Closed [M] The Lean And Hungry Type

[Velho]

༺༉❁ April 30th year 124 of the third age ❁༉༻
<Mature themes; blood, mild gore, sexual content discussed herein.>

Thokkmyrr, the largest settlement in the sprawling darkness of the Hespærian bogs, was as lovely a little city as one could get in such tenebrous environs. With all of its architecture woven out of the trees in typical Æld'Norai grandiosity– lifted from the water where necessary– it spanned numerous levels, starting from the ground and up into the great boughs above, buildings connected to one another by cobbled paths and elaborate bridges. And while it was notably warmer when compared to the rest of Ælheim, foreigners would find it noticeably cooler compared to wetlands elsewhere.

It was also regarded as rather dangerous, a land of superstition, witches, fae, and twisted animals of all sorts lurking in water and in tree. But still, there were many reasons why one might want to mire through the murk and make it to Thokkmyrr. For one, arcane scholars of all stripes made the journey, as it had the largest public library in all of Ælheim– and given the length of time such an establishment has existed, within its walls lie texts whose ages span millennia. For another, Hespæria's Ensorcellers and Alchemists are considered unparalleled, even by Ælheim's own lofty standards. And lastly, mages tended to mysteriously disappear far less often here compared to say, the green woods of Græntún. Within the witchwood, such individuals– of any race, even– were oft granted higher purpose in lieu of simply being farmed for parts.

And on the outskirts of this sorcerous city sat Själasalr, an establishment that might be strange to some, though those native to Ælheim would view the business of a Ferrier with great reverence. The profession is seen as both a sacrifice and a sacred duty, and those who perform it are generally held in high esteem; vain as many of the Æld'Norai are, sacrificing one's vitality for what is, ultimately, a public service career is considered a fairly steep price to pay. But to a foreigner, a stranger? All Själasalr would look like, from the outside, is a particularly lavish ælven manor.

Själasalr sat alone above a lake, the building crafted from a towering Ælheim sequoia and grafted with the roots of a native marshlog tree to hold it up and out of the water below. Connected to the marshy mainland by a wooden footbridge and with bark covered by a mix of bright red poppies, purple nightshade and hanging wisteria, it stood out against the blues and greens of the bog's more common flora.

If an intruder, perhaps, wished to sneak into this fine establishment, the wisest choice would be to take it on in daylight; alas, for now, it was deep into the night. But if they still decided to move forward with their choice, they'd have to cross the bridge like any standard guest to get in. From there, however, their path would diverge from that of a guest, and they might find themselves tempted to climb 'round branches and wooden decking and upwards, as with the right amount of effort and some agility, a wily intruder might make their way to an open window on the third floor– this would be the easiest way, if only because everything else looked sealed shut and locked.

And the third floor would 'confirm' a bias that this was a home; first and second were where business was performed, see, while the proprietor and his staff lived on the third and fourth. The interior halls had a few choice pieces of exquisitely crafted furniture and ornate, maximalist decor wrought of the same durable, dark wood as the manor itself. One might describe the aesthetic theme as a sort of druidic art deco, but with a distinctly macabre personal touch courtesy of the business' proprietor. The curtains on the windows and the upholstery were a deep shade of purple, and its halls and rooms were adorned with both varying artworks and floral growths. The flowers that grew within were the same variety that adorned the outside of the towering tree-manse– glowing red poppies and the lovely purple hues of wisteria and nightshade.

If an intruder were to look for, say, food, well, they were in luck– the scent of it would lead them a short jaunt from that open window through a hall and into a currently empty kitchen, the larder of which had plenty of fine victuals ranging from succulent fruits to meats– both raw and dried– as well as breads, cheeses, and some baked confections. All of this was unguarded, of course, because exactly who would be foolish enough to break into a Ferrier's business to steal food?

 

[Vivian Kreine]

​

The swamps.

Not an ideal place for him, if he was being honest. He was a city rat through and through, the type to know bars, apothecaries and the best alleyways to lift a patriar's purse...not the type to wander through the trees. Definitely not the type to be crossing rope bridges, as tense as a stung cat, his hands tight on the ropes. Thokkmyrr may have had the reputation for poisonous beauty and bewitching hags, but Vivian was here for opportunity. There were stores of knowledge here that he needed, stores of knowledge that would be locked away behind mansion doors in major cities. Places he would never be allowed to go, as beautiful and dirty as he was. No, Vivian was a half-breed, and that separated him from most places in high society. Without the prospect of sneaking into a private library, Thokkmyrr was his best chance to learn about the magic burning him up from the inside.

