Minecraft Forums

Wilson was an omnivore so he could eat pretty much anything that wasn't a grain. Foraging around in his local area yielded some blueberries to eat. Those would do. Getting back to the main battlefield would be good as that is where the action is going to start up next. Wilson headed off back to the battlefield, limping slightly with his leg. The traveling time let his vision and hearing recover some to the point where he was actually able to pull off some hunting and fishing. He was fine surviving on his own; he had done it most of his life.

THE TUBAS UNLEASHED A DEAFENING SCREECH. THE WORLD STARTED TO FLY AROUND IT. EVERYTHING STARTED TO DISSOLVE. E̳̺̳R̳R̳O̳̳ͫR̳
C᷿͖᷿̞̥᷇͐͐̄A̰͍͐̎͐̚͜N̘̬̆͐͐͊͠N̺͙̣͐͛͐͢Ǫ͖̠̪͐͐͠Ṫ̺͐ͮ̿ͧ͐ ̺̳᷅͐ͬ̈́͐C̴᷂̜͐ͯ͐͝O̲̼͐᷄͐͐᷁N̶̨̡͐᷈͐͌T͇̱͐᷃᷉͐᷀I͚ͪ͐ͮ᷅͐͢N̜̲̂͐᷁͂͐U̯̣͂͐᷃͐᷈E̢ͧ͐ͧ̃͐ͅ.̫͐ͫ̉͐͗͘

