the night. Seeing no danger, he turns back to Al. “You all have been selected for your range of skills and abilities, and it is my expectation that you will be instrumental in planning and leading any attack. My mistress may choose to put further forces at your disposal, or plan separate attacks by your group and others.”
Seeing that no further questions are immediately forthcoming, Garavel turns in his saddle and urges his camel onwards. The beast complies with a snort, and continues to pick its way north along the rocky trail. A cool breeze blows in from the south, accompanying you on the last leg of your journey.
Not long afterwards; “The Sultan’s Claw,” Garavel announces, pointing ahead.
Above the next low, rocky hill rises an immense, almost leafless tree with five huge branches that reach up into the night sky. The tree’s white bark glows in the bright starlight, the growth looking more like a giant skeletal talon than a thing of living wood.
The yellow glow of fire greets you as your camels top the rise. A caravan of a half-dozen wagons and a large tent clustered around the distinctive tree comes into view. Camels in a nearby pen prance in agitation, and a clutch of confused goats and livestock wander the grounds around the wagons. Perhaps a dozen men and women rush around the campsite, chasing down an animal or hastening toward the center of the cluster, near the Sultan’s Claw, with pails of water in their hands. One of the wagons is on fire!
Lush orange and red flames engulf an elaborate wooden wagon emblazoned with painted moons and stars. A gout of smoke pours from an open door, and as you approach an ill wind blows a number of colourful cards from inside the wagon. They tumble up into the sky before the breeze catches and scatters them.
One card is caught in an updraft, tumbling far up into the air, before being picked up by the wind, which has suddenly changed direction and become much more forceful, and flies straight towards your group, catching Mus’ad in the chest in a burst of orange cinders. The sturdy but slightly singed card is illustrated with a picture of an anthropomorphic tornado with a snarling, demonic visage tearing apart a village. A symbol of a hammer adorns the card’s lower right hand corner.
Garavel is already spurring his camel forward at a gallop, down the hill towards the camp. As he is halfway down the short slope, the central flap of an elaborate tent flies open and a regal looking woman in flowing silks who can only be Almah steps out into the firelit night. She stops for a moment, gazing at the burning wagon, before snapping into action. “Douse that flame!” she shouts to the men surrounding the wagon before turning in your direction. “Garavel!” she calls. “Just a moment later than the nick of time, as usual.”
Princess Almah then looks past her major domo, up the hill towards the rest of you, and calls out, “Find some way to help!” before running off towards the fire.
Almah, Garavel, and four soldiers dressed in distinctive red chitin-plate armour run towards an uncovered wagon about twenty feet away from the burning wagon, the former holding a huge barrel presumably filled with water.
Nearby, four burly mercenaries struggle with an enclosed wooden wagon that rests within feet of the fire, obviously trying to move it to safety before an errant spark causes it too to burst into flame.
On the other side of the burning wagon, a turbaned man kneels beside two figures that lie on the hard ground. The screams of one of the figures can be heard above the crackling of the flames and the shouts of the soldiers, while the other figure lies still and unmoving.
Adding to the chaos, a number of animals - sheep, goats and pigs - dash around the camp, obviously distressed by the fire and escaped from their pen. A man and a woman try, without much success, to round them all back up.
Bashad will make the rounds of the camp trying to see if there are any enemies around ...
Al'Kazeer will hasten after Garavel, calling out questioningly to the group in general; 'Can't we use sand to smother the flames rather than our water?'
Bashad, a competent rider, spurs his camel quickly down the hill, not into the camp, but beginning a wide circle around the perimeter, looking for any enemies lurking in the darkness outside the inferno’s flickering light.
Al'Kazeer will hasten after Garavel, calling out questioningly to the group in general; 'Can't we use sand to smother the flames rather than our water?'
Al makes his way to the bucket line as fast as he can, and takes a place in line.
Catching the card, Mus'an pats at a stray cinder with his other hand as he and Zephyr examine the painted symbols. Mus'an raises an eyebrow at Zephyr.
"Fate is indeed a a capricious mistress. I wonder what, if anything, this means for our fortunes noble Zephyr?"
But the energetic Gen;s reply is interrupted by the shout of the princess to make themselves useful.
'Can't we use sand to smother the flames rather than our water?'
Spurring his mount, Mus'an nods at Al, then realizing he cannot be seen while galloping camel-back, replies, "There may be a way to do both without wasting our water. Zephyr! Fetch me Prestidigitation!" He cries as his mount gains speed down the inclined dune.
The light blue Gen, easily keeping pace flying next to Mus'ad's shoulder, immediately raises himself vertical, bows in midair, and responds enthusiastically, and loudly. "Of course Master! Responding with Alacrity and Haste!" And disappears. There is no flash, no noise, nothing. One eyeblink he is there, the next he is not.