First, however, he needed to find some food. Prostitution prospects in a swamp were grim and filthy affairs, and Vivian was exhausted. Of course, he could go lay on his back for scraps. Someone always wanted to pay him a few coins for a tumble. But why be content with yet another bowl of gruel when a glistening shrine to excess lay right in front of him?

This mansion lay on the outskirts of the city; fewer guards, fewer eyes. No doubt someone wanted a little peace and quiet, and that would prove to be his folly. Vivian crossed yet another rope bridge toward the building, eyeing it as he went. It appeared to be some sort of business, though from the construction of the third floor he assumed that the owner lived upstairs. Such affairs weren't uncommon in his usual haunts, and certainly not uncommon in a swamp city where vertical expansion was preferable to arguing with the loamy soil. He crept along, trying to balance himself to appear as a visiting patron to the casual observer yet not trying to gain the attention of anyone in the house.

Vivian's head tilted upward, his large blue eyes scanning the building as he walked around it, his bare feet barely making a noise on the planks. Third floor. Not ideal. That dragged him right into the epicenter of a sleeping owner. Oh, but he could smell it...fresh bread, a little tinge of garlic from some dried meats carried on the moist air. Perhaps a little wine and olive oil for the bread. He chewed his lip; he would have to take his chances.

He clambered up the building, taking advantage of the vined exterior and elegant sweeps of wood with his deft little fingers. Slipping through the window was no easy feat, and he had to measure his breaths carefully as he slipped inside and padded along the carpet toward the scent of food. Instincts buzzed in his skull. The swamp had been dangerous for him, full of life and crawling things that whispered to him. Worms devoured, they ate and fucked and lay in the mud. Upon his arrival to Thokkmyrr, he had thought of little else...consumption. Feeding. Hiding in the dark and the damp. Magic twisted around in his brain, urging him to follow instinct, and strangling his sense of rational thought into silence.

Vivian's nose led him into the unoccupied kitchen, and straight toward a warm loaf of bread. He tore into it eagerly, tearing off chunks with his teeth and swallowing them down like a man possessed. His eyes glazed over. Food. Quiet and dark. He longed for the warmth of mud, the embrace of water on his naked skin and the tendrils of a lover around his body. Before he knew it, he was licking crumbs from his palms and slithering into the pantry. Meat. That was what the worm wanted. Flesh. Prey. He tore into a string of sausages, his teeth hungry for soft, unyielding flesh. Wouldn't it be better if it were squirming? Wouldn't it be better if it fought? He hunched into a corner, possessive over his prize until he was licking the grease from his fingers.

Then he saw it. A duck, neatly plucked but not yet gutted, waiting for tomorrow's butchery. He yanked it down and sank his teeth into it raw. A blush of blood on his tongue and he clenched his fingers around it, daring it to struggle. Tearing into its delicate wings with his teeth, and lapping up soft liver and still heart. A growl emerged from his throat, and all of a sudden his clothes felt too restrictive. He needed blood on his skin! Not this...refuse. Vivian struggled out of his pants and jacket, wiping blood from his mouth with his hand and tearing into the carcass anew.

Slowly, he settled the duck down onto the floor and laid with it, on his belly like a cat, licking at the mess of meat and broken bone.

​

 

[Velho]

<notes>

In the midst of performing a particularly complicated embalming– the deceased wished to have her corpse elaborately woven with a specific list of flora– Velho felt the immediate sense that something was…off. And not in a way he could dismiss as paranoia, no. This was a sort of sixth sense he recognized right away; somebody, or something, had entered into his property, his Grove, and the tree itself was letting him know.

The details were always fuzzy, but as he paused his work and focused, he got the impression that the intruder was moving towards the kitchen of all places? How strange. In truth, he was more confused and curious than anything else; in his own home, there wasn't much that would cause major concern– that, and if the intruder were particularly large or destroying things, he'd know.

Languidly, the Ferrier took his leave from the morgue, striding through the halls towards the stairs. When he passed a sveinn– a servant, he paused.