P͕͕͕͕͕̹͕͕̻͕̆͌͗᷆͜L͕͏͕̘͕̺͕̺͕̳͕͕͕̖͕Ě͕̮͕̖͕͕͕͕͎͕͕͛̀᷈A̛͕͕͕͕͕͕̦͕͓͕᷅᷄̐ͧS͕͕᷂͕͕̤͕͕͕͕̆͗̄͘ͅE̷͕͕͕͕̼͕͉͕͕͕ͭͨ̉᷉ ͕͕̻͕͕͕̝͕̗͕̪͕ͥ̇̋C̵͕᷊͕͕͕͈͕͕͕͕̑̐̆ͅH̸͕͕͕͕͕᷂͕͕͕᷁̓͌̌͠Ỏ̵͕͕͉͕͕̹͕͕̻͕͕᷇᷾Ő͕͕͕͕͕͕͕͕͕̈᷅̅̇̐S͕͕̞͕͕͕͕͕͕͊᷃᷈᷀͜͞Ẻ͕͕͇͕͕͕͕͕͕͋ͯ́̕͠ ͕͕̟͕͕͕͖͕͕͕᷉̽᷁̽᷃W͕᷊͕͍͕͕͕͕͕̣͕̽ͩ᷀᷁H͕̦͕᷊͕̫͕͕̲͕͕͕᷁͘͠I̴͕͕̯͕̰͕̫͕͕͕͕᷆ͩ̋C͕͕͕ͦ᷉͏͕͕͕͕̳͕̓ͪ͗H͕͔͕̬͕͕͕͕͕͕ͤͫͬͭ͟ ͕͕͕͍͕͕͕͕ͧ̍̍͝͞͏͕T͕͕͕͕̦͕̳͕͉͕͕᷄̃͞͝I͕͍͕͕͕͕͕̺͕͕ͥͮ᷈̆̄M͕̣͕͕̭͕͕͕̦͕͕͗̿́͡E͕̭͕᷂͕͕͕͕͕̫͕̋ͩ̋͟L͕͕᷿͕͕̠͕͉͕͕͙͕̂̊᷃I͕͕͕͚͕̝͕͕͕͕᷁̄᷀ͧ̊N̷͕͕͕͕͕̬͕͕͕ͫ̉̓͂ͅE̸͕͙͕̠͕͙͕͕͕̹͕͕͌ͥ ͕̜͕̺͕̞͕̖͕͕͕̕͝͏͕T̢͕͕̩͕͇͕͕͕᷿͕͕̅ͬ᷉O͕̪͕̼͕͕͕͕̫͕͕̰͕̔́ ̵͕͕͕̦͕͕͕͕͕͗̈͗̂́B̶̨͕̩͕͕̗͕͕͕͕͕͊̆͘E͕̲͕̩͕͕̝͕͕͉͕͕̓̒͡C̸͕̙͕͕͕͕͕͕͕͕̄᷾̽᷅O̢͕̟͕͕͕͕͕͕͕᷇̈᷈͋̌M̢̛͕͕͓͕͕͕͕̟͕̲͕̂᷈E̴͕͕̲͕͕͎͕͕͕̱͕͊̿̓ ̴̸̛͕͕̗͕̟͕͕͕̻͕͕͕͕̥͕͕͕͕͕̟͕͋̓̃͐̑᷈͘Ả͕᷊͕͕͕̦͕̼͕͕̬͕̅ͣL͕͕̦͕̠͕͕͕̗͕̮͕̆̈͘P̷͕͕͕̩͕͕͇͕͕͕ͮ̓ͮ᷃H͕͕͕͕͕͓͕͕͕̔᷃᷇̒̕͟A̶̷͕͕͕̼͕͕͕͕͕̫͕͗͡:͕͕͕̼͕͕͍͕͕͍͕ͪͮ̇͠
C̶̶̙Ọ̶̶M̶̶ͤB̶̶̎I̶̶͚N̶̶ͩE̶̶̡ ̶̶̣(̶̶͔C̶̶̃̌U̶̶̜Ř̶̶R̶̸̶Ȩ̶̶N̶̶ͩT̶̶᷂ ̶̶͋O̶̶ͮU̶̶͡T̶̶͚C̶̶ͫO̶̶͓M̶̶ͥE̶̶᷂)̶̶̻
-̷̫͉̫̘̗͙̫͚̫̱̫̫̬̗̫̤̫̫̐ͦ̐̐̈̐͗̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐͋̐̐̐̐̍̐᷅̐̐̆̐᷇̐ͣ̐̐̐̐ͬ̐̐͑̐̐̐̐̾̐-̡̢̦̫̰̫̗̫̫͖̫̣̯̫̝̗̫̘̫̐̐̐̐̐̈̐̐̈́̐̐̆̐̐ͯ̐̍̐ͤ̐̐̐͛̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̂̐̐̐̐̐͜͟͟͝-̨᷿̫̞̫̗̖̫̺͔̫̤̫̻͈̥̫̗̫̫̹̫̐̐̐̐͆̐ͧ̐̐̈̐̐̐̐̐̐̈̐̐ͮ̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐ͪ̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐͢͡-̫̺͍̫̗̹̫̫͉͙̫͈̫̙̗̫͎̫̐̾̐̐̐ͭ̐̐̐᷈̐̐̐̐ͥ̐̾̐̐̐̏̐̐̐̐̐̐͋̐̐̐̐͋̐̐̀̐͂̐̐̐̄̐͘͞E̸͉̫͙̫̫̗͍̫̥̫͙᷿̫͇̫̗̫̟̫̐̐̐̐̎̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̄̐̐̐̐͆̐̐̐̐̐ͧ̐̐̐̐̐̓̐̐̈̐̑̐̐̐ͭ̐͜͡͠R̶̡̢̛̲̫᷿̫̗̫̝͓̫̫̮̫̗̫̫̐̐̐̐̈̐̂̐̐ͫ̐̐̉̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐ͣ̐̐̐᷁̐̐̓̐̐̈́̐᷾̐̐̐̐̕͜͞R̴̙̫̫̗̜̫͖̫̩̫͙͍̣̫̗᷿̫̫̐̐̐̃̐ͧ̐́̐̐̓̐̐̐̐̉̐̐͒̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐͌̐̐̐̐̿̐᷾̐̐̐ͬ̐̚O̫̻̫̠̗̫̪̫̠̫͍̫̗̫͈̫̐᷾̐̐̾̐᷇̐̐̐̐̐̽̐̐̐̐͋̐̐̓̐̐̅̐̐̐ͪ̐ͤ̐̐ͭ̐̐̐̐̓̐᷾̐̐̐͗̐͘͜R̢̫͍̫̗̣̫̱̫̫͉̫̠͍̫̗̫̫̐͛̐̐ͦ̐̐̐̐̽̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̃̐̐͒̐̐̐̄̐ͮ̐̐͐̐̕͞͠͝-̵̨̫̼͚̫̗̫͚̫̘͔̫͇̼̫̗̫᷊̫̐᷆̐̐̐̐̑̐̐͆̐̐̓̐̐̐ͬ̐᷉̐̐̐̐̐̐ͨ̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐ͮ̐̐̐ͧ̐͝ͅ-̸̴̨̡̫͚̫̗̫̱͚̫̣̫̫̗̫̺̫̪̐̈̐̐̐̐͛̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐ͥ̐̐᷆̐̐̐̐̐̐͑̐᷀̐̐̉̐̐᷄̐̐͛̐̐ͯ̐̐̐-̸̨̯̫̫̗̪̫̘̫̫̟̫̗̫͓᷿̤̫̐̐̐ͯ̐̐̽̐̐͂̐̐̐̐̐̀̐̐̐̐̅̐̿̐̐̏̐̂̐̐̐̑̐̐̉̐̐̐̐̐̐̐͜͟-̫̞̫̗᷊̫̞̬̫̫̫̦̗̫̙̫̐̒̐̐̐ͩ̐̐̐ͮ̐̐̐̐ͨ̐̐̐̐̐̐̂̐̐᷆̐᷄̐͐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̂̐̕̕͜͜͜͞

CHAPTER TWO

And so, on that battlefield on my humble world of Minecraft, the War had begun. It started out small at first. The nine "Anti-Godmodders" all challenged me in combat, repeatedly, forcefully, and unsuccessfully. They all used different methods of attack, and their strengths made up for their weaknesses. I suppose that was one of the factors of ensuring their victory.