"When he returns, I shall focus my attentions on the wagon! I'm afraid I'm not much good with animals!" He cries as he tries to ride his steed in a more or less straight line for the camp.
Judging by the way he is hanging onto his mount for dear life, you believe him.
As she runs toward the bucket line Nasir scans the flames for signs of magical resonance. 1d20+6=15
The flames leaping from the wagon’s windows and door appear hot and fierce, but there is nothing about them that suggests they are magical. Of course, the original source of the fire may be another story…
Sefu makes his way down the hill on the camel but once close to camp slides from the animal. Ignoring the flames which he can do little about He scans the area for tracks track 11..:(
Al will dismount at a distance that he judges his mount wont get to worried by the fire, and run the rest of the way to join the bucket line
Al and Nasir both run the last few yards into the camp to join the bucket line between the water wagon and the fire, passing metal and wooden pails filled with cool clean water down the line to try to combat the hungry flame.
Sefu rides into camp and dismounts, kneeling on the hard packed earth not far from the burning wagon to search for tracks. The camp here has obviously been established for several days, and the ground is criss-crossed with evidence of the passage of dozens of humanoids and animals. Nothing stands out as being unusual, and the druid finds it rather hard to concentrate between the crackle of the flame, the shouts of the fire fighters, and the chaos and noise of the escaped animals dashing about. As if to illustrate the point, he is almost over-run by a large and panicked pig, being chased by an old man in a dirty robe who yells something at Sefu in Kelish as he passes.
Farasha hurries over towards the injured. A man and a woman lie on the ground, both muscled and armoured, their skin flushed red, faces and arms covered in burns. The man also has a serious looking gash on his head, and it is this that the white bearded elder who kneels above him works at, whilst his patient groans and yelps.
The physician looks up at Farasha’s approach. “Help her,” he says, a clipped accent to his Kelish, “she is dying, my magic is spent.”
Farasha kneels beside the burnt woman. Her burns are severe and her breathing shallow. The priestess calls on the power of the Dawnflower and lays her hands upon the woman. Her healing spell causes the redness of the injured woman’s skin to fade somewhat, and her breathing becomes more regular, though she does not regain consciousness.
Mu’sad sends Zephyr off, before making his ungainly way into camp.
Farasha turns to the elder
"Noble one. Should I expend my second healing on her or does anyone else need assistance?"
Spot 17
Bashad, you make it around half the camp without seeing any obvious signs of lurking enemies; there is some movement and noise outside the camp’s perimeter, but it appears to be all animals fleeing the fire. You see a couple of pigs and a goat standing or wandering uncertainly in the darkness, and can hear a bleating which suggests at least one animal has wandered further afield.
Looking back into camp, you notice someone who looks somewhat suspicious, although you can’t tell whether or not it is an intruder. A man dressed in dark and ragged clothing, long hair partly covering his face, stands in the shadows next to the huge tree. He is not exactly hiding, but his position means that it is unlikely that any dealing with the fire would notice him. He appears to be the only one in camp not somehow trying to fight the fire or combat the chaos; rather, he stands, leaning on a gnarled wooden walking stick, looking at the burning wagon.
He looks around as you ride into view, and stands, watching you watching him, his face unreadable behind his long hair and the darkness. You notice a blade sheathed at his side.
Farasha turns to the elder
"Noble one. Should I expend my second healing on her or does anyone else need assistance?"
“This one should yet live, little sister,” replies Whitebeard, indicating the groaning man he is tending, “and I do not believe that any others have been injured.” He looks up at the burning wagon and shakes his head. “I do not think that anyone still inside will have survived that.”
The four burly men and women pushing at the wagon parked closest to the burning one still try and fail to move it, their strength no match for the heavy vehicle.
Nasir and Al continue to pass the buckets down the line. Progress is slow, but the water seems to be slowly winning against the flames.
Princess Almah and Garavel work as hard as any on the bucket line, the princess passing along the full pails with careful haste, whilst Garavel stands closest to the burning wagon, splashing the water into the flames, ignoring the radiant heat that flushes his skin red and causes sweat to pour down his face, his sleeves singed, his kaffiyah fallen back from his head.
The four burly men and women pushing at the wagon parked closest to the burning one still try and fail to move it, their strength no match for the heavy vehicle.
Bashad will go help them
Strength Check 21
“This one should yet live, little sister,” replies Whitebeard, indicating the groaning man he is tending, “and I do not believe that any others have been injured.” He looks up at the burning wagon and shakes his head. “I do not think that anyone still inside will have survived that.”
Farasha nods
"Very well. Dawnflower hear my plea! Heal this unfortunate with the sunshine of your love!"
Thinking that the possibility of another wagon catching fire might present a more immediate danger than the man standing by the tree, Bashad hurriedly dismounts from his camel and runs over to the wagon, preparing to help the others try to shift it.