"Tell Æhti to put the body in stasis, will you…? I sense a…disturbance, of a sort. Don't know what I'll find," he said. "And…clear the third floor, will you?" Passing vague, that; foreboding, even.

But even so, far be it from his staff to ever question him. The sveinn nodded, and the two parted ways.

Velho made his way to the stairs, but rather than going right away to the third floor, he first went to the fourth, wherein his private chambers were. For when he turned to Ash, he left his clothing behind, and he wanted to leave such garments within his room over anywhere else. The Ashwraith would swirl in the air as he left, charting a path back down to the third floor as a cloud, a plume of Ashes, barely any more visible than dust in those darkened halls.

He floated in through the kitchen's open door, and once every speck of him had passed the threshold, it slammed shut with a loud, sonorous thud. Flowers and metallic vines would grow 'round the handle, stalling it in lieu of a traditional lock. This was less to keep the intruder from escaping, and more to keep whatever remained of his staff from entering.

And though Velho was certainly surprised at the sight of the boy and the duck, he hesitated not–

"My, my…

You've no manners, have you?​

Oh, the temerity…"​

He whispered in a mellifluous, velvety tenor, words resonating through the room from no particular source; his voice, in a way, would feel as if it were surrounding Vivian's perception. And yet, he didn't quite sound mad– rather, his words rang with a playful, impish tone that bordered upon pity.

This intruder, a strange mutt of features– human and a derivative elf blend, he thought. Still, he was unusually pretty. And, curiously, the young waif carried the flickering glow of a Rusalka. The Ferrier couldn't help but wonder after the boy's story…perhaps he'd be a fun pet?

Maybe.

Before Vivian would be able to detect the presence of another sapient entity beyond those words, the Ashen creature would flow through the room, the cloud of his being sweeping 'cross the floor and gathering at the lithe man's back. Vivian would feel the pinprick pressure of bony fingertips first, and then the cool softness of a palm as a hand grasped onto his shoulder. Those Ashes condensed further into an arm, then a torso, and soon, the Scourge, head and bust, hung over the boy, his features shrouded by the room's darkness and a mop of black hair.

His lips lingered mere centimeters from the boy's ear, close enough for breath to brush skin. "Careful now, no sudden movements– all it takes is a touch– and I've already won that game. You'll Rot unless I Allay it, little Rusalka." his voice gentle, but coy.

The potency of this Bane was, in this case, dosed to be a slow burn, having been conveyed by the smallest trace of Pathos from his palm. Vivian might feel a fever start to rise in the ensuing moments, but no more, not yet.

The beast of his hunger gnashed its teeth; kill the boy, eat him for his insolence, it said. Another voice from the chorus sang to him, advising patience; food tasted better tenderized– and this one looked so lovely in red. He'd probably have such pretty screams, too…

Velho squeezed his eyes shut, quieting the song of his Blights, wresting control of himself back. Instead, he'd choose to play a little game, give the intruder a shot; should the boy amuse him, he'd live. Should he not…he'd surrender to his own hunger.

His words still light, still playful, he'd ask–

"Tell me– why've you come?​

And beyond that, plead your case; give a reason to spare you."​

​

 

[Vivian Kreine]

​

Vivian startled the moment the door slammed shut. It jerked him free of his trance, interrupting the whispers and rush of hormones with a rush of sound. Insects cared little for things like doors; there were always gaps, hinges. As long as air flowed, the scuttling and squirming things dominating Vivian's mind wouldn't be threatened. Vivian, however, was starting to come to the cold realization he was locked in. Even worse, ashes gathered around the room, coalescing behind him. It was a strange atmospheric pressure, going from being alone in the pantry to something emerging behind him.

Fingertips graced his naked skin, sliding up to his shoulder. Blood from the duck trailed in a rusty smear, tracing those fingers. Caught. Gods, he really was losing control, wasn't he? Raw meat roiled in his gut, along with the uncomfortable pressure of fullness. Worse still, whatever had awakened during his feast definitely wasn't a mere human or aelf. No, something worse entirely.

Yet, his connection hadn't truly severed. His instincts were practically purring. Full, safe, and warm its next thoughts were mating and resting. Vivian swallowed thickly as the presence hovered over his shoulder, whispering in his ear. Why had he come? Was honesty worse than the comforting lie of a half breed sneaking in for a few bites? There was no disguising what he'd done; he'd torn the raw animal apart like a dog.