The Player used an arsenal of divine weapons taken straight from Notch's forge, his abilities empowering his comrades. The Soldier was very fanatical, dressed in red attire, and was almost constantly airborne, using his rocket launcher to propel him to the sky, where he could make surprisingly versatile sneak attacks. The Sleuth was a dapper man, cool and collected, at least at first. I later learned it was a facade that concealed a very unpredictable personality.

The Hidden was a behemoth, at least two times bigger than his fellow rebels. His form was obscured by massive armor, covered in locks. The only feature visible to his body was a set of two white eyes. He possessed a powerful knowledge over technology, and seemed to produce ammo like humans regrow skin. The Alchemist brought to the table a complex set of items, that he could somehow combine into other sets of items at will. Acting as a support player, he provided the team with weapons, and yet he himself used them frequently as well. The Veteran hailed from an ancient civilization that centered around elemental magic. He twisted magic and science into formidable constructs that could be used to his advantage.

The Spelunker had spent most of his time in mines, and had formed a wide array of redstone machinery. He also kept muttering about scarlet ships from the skies, and other things along those lines, constantly. At first I thought it just a distraction. I was wrong, but we'll get to that later. The Kerbal was an alien; an outsider. He had spent most of his time traveling across the Void, to other universes, where he had established techniques and blueprints from many different people. His spacecraft also provided a base of operations. Lastly, the Captain was, ironically, not the leader, but the second-in-command of the group. He had knowledge over coding, and frequently bent it to his will in his own brand of Godmodding.

These nine players, all very different, all echoes of you, in your own war. That is why they are your Ancestors, and you their Descendants.

The A.G.s, an acronym they produced for themselves, which stood for "Anti Godmodders", (a title I find humorous, considering they were Godmodders themselves) repeatedly challenged me in combat, using their skills and weapons to great effect. Yet they could not touch me. They became predictable after a time, and I learned their patterns. Eventually, after having sustained only minimal damage myself, I drove them back completely. Beaten, they left. I thought that to be the end of them, and I was amused at how I hadn't even used the new fleet I had created at all.

But the next day, they were back. And the nine players they had started out as had grown, into an ensemble of at least twenty. I looked on, mystified. It was like fighting a hydra. For every head you cut off, two grow back. And even the players were not the only faces in the crowd. As I watched, they created circles, and stood in them. After a few seconds, shapes formed over their heads, which flied out figures. Entities, I realized. They had learned how to summon entities.

They then charged at me once more, and yet I had realized something. They had switched up their arsenals of weapons, and were using completely new tactics. They were creating things out of thin air, putting me in hypothetical scenarios which they hoped would annoy me, subjecting me to what was, in their own eyes, torture. That last bit usually consisted of something about ponies. I was able to deflect most of their attacks, but they had gotten stronger. I simply had no defense for a select few of their attacks. They had, themselves, mastered the art of Godmodding, yet not to the degree I had. Nowhere close.

The Terrors I had created served me well. They managed to dominate the field upon their summon, whenever they were summoned, and wiped the field with their powerful special attacks. I made a point of occasionally creating more, for future use. Additionally, the Turrets I had made came in handy as well. Many people tried to summon a mythical figure known as Chuck Norris. Thankfully, I was able to use the Turrets to keep him at bay, although it quickly became apparent as to why they had summoned him. His fighting style rivaled that of my own. The war continued, waging on for weeks on end. We all summoned entities, and the battlefield showed signs of disrepair. Scars pockmarked the field, craters showing up everywhere. It was turning into a wasteland.

Eventually, the 25th megatick of winter arrived, which, in your calendar, would be Christmas Day. Around this time, nearly everyone in the world had heard about this conflict. Scribes and scholars started making prophecies, and taking notice to what they thought would happen in the future. The Spelunker's ramblings, in particular, reached an apex at this time. If he was not fighting, he was talking about a "scarlet scourge", a "white orb", an "invasion", how it was "all his fault", among other things. Again, I dismissed it as fantasy. But on that day, on Christmas Day, his events came to pass. At least, some of them.

The skies were rent open, revealing a tear in space and time. It was familiar to me. The tear was a duplicate of the one that had showed me the Red Dragon... the one that had started my descent into madness long ago. It was a glitch. Out from the glitch spawned a giant scarlet battleship emblazoned with my symbol, the symbol of Psi. Standing on top of it was a figure, clothed in a bellowing orchid snakesin cloak striped with cerulean. His skin was grey, and two horns protruded from him. His ship opened fire on the A.Gs, destroying most of their entities and causing them to scatter to their base.

The figure introduced himself to me, and revealed another figure behind him, dressed in a black suit worn by a doctor, with a blue contraption attached to his back like a backpack. They described that they wanted to help me in taking down the A.Gs, and further my goal of universal domination. I had never given much thought to accomplices before, but I decided to accept their offer.

Apophis. The_Serpent's Ancestor.
Antares. K4yne's Ancestor.

Antares flicked a switch on his backpack, which caused the glitch to grow exponentially in size, sucking every A.G. into it. When none were left, the portal closed. He described that what he had just done had teleported the players into an alternate universe designed by him, to keep them at bay, so that they could not ruin our plans. He also said a third P.G. would arrive shortly, and added that he would add a considerable boost to our small army.

Apophis explained that he had uncovered the ship from a distant planet known as Alternia, which is where he hailed from. It belonged to the ruler of said planet, and was used as a warship with which she could conquer worlds from. While the players were stuck in the vortex, we reverse-engineered the ship and crafted armies upon armies of copies of it, eventually creating a fleet that we stationed around the world. They gathered up resources, which were all funneled deep into my castle through an array of teleporters, providing enough raw material to replenish my army of Terrors and create new ones.

Meanwhile, the A.G.s went through the gauntlet created by Antares. They had been teleported to the universe of another game, Team Fortress 2, one that piqued Antares's interest immensely. There, they would have had to fight through several waves of robotic entities and stop them from deploying bombs that would hinder their progress. He said it would have been relatively easy, but he had designed it to be nigh-impossible.

After three days had passed, the third member of my army had arrived, amidst his own fleet of spaceships. He hailed from the distant forests of Bajan, a land populated by wild Baccas, and had risen up to become their leader, dressed in the royal cloak of a king. In his hands was a deadly sniping rifle laced with blue technology.

Azurite. fesftr's Ancestor.

Together, they made up my three loyal assistants. The ground the A.G.s had gained was lost in short order, but it seemed my powers could not help me heal my lost health. It seemed that it could only be used as a last resort. But it didn't matter. Our army had grown from nothing at all to a world-conquering force. Yet, the A.G.s eventually returned, and they looked stronger than ever. Their time spent in Antares's gauntlet had given them a strong sense of teamwork. They had found new weapons to use. Yet the despair on their faces made me sure of our victory. I could see that they knew they had become outmatched.

And the war continued.