"Instinct…not hunger." Vivian whispered in reply, his throat raw from chewing bones and meat. He hadn't thought to grab water. "The smell of meat, and blood." He leaned forward ever so slightly, running his fingers through the mess on the pantry floor.

"It's…almost involuntary. I smell food, I eat even if I'm not hungry. I see someone strong, I urge them to mount me…" Vivian looked back at the creature, turning his head slowly in the hopes of catching a glimpse. "Give me an hour, would you..? To get back to myself away from this. Then I'll be gone. You'll never see me again, alright?"

The trancelike tone was fading from his voice, replaced by nerves. Warmth was spreading through his body, feverish, unwelcome and unnatural. Fear chased it. He had fucked up this time, well and truly.

​

 

[Velho]

<notes>

When Vivian turned to look at him, the creature floated back an arm's length away; a bit longer than normal for that, though, given Velho's height and strange, gangly proportions. He was all too happy to let his 'guest' look at him.

The moon poured in from a single window on the far wall to the Scourge's right, and dimly bathed in it, Vivian would see the macabre facade of an Æld'Norai, though one clearly corrupted. His face was gaunt and sickly, though he had gorgeous bone structure– a faint remnant of what beauty he might have possessed in an alternate life. He was unnaturally pale and purplish, almost bruised looking in places, with thin skin and visible veins along the wiry musculature of his arms. And it was with this much clearer view that the stranger would fully realise the wraith was a fully discorporated torso that cut off just below the rather visible ribs; skin pulled tightly as it was, he'd even be able to see every beat of the creature's heart.

Old as he was, Velho was a patient thing. He had stayed silent until the stranger gave the entirety of his answer, and then, he inhaled, and he laughed, expelling more Ash in the process. Loud, melodic, and deeply sardonic, he let his voice ring throughout the room in an almost theatrical fashion. Fascinating answers, those– blunt, matter of fact; unusual, if only because Rusalka are normally so magniloquent with their phrasing.

Velho's sleepy, lavender eyes narrowed and creased at the edges as his lips spread into a wide, impish grin.

"Let you go…?" The Ashwraith giggled.

"No, no, you pretty little petal; I shan't be doing that," he'd finally regained his composure.

"Plus...if I just let you go, you'd die. I've afflicted you with a pathogen of my own making, and I am currently your only option for a cure," he explained, his voice far kinder now– but this in and of itself was cruel mockery.

He'd then pull himself closer again, "...here, a lion's den– and you wandered into it freely," his words a jab.

"I, the lion– now, you must appease me or feed me; 'tis only the natural consequence," he did so wonder what the stranger's blood tasted like.

And then, Velho would disperse entirely, vanishing into a thick cloud of dust that spread itself so thin as to be barely visible in the air of the room.

"I wonder…do you even know what you are?" His voice asked, ringing out from nowhere in particular; it would be a disorienting sort of thing to hear him like this. "Why you are the way you are?"

"Fledglings like yourself are usually kept on tight leashes…where is your Domitor…?" he floated the question casually, so much so that it might come across as uncanny given the circumstances.

Velho had a sneaking suspicion that this one had been abandoned– created without sanction and left to fend for himself. No self-respecting Rusalka would allow their Kinder to break into the home of another Blighted like this, nor would they do anything of the sort themselves; especially not in Ælheim, where most of the Blighted knew one another, and all knew of each other. And this one? The Scourge had never seen before, nor been given a description of this sort.

"...and, say…what do you define as 'someone strong'?" This question asked a bit more playfully.

As moments ticked by, Vivian would feel his body growing sicker. His heart rate would be up by now, and he'd start to shiver and sweat; he might even feel light headed. He was getting sicker.

 

[Vivian Kreine]

​

Vivian regarded his captor. No doubt that any normal person would have found him terrifying; a disembodied torso with beating, pulsing organs floating in midair. Why then did those hollow cheeks and bruised lips have an enchanting sort of horror to them, a beauty found only in graveyards. Vivian tensed as the creature spoke; a disease? Poison? He could feel the fever running hot fingers up and down his spine.

The creature disseminated into the air, spreading around the room. His voice became a shattered echo, bouncing around the shelves and seeming to come from all directions. Vivian tilted his head at his words. "You know what I am? You know why this is happening to me?" He asked tentatively. Such fae tended to guard their secrets, and if he was going to deal with this one…he needed to watch his words. A fledgling. Interesting name. He would have chosen nymph. Larvae. Something young and squirming and unsure of its place in the world.