-̫̺͍̫̗̹̫̫͉͙̫͈̫̙̗̫͎̫̐̾̐̐̐ͭ̐̐̐᷈̐̐̐̐ͥ̐̾̐̐̐̏̐̐̐̐̐̐͋̐̐̐̐͋̐̐̀̐͂̐̐̐̄̐͘͞E̸͉̫͙̫̫̗͍̫̥̫͙᷿̫͇̫̗̫̟̫̐̐̐̐̎̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̄̐̐̐̐͆̐̐̐̐̐ͧ̐̐̐̐̐̓̐̐̈̐̑̐̐̐ͭ̐͜͡͠R̶̡̢̛̲̫᷿̫̗̫̝͓̫̫̮̫̗̫̫̐̐̐̐̈̐̂̐̐ͫ̐̐̉̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐ͣ̐̐̐᷁̐̐̓̐̐̈́̐᷾̐̐̐̐̕͜͞R̴̙̫̫̗̜̫͖̫̩̫͙͍̣̫̗᷿̫̫̐̐̐̃̐ͧ̐́̐̐̓̐̐̐̐̉̐̐͒̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐͌̐̐̐̐̿̐᷾̐̐̐ͬ̐̚O̫̻̫̠̗̫̪̫̠̫͍̫̗̫͈̫̐᷾̐̐̾̐᷇̐̐̐̐̐̽̐̐̐̐͋̐̐̓̐̐̅̐̐̐ͪ̐ͤ̐̐ͭ̐̐̐̐̓̐᷾̐̐̐͗̐͘͜R̢̫͍̫̗̣̫̱̫̫͉̫̠͍̫̗̫̫̐͛̐̐ͦ̐̐̐̐̽̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̐̃̐̐͒̐̐̐̄̐ͮ̐̐͐̐̕͞͠͝S̵̵̟̖̳̟̤͉̟ͮ̀Ě̟̟ͤ̎͊͟L̟̝͙̟ͩ͢ͅË̟̟́̋͟͠ͅC᷿̟ͮ͏͉̟ͨT̢̳̟̟̻᷀ͫE̟̬̟̒ͥ͝ͅD̷̟̟̠̆᷁᷁
Ë̬̰̬̬̬̬̺̬̬̬̃̅͟͞Ŗ̬̬̬͎̬̬̬̫̬̬ͤ̋̃͜R̸̬̬̬̬̬̹̬̬͖̬ͧ͋͟͞O̬̬̤̬̥̬͖̬̬̬̬ͣ͗ͧ͡R̷̬̦̬̬̬̰̬̮̬̟̬͓̬̉O̬̬͕̬᷂̬̬̬̬̬᷉ͯ̽͒᷾R̸̬̬̺̬̬̬̬̬͍̬̋᷃̀͢O̬͓̬̫̬̦̬̬̬̬̬͛̑ͧ̒R̬̬̱̬̬̬̬̭̬̬̔̿̈̈̕O̬͏̴̬̬̬̬̬̘̬̬᷁̆̽͋O̷̬̬̬̬̘̬̬̬̬᷄̋̈᷄᷃R̬̮̬̤̬̬̫̬̬̬̬ͨ̄̄͟O̬̬͚̬̬̭̬͎̬̬̬̓̑̆̍R̬͚̬̬̮̬̬̖̬᷊̬̬̽̽͑
S̨̢̠̞̝᷅ͨ̌ͨ̍ͨͩͨͯ͢Y̙᷊̠ͨ́ͨ͏̝̮̦ͦͨ̐ͨ̋S̸̩̫͕ͨͭͨͧ̐ͭͨ᷉̅ͨ͡T̘̭̝͉̹̫̮̒ͨ̅ͨ̓ͨͧͨĖ̵͔᷊̰̪͎̝ͨͨ᷇ͨ᷀ͯͨM̷̖̥̙ͨ̏ͨ̌͗᷈ͨ̊ͨ᷆͢ ̵̨̺ͨͬ̉ͨ̌͌́ͨͨ͐ͨ͠E̶᷿̞᷿̠͔̫͑ͨ̓ͨͦͧͨͣͨ͗̽ͨR̢̦̞̠̙̥͚ͨ̓ͨͫͨ͗ͨͤR̨̻͚͖̱̼ͥͨͮͨ̍ͨ᷉ͨ͝O̹̠̩ͨͦ̌ͨ͏̵̢̎ͨ͑ͨ͛R̟͎̖͚͓ͨ̾ͨ͒ͨ̀ͨ͊͞ͅ