"I have no…Domitor. A client of mine did this to me." Vivian said, guardedly. He remembered that night so clearly, so horrifically. It had been a normal night, spreading his legs for his daily bread, and it had gone so wrongly. Held down, cut open, thankfully passing out from pain before it had become too much to bear. He shuddered remembering it.

He tilted his head a bit. Someone strong. He shivered again, this time for different reasons. "My body reacts to strong magic, the smell of testosterone. It begs me to be submissive, and breed." Vivian allowed a small smirk to play on his lips, settling a bit more comfortably on the floor. He sat on his heels, legs splayed wide to show where blood had trickled down his naked belly, hands buried in the body of the duck held so protectively in front of him. His back arched just so, showing every inch of his pale skin on display.

"The fever…makes me feel like I'm in heat." Vivian mumbled, licking his lips.

​

 

[Velho]

<notes>

Vivian's answers, though brief, confirmed his suspicions; he'd been turned, then abandoned. A rare occurrence, that's for certain– and surely, it'd happened outside of Ælheim. Given the boy's looks and apparent heritage, as well as proximity, he guessed either Bahn'Shei or Arcanis. That subject, however, he'd shelve for now– if he ended up keeping the stranger alive, he imagined such a tale would be better to ask after another time.

"Mm, but you do; that client. A cruel fate, one like yours," he began, his voice teetering on sympathy just so.

There was little that could soften the Scourge, but he was, admittedly, soft on young Blighted. Those that managed to survive the initiations were exceedingly rare, especially so the abandoned ones; without guidance, death was generally considered inevitable. And yet, here splayed out on the floor before him was one such abandoned pup– alive, but woefully confused. The voice compelling him to guide the youngling was beginning to rival the ones telling him to eat the boy.

"Though I can imagine there's a bit more to you than your curse. You've been given a gift known as 'Rusalka,' something called a Blight. It's irrevocably twisted you, but–..." he paused for a moment, thinking.

"The heat you describe isn't so normal, even for that. There's more to you, isn't there?" Velho asked, almost musingly.

Rusalka he'd met ran the gamut from extraordinarily lascivious to finding themselves drawn more towards fear or laughter; it varied, but of the Blighted, it was typically Nightwalkers who described such animalistic compulsions. And this was no Nightwalker; his Lifesight would've recognized a much more aberrant pattern in the Saol that ran through him.

"Have you any other magic? Galdr initiate, the Pact of a Godhead, or, perhaps…have you ever had anything implanted?" It had to be something else in combination with the Blight that warped him.

After this question was asked, the Ash that'd spread across the room began to condense again. This time, however, the full silhouette of a man, tall and exceedingly thin, began to take shape. He was sitting with his knees held to his chest a few inches away from Vivian, leaning forward a bit to get a better look at the shivering figure on the floor. He wore nothing, and only his legs were used for modesty.

With one arm still wrapped around his shins, he reached one gangly limb forward to tap the fledgling's arm. "I think I'll keep you," he said.

The next thing Vivian would notice would be a slight shift in the rudder of his apparent illness. Though Velho did Allay the Bane to stop his new toy from Rotting, he replaced it with something else. Through another spell of his, Vitalitas of Devorare, he maintained the youngling's raised body temperature, but now he'd feel far more alert, awake, less exhausted. Velho was tempted to shift a few other hormones around, but for now, he'd wait. He wanted his questions answered first, before he drowned out the boy's ability to think coherently.

 

[Vivian Kreine]

​

The client was supposed to guide him? Vivian bared his teeth, tensing, arching his back like a centipede tearing back. "I want to kill that motherfucker. Swallow him down alive and screaming." He hissed, spittle dripping down his chin. "He did this to me. Ripped me open and left me like this. This…thing. I eat, I sleep in the dirt, I let myself be bred over and over. Alcohol only numbs it. I don't know…I don't remember. I woke up slit from belly to chest with him inside of me."

Vivian shook, with rage, with fever, with emotion. He watched the ashes coalesce, blue eyes darting around to watch the form take shape. Naked, like himself. The man touched him, and his blood quieted. It didn't take away the need in his body, the aching desire building deep in his loins or the frantic need to slither into somewhere dark and wet. But it stopped his throat from burning. It stopped sweat from dampening his hair. He was shaking less, but only so. Keep him? Like a leech in a jar?

Insects cared not for captivity if they were fed. Vivian looked up at the man. "Please." He whispered. "I need somewhere…dark. Wet. Warm. I need to be mounted. I need the touch of another slithering around in darkness. Please…I feel like I'm going to go mad." The sweat on his body was thickening. Mucus, unnatural and thick, dripped from his neck, his arms, pooling between his legs and trailing from his chin.

​

 

[Velho]

<notes>

Ah, and there it was. Just who was this client? Velho was a bit taken aback at the choice of both giving another an operation– likely implanting a Glamour organ– and Rusalka in the same encounter and then leaving of all things. It did make him wonder– just who was this person that'd done this? What was their motivation, truly?

Where Velho would want to ask questions, however, the boy would kill the one who turned him– and such rage was surely justified.

"Sounds like you've been given a Glamour of a sort," he began, his voice almost clinical. Given the description of the wound, the implant would've had to have been nestled within the torso. If the incision had cut down the belly, then…

Velho would shift his hand to poke at Vivian 'round the chest and belly, seemingly at random at first, and then targeting particular locations based upon the boy's reactions. He ended up focusing both 'round the ribs, and then 'round the back in the area of stomach and liver. This little test was done to check for Seeming, and given the young man's reaction, it was all but confirmed.

He chuckled, but this was sardonic in tone and sounded inherently tired, and then he shook his head. "Yes, you were given Rusalka and the Crux of a fae at the same time. You've Seeming, have you ever made proper use of either of these things…?" he wondered aloud.

Likely, the answer was no; both of those magics would be markedly hard to harness without intent.

"It sounds like your Blight is making whatever you've Imprinted with bleed into you– imparting its instincts onto you. Have you ever eaten anything alive? Eaten a part of something shortly after killing it? Because…that's how you Imprint," he giggled a bit.

"I wonder what it was you ate that's given you such an irresistible compulsion to breed." Velho only knew much about the anatomy of humanoids; zoology, entomology, marine biology– the finer points of those escaped him.

"As animals, we all have that in a sense– even as a half-dead husk, that siren call still sings to me from time to time. But you? It sounds," he clicked his tongue,"...almost agonizing to resist."

 

[Vivian Kreine]

​

Vivian flinched at the other's touch the moment his upper abdomen was palpated. He lowered his head with a pained grunt, squeezing his eyes shut as tears sprang to them and recoiling away. The pain was indescribable, like a swollen gallbladder but not at the same time. Having it probed was like being chewed from the inside.

"He-the client…he fed me worms. Leeches, strange colorful worms he told me would poison me. They didn't. I thought he was torturing me." Vivian whispered. "But I can feel them in my head. Fuck. Eat. Sleep. Hide. Fuck. Eat. Sleep. Hide. I can't escape it. Once its needs have been met, once I've eaten and drunk, all it wants to do is find a mate." He licked his lips again. Perhaps he could find safety here. This one wasn't listening! He was in no state to talk.

Vivian turned then, yanking boxes out from a low shelf like a creature possessed. He shoved them to one side and squirmed under the nearest shelf. Mucus poured from his skin in a strange cocoon, cushioning him from the floor and wrapping him in warmth. He peeked out only slightly, one eye and locks of slimy white hair visible. "Please…" he slid an arm out of his cocoon. "Join me. If only for a little while. Once I rest, once this thing is satisfied, it will be quiet. I'll be able to…to talk. Act normally. Please." He lifted shining fingers to the other man, his body shifting back to offer him space. His cocoon was protective, warm, wrapping itself around the supports in the shelving. It was beginning to dry in those spots, becoming tough and leathery, anchoring Vivian in place to make him harder to tear out.

"Help me understand this thing." He whispered, like a strange, pretty little monster under the shelving. "Come to me."

​

 

[Vicissitude]

꧁══════════• ༺༉ { Reviewed/Canon } ༉༻•══════════꧂​

Velho

+30 XP (3,000+ WC)

PC Names

+21 XP 9 (~2,100 WC)

I foresee only great things for these two :3c​

꧁══════════• ༺༉ ❁ ❀ ❁ ༉༻•══════════꧂​

​

​