S̵͏͙̐ͩ͏̺T̆͏ͦ̐͠͏̩A͛͏̘̐̆͏̇B̟͏͒̐᷀͏ͬL̊͏̦ͦ̐͏͑É͏̶͊̐᷀͏̠ ͩ͏̵̥̐͏͟T͇͏͓̥̐͏̎Í͏ͧ̐̓͏͔M͐͏̅̐ͨ͏ͮE͢͏͇᷅̐͏͘ ̔͏̲̌̐͏̗L̬͏̡̐͝͏̈́O̜͏̯ͤ̐͏ͧOͥ͏̴̩̐͏᷾P̖͏᷉̐͝͏̣ ̋͏᷊̐ͭ͏͒D̐͏͗̐̂͏̨È͏͌̐᷇͏̍S͎͏̫̐̓͏᷂Tͅ͏͎̲̐͏̳R̉͏̲̐͡͏᷀O͎͏̢͉̐͏̰Y̊͏̞̐͞͏̨Ė͏̤̜̐͏̳D̲͏̵̐͒͏̴
C̱᷾ͬ͑̊̏͝Ö̺̱̤́͗̂͘R̯̱̘᷈̈́͆̃Ṟ͍̤ͬͪ͊͜U̸̱̫̯ͪ̆̑P̱̞᷉ͤ̅ͦ́Ţ̮̱᷿ͪ͊᷁I̜̻̱̼͊᷾ͤO̷᷿̱ͦͮ̐̂N̪̱̳̐᷁̐͡ ͚͔̱̻̰͑ͣT̹̱̒̌͋̅ͪẠ̱̝ͧ̿̔ͪḴ̐ͣ̓̋᷆̕E̷᷊̱̱̥ͨ̏-̴̱̺͚͈̅́Ò͇̱̥᷂ͫͪV̵̱̭̘̟᷇̓Ȩ̷̭̱᷅̉᷃R̥̱̣̜̽ͧ̕:̢᷊̲̱̳̉̅ͧ ̱̮͊͌᷇͘͡9̬̱̭̺᷃̋᷅9͕̱͎̂̾̂͐.̜̯̱̻̑̈ͧ9̱̱ͨ̔͑᷇᷈9̩̱᷊͉᷀ͣ͗9̠̱̀ͩ̓͋͞9̷̨̡͙͍̱ͧ9̤̱͉͌͒᷉̉9͙̙̱̱͖͑̄9̱̖͖̿᷃ͮ͜9̯̱̦̻ͫ̅̇9͔̱ͧ᷀̾᷾ͫ9̸̴̟̱̜͏͠9͎̱͙̀ͪͩ̆9̛̱̳̭̆̇̕9͉̱͕͌̌ͬ̾%̧̤̲̱̮ͭ̕
P᷊̅̀̅᷾̅̀̅̊̅̀̅̅̀̅C͉̅̀̅̅̀̅᷈̅̀̅̉̅̀̅I̅̀̅̾̅̀̅͋̅̀̅ͦ̅̀̅-̼̅̀̅̅̀̅᷀̅̀̅̿̅̀̅E͔̅̀̅̅̀̅ͨ̅̀̅̅̀̅͠ ̡̅̀̅̉̅̀̅᷄̅̀̅̅̀̅Ș̱̅̀̅̅̀̅̅̀̅ͯ̅̀̅S̡̅̀̅̅̀̅̓̅̀̅̅̀̅͝D͇̅̀̅̽̅̀̅̅̀̅͒̅̀̅ ̩̅̀̅᷾̅̀̅᷈̅̀̅̅̀̅D̼͖̅̀̅̇̅̀̅̅̀̅̅̀̅I͙͚̅̀̅̅̀̅̅̀̅̅̀̅͟S͈᷂̅̀̅̈̅̀̅̅̀̅̅̀̅L̰̅̀̅᷀̅̀̅̅̀̅̈̅̀̅O̞̅̀̅̅̀̅̑̅̀̅᷈̅̀̅D̨̅̀̅̅̀̅ͥ̅̀̅͒̅̀̅G͓̅̀̅̅̀̅̊̅̀̅̃̅̀̅E͙̻̼̅̀̅̅̀̅̅̀̅̅̀̅D͙̅̀̅̅̀̅̈̅̀̅̉̅̀̅
R͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͍͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̈́ͯ͂͐ͯ̕A̢͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̩͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̻͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̱͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̞͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͚͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̔ͪ᷇͐̐ͨ᷉͗ͧM͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̠͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͔͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̾̿᷈̚͜ ͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̩͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̦͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͉͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̰͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̬͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͂᷉S̴͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̩͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̙͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̯͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̍̚H͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̠͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͍͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̟͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̆᷀̓͌A̧͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̭͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͖͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̓ͫ̒̎T͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̥͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈ͯͦ̐͟͢͞T͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̟͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̺͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̽ͧ̊͌͠E̵̡͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̥͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̦͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈ͤ͑͐R͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̳͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̜͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̿᷾̈̈́ͯE͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̳͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̜͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̗͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈ͥ᷈̏ͭD͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̥͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̤͈͕͈̘͈͕͈ͧ͆ͅ͏̴͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̥͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͙͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈̻͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈͈͕͈̘͈͕͈ͧ̏̓͌̈̊͛ͧ̂̽͐̚̕

E̦͈ͤR̩͌ͧR͎̀̇Ò̹̽R̭̩̕O͓͆͟R̵͝ͅO᷈͌᷀R̔ͫ͢ ̹̞͗É̖̚R̻̋᷁O̓͞ͅR̙̈ͭO̻̭᷈R̦͕̀O͙ͧͬ

C̶̢̢̡᷊͍̹͎̺ͨ̐ͨ̏ͨ̒ͨ̊ͨͨ́ͨͨͯͨ̄ͨͨͨͨ̆ͨ͑ͨ̎ͨ̃ͨ͆ͨͨͨͨͨ̄ͨ͒ͨͯͨͨͯͨ̓ͨ̈ͨͨͨͨ͜͜͡ͅO̴̸͉̭͔̳̭͎̝͉̥̙᷿͇͔͔̯ͨͨͨ᷃ͨͨͨͨͨͯͨͨͨͨͨͨͨ̅ͨͨͨͨ᷁ͨ̔ͨ̔ͨͨͨ̾ͨͯͨ͋ͨͨ͐ͨͨͨ̂ͨͨ͡ͅR̨̛̤̰̯̖̪̻̖͙̫̜̙̳̩̫ͨͦͨͨͨͨ̊ͨͨͨͯͨ᷈ͨͨ̿ͨͨͨͨ᷉ͨͨͨͫͨͨͨ̉ͨͯͨͨͯͨ̽ͨͬͨ̓ͨͨͨ̔ͨͨ͘R̨̜̝̦̬ͨͨͨͨͨ̋ͨͨ̀ͨͯͨͨ͢͏̷̣͉͉̰͚᷿͎̦ͨ̎ͨ̔ͨͨͨͨͨͨ᷁ͨͮͨ͊ͨ̎ͨͪͨͨͨͯͨ́ͨͨͨͤͨ̓ͨͨͨU̵̶᷊̟͙̲͉͈͕͕᷊̻ͨͨͦͨͦͨ͐ͨͨ̂ͨ᷅ͨͯͨͨͨ᷄ͨͨͨͥͨͨͨͯͨͨͯͨͨ͂ͨͨͨͯͨͨͨͨͯͨ͛ͨ̑ͨͨ͟͝͠ͅP̤̞̲͚̦͚̰᷿̝̳ͨ͐ͨ᷁ͨͨͨͨͨ͛ͨͯͨ᷉ͨͨͨ᷇ͨͬͨ̀ͨ᷃ͨͨͨ̔ͨͨͨͨ᷄ͨ᷅ͨͯͨͭͨͨͨͨͬͨͨͪͨ͢͝͡͠͝T̷̡̥̞᷂͈͉̘̙ͨͨͨͨ᷄ͨͨͨͨͯͨͨ͑ͨ̈ͨ͂ͨͨͪͨ͒ͨ̎ͨͨ͋ͨͨ͐ͨͨͨͨͯͨ̇ͨ͆ͨ̿ͨ̈́ͨͨͥͨ̓ͨ̕͘͢͡͝I̢̥̺̻̙̖̤̰͍̲̳ͨ᷆ͨ᷄ͨ̉ͨͩͨ͋ͨͥͨͨͯͨ́ͨͨ᷃ͨͨͨ̊ͨͨͨ͑ͨͨͨ͋ͨ̌ͨͨͨͯͨͨ͆ͨͤͨͨ̃ͨͨͨ͝͡͠O̷̡̢̡̡̻͚͇̬ͨͨ̿ͨͨ̃ͨ̔ͨͨ̍ͨͯͨ̇ͨ̄ͨͨͨͨͨ͆ͨͨ̽ͨ̂ͨ̔ͨ̉ͨ᷈ͨ̂ͨ̄ͨͯͨͨͨ̆ͨ̇ͨ᷾ͨ̿ͨͨͤͨN̴̪̯͍̭͔͕̙̰̥ͨͨͣͨ̈ͨͨͨ̽ͨͨͯͨͨ̆ͨͨͨͨͨͨͨ̅ͨ̊ͨͨͨͨͨͨ̽ͨͯͨ᷾ͨ̆ͨͨ̀ͨͨ̂ͨ̎ͨ͘͘͢͟͟͝ ̲̯͚ͨͨͨͨͨͨ᷇ͨͬͨͯͨ̚͞͏̷̨̯᷂͈̥̼͚͍ͨ̒ͨͨ͐ͨͨͨͨ̐ͨͨ̒ͨ͆ͨ᷉ͨͨͨͨͯͨ͐ͨ̒ͨͨͫͨͨͨͨ̉ͨ͜I̧̨̬̟͚̣̥̭̞̫͉̭̦᷿ͨͨ̆ͨͨͫͨͨͫͨ̌ͨͯͨ̈ͨ᷾ͨͨ̇ͨ̾ͨ̉ͨ̆ͨͨͨͨͨͨͨͨͤͨͯͨ᷈ͨͨͨ̇ͨͨͨͨ͞͝S̡̛᷿͉̺̥̠͍̳̮͇͈̼̹ͨͥͨͨͨͨͨͨͨͯͨ͋ͨͨ̽ͨͨ͊ͨͨͮͨͨͨ᷅ͨͨͬͨ̉ͨͨͧͨͯͨͨͨ᷈ͨͨͨͨ͑ͨ̚̚̚ͅ ̞̥̯̩̞͙̖̩̹̫͎̝ͨ̒ͨͨͨͨͭͨͨͨͯͨ̒ͨͫͨͨͨ᷃ͨͬͨ̇ͨ̏ͨͨͨͨͨͨͬͨͨͯͨͣͨͨͫͨ̐ͨͨͨ̐ͨ̚̚͜͞T̛̼͙͕̳̮ͨͨͨͨͨ̄ͨͨͨͯͨ̿ͨ̅ͨͪͨͨ͜͏̰̞̬̼͚ͨͨͨͨͨͭͨ̀ͨ̈ͨ̎ͨ̽ͨ̈́ͨͯͨ᷄ͨ̑ͨ̈ͨ̽ͨͫͨ͊ͨͨH̶̶̢̛᷿᷂͚̠̝̳̫͎̺ͨ͛ͨͨͨͨͨͥͨ̇ͨͯͨ᷅ͨ᷇ͨͨͨͨͬͨ̀ͨͪͨͦͨ᷀ͨͨͨͨͨ᷃ͨͯͨͨ́ͨͦͨͨͨ᷾ͨͨ̚͝Ę̸͎͇̤̯̫̮͉̟͕ͨ͌ͨͨͨͨͨͨͨͯͨ̆ͨ̈ͨͨ͛ͨ̂ͨ̋ͨ᷾ͨ͗ͨ᷈ͨͨ͛ͨͨͨͨͨ̓ͨͯͨ̐ͨͨͨͨ̋ͨͫͨ᷅ͨ͘͡ ̵̶̣̳̩͕̝̝̪͖̭͕͉͇̖͙̲ͨͨͨͨͨͣͨͨͨͯͨͨͨͯͨͨͨ᷈ͨͨͨ́ͨͨͨͨͨ̑ͨͨͯͨͨͨͨͣͨ͜͡ͅ͏̯̬ͨͨͨŅ̴̴̛̬̯͇᷂̜̩̦̖͈̙͓ͨͨͨͨͨͨͭͨ͗ͨͯͨͨͨ̄ͨ᷇ͨ͌ͨ̿ͨͨͨͨͮͨͨ͌ͨͨͨͣͨͯͨ᷇ͨ̿ͨͨͨͨ᷀ͨͫͨ͜Ę̵͖̖̗̠᷊᷿᷂̼͓ͨ᷅ͨ᷈ͨ̃ͨͨ̋ͨ᷅ͨͨͯͨͨͨͨͨͨͨ͗ͨͨ͛ͨͨ̆ͨ᷃ͨ᷄ͨͨͨͯͨͨ̌ͨͨ̃ͨͨͭͨͨ̚͝͡͠ͅW̶̶̵̢̨̡̡̨̢̛͙̬̭̳̺̰ͨ́ͨͨͨͨͨͨͨͯͨ᷆ͨͨ̿ͨ̔ͨ᷁ͨͨͬͨ̒ͨͨ̎ͨͨ̓ͨͨͨ̌ͨͯͨͨ̐ͨͬͨ̾ͨͨͨͨ ̘̣̙̳̮̼̣͙̫͚ͨͨ͋ͨͨ̓ͨ́ͨͨͨͯͨͥͨ́ͨͨͨͨͤͨ̒ͨͨ᷀ͨ̎ͨͨͨ̌ͨ᷃ͨͬͨͯͨ̇ͨ᷅ͨ̌ͨͨ᷅ͨ̉ͨͨͨ̕L̵̸̢̛̛̲̠̖̺̤̹̱̘ͨͨͨͨ̒ͨͨ̓ͨͨͯͨ᷈ͨͨ̅ͨͨ͑ͨͨͣͨͨͨͯͨ͒ͨͦͨ̈ͨ̐ͨͨͯͨͨ᷈ͨͪͨͨ̏ͨ̄ͨͨ͝O̢̞̬̝̘̜̠̙͕͈̤̳ͨͨͨͨ̒ͨ̾ͨ̆ͨͨͯͨͨ̅ͨͨ̇ͨ᷀ͨͦͨͭͨͨ͗ͨ᷅ͨͨͨͪͨͨͫͨͯͨͨ̔ͨͨ᷄ͨ̆ͨͨ̌ͨ̚R̵̶̴̢͖͈͔̳̮͔͚᷿̙̫᷂̪ͨ᷇ͨͨͨͨͨͨͨͯͨͨͨͨͨͨ̆ͨͨͨ᷾ͨͨͨ́ͨ̑ͨ᷾ͨͨͯͨͥͨͨͨͦͨͬͨͨͪͨ͡͡͝D̡͍̬̫᷿ͨͤͨͨ̆ͨͨ᷅ͨͨ͒ͨͯͨͥͨ̽ͨͮͨͮͨͨͨ̑ͨ͏̴̢͚̘͖ͨ̌ͨͨͨ͆ͨ̍ͨͨͨͯͨ̔ͨͨ᷇ͨͨͨͨͪͨ̚͘͢
P͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͔͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘C͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͔͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘I͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͔͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘-͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͔͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘E͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͔͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘ ͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͔͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘S͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͔͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘S͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͔͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘D͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͔͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘ ͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͔͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘C͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͔͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘R͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͔͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘A͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͔͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘C͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͔͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘K͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͔͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘E͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͔͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘D͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͔͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͚᷿͚͕͚᷿͚͚᷿͚᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉̉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉᷉̃᷉᷉᷉᷉͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘͘