#cookie fetch quest

[nesperus]

part 2 of my cast gifts for rtx! beth’s pcs

matt will freddie

[peachyvillian]

people need to talk about fetch quest more. Also. Heyy. Hey. very wild wolf and very good boy and nick parallels. Narcolas and nick. Heh. heh. get it.

[mj-thrush-gxn]

the only animals ever

im relistening to fetch quest. i love them. also i can’t draw big dogs. sorry donut.

[dollarstoreartsupplies]

I’m just saying that Cookie (a good girl who is VERY fast) would not let Willy Stampler anywhere NEAR Scary Marlowe

[mash-the-buttons]

SO I finished Season 1... I'm not ready to say goodbye to Terry Jr ;-;

[citrinegay]

some stickers I drew while listening to Fetch Quest for the first time :))

(Available on my redbubble !!🐾)

[bugwantsahug]

I am so love her. She is me in dog form.

and, im very fast !!

( click for better res ! )

[magicalmanhattanproject]

okay, everyone stop doomposting about the new egg tasks for a second lemme break out some Math to soothe your nerves and calm your spirits, as Math is always known to do.

it looks like one person doing one day's worth of tasks fill's up an egg's meter a third of the way.

that means each egg needs their their tasks done three times a week.

with 10 eggs, that's 30 egg task sets (note that i'm talking about sets of tasks. one set = 3 cookies, not 1 cookie) per week for every egg to keep their lives intact

we'll round down to 28 to make the math easier and because phil's tasks are currently being counted for both chayanne and tallulah so tallulah gets freebies

28 sets that need to be done per week/7 days per week=on average 4 sets of tasks that need to be done per day

if 4 people do the fetch quests every day and leave the cookies somewhere the parents can get them and feed them to their kids, all the eggs are completely covered

and everyone who logs on can turn in tasks for cookies and those cookies can be given to the parents to maximize their impact

i suspect we'll see things like in purgatory where people just set up chests of quest items by spawn so people who are too busy to properly play can easily log in for five minutes to turn in items and pass off the cookies to whoever needs them

even if not or on weeks where people are busy, these cookies are just regular items. the islanders can build a surplus. em already has 2/3 of her quests done. if bagi just keeps doing tasks this week anyway, she'll have extra cookies for babysitters.

there could still be rougher patches if like phil goes on vacation and he has two eggs that need twice as many cookies, for example, but there are a lot of qsmp members who are enriched by boring fetch quests who will be happy to get a stockpile set up.

the eggs are still gonna be safe.

[lynxgriffin]

ER Ralsei: Kris, could you gather some ingredients for me?

ER Kris: Okay, what are they?

R: Stomach bile, ice, a giant feather, furry scales, and a cookie in the shape of Lancer’s hand.

K: …What are you gonna do with that stuff?

R: Make muffins for everyone, obviously.

ER Berdly: Cool! A fetch quest!

It seems like Kris can just get all those ingredients from their beast friends, so that's a pretty easy fetch quest!

[keepin-it-on-the-d-l]

I think about Cookie from Fetch Quest at least once a day

“I’m fast!” *fails the roll to be fast* I’d die for you Cookie.

[elliebell77]

sorry i villified the babygirl (fellswap gold sans)

(writing under the cut)

Wine was a nice guy.

No, more than a nice guy. Wine was a GOOD guy. He did good things, for good people. He baked in his free time, and gave it to his boss. Bet you didn't know that, did you? Yeah, Wine wasn't just nice. He was generous. He was kind. 

"Okay, okay, you're kind! Please don't hurt me!"

Wine scoffed, flicking the cat monster's ear irritably and turning away from it. Though, it, too, was another example of Wine's benevolence; a criminal, heroically apprehended. This one was breaking curfew. Can you believe that? It can't be THAT hard to just... stay home at certain hours of the day. Rulebreakers like them were the reason Wine had to work such late hours to just keep his country safe.

The skeleton started pacing, perfectly spaced footsteps crunching in the snow. It got in his boots, of course; it always did in this part of the forest. Gods, Wine hated Snowdin. Wait, was he yelling just now? Sorry. See, he's kind; he said sorry. Sorry is a kind thing to say.

Anyway. What were they talking about? Oh, yes, Wine's compassion.

What was everyone's problem, anyway? He could never go more than an hour without someone bitching at him about his work or picking up his sock or putting arsenic in the cookies or delivering this or that or... just... always doing things for people. Like a fucking cabin boy. Can you believe that? The great and kindhearted Sans Serif, doing fetch quests for his higher ups. And especially that stupid fucking lizard bitch. if he has to deliver one more goddamn LOVE LETTER to that fucking GLORIFIED SUSHI ROLL of a royal scientist, he swore to the gods almightly he would BLAST SOMEO--

A scream echoed through the forest, scaring away whatever birds were brave enough to stick around during Wine's ranting. 

"...Oops." Well, that was... unfortunate. The skeleton sighed, brushing dust off his armor.

"...I... suppose, you have learned your lesson?" Wine cleared his throat awkwardly when the charred mess of a monster on the ground didn't respond. Well, other than a groan, but that wasn't really a response, or at least not a proper one. How rude.

Still, Wine was a kind skeleton, and he was in a good mood, so he made a vague shooing gesture to the cat to indicate that it was free to leave, before promptly turning around and strutting away through the forest back to town, satisfied that his work was done here. And he didn't even punish the rulebreaker for its rudeness.

He was such a nice guy.

[blairsanne]

Reunion at Bag End

A TSS gift for @coconi for Tolkien Secret Santa 2022 @officialtolkiensecretsanta! Happy Holidays @coconi!

The Hobbit/Lord of the Rings (slight AU) 1443 words

Summary: Bilbo is anxious as he awaits Thorin and the Company's arrival at Bag End. Everyone lives AU, cozy fluff.

Bilbo stood in his kitchen and stared out the window at the falling snow.

The sun was just starting to set, and the winter wind had been blowing powdery snowflakes across the shire for days, but it was warm and cozy in Bag End. The smell of spices, meat, and pastry filled the room, the pies in the oven nearly ready.

“Bilbo?” a voice called from the other room, but Bilbo didn’t notice, eyes trained on a far hill and thoughts elsewhere until a small hand tapped his forearm.

“Are you alright, uncle? The kettle was whistling.”

Bilbo blinked back to his senses and turned to see Frodo pouring the freshly boiled water into the tea pots Bilbo had prepared on the table.

“Do you think they’ll be much longer?” Bilbo wondered.

Frodo laughed. “Uncle Thorin loses his way, but he must be keen to enjoy the party.”

Thorin had gone out to Erebor for a visit and was meant to be returning with the old Company that had reclaimed the Lonely Mountain together. Even Fili - now the king - was set to be arriving with them for the long overdue visit.

Bilbo had spent the entirety of Thorin’s absence preparing for the dwarves. The pantry was overstocked with cheese and meats, and all manner of breads. The table where they’d eat was already set with plates of cakes and cookies, and the doorways were framed in winter greenery for a sense of festive cheer. It was to be a party to remember. If only the guests of honor would arrive.

Bilbo ruffled Frodo’s dark curls, forcing himself to relax his shoulders as he fetched the tea cozies. “It’s just been so long since I’ve seen most of them. I must admit, I’m a bit impatient.”

His young nephew grinned up at him. “Me too, uncle! I look forward to meeting them.”

More than impatient, Bilbo felt nervous, somehow. It was a lot to ask all of them to come to the Shire. Bilbo and Thorin had traveled out a couple times since Thorin had left Erebor, but now with Frodo, Bilbo had been hesitant to make such a long trek. Still, it had been too long since he’d seen them all. He hoped they’d all been keeping well, and that they’d approve of the hobbit hole now that they were used to living in Erebor surrounded by dwarven finery in metal and stone. He wanted everything to be perfect for his old friends; warm enough, fed enough, entertained enough.

Frodo, who hadn’t lived at Bag End long, had asked both Thorin and Bilbo about the quest heaps of times. He had vivid mental images of each of the dwarves, as well as many of the events that had taken place. He was keen to see if they were at all how he’d imagined. The dwarves were supposedly rowdy and unruly, and fierce warriors. And one of them was the king of Erebor! Thorin and Bilbo didn’t always fit in completely with the other hobbits, but to Frodo, they were far more interesting.

--

Kili cleared his throat subtly as he stepped up beside Fili. The Shire was now just in view as the sun was beginning to set. The air was growing even cooler now, nipping at their skin as they walked.

“Seems you owe me three gold.”

Fili laughed brightly, the reminder of their earlier bet - that Thorin would get them lost beyond salvation - catching him off guard. “Seems so.”

“I’ll give you the chance to earn it back,” Kili offered, his face pure mischief.

Fili pursed his lips, shaking his head subtly. Kili had actually mellowed out quite a bit in the years since the quest, becoming a fine advisor to Fili. But something about being out on the road again with the company - and especially their uncle - had brought out some of his childhood chaos. “What did you have in mind?”

Kili leaned in and whispered as quietly as he could. “Three gold if you get him in the head before he stops you.” With that, he held a snowball up that he’d been hiding behind his back.

Fili took it and contemplated. Finally he nodded and winked at his brother. They were nearly at Bag End now; a bit of harmless fun wouldn’t sour hours of future travel, and surely Thorin would let it go once he got home to the Bagginses.

--

Frodo dropped the cookie he’d been stealing from the tray when he heard the front door push open.

“We’re here!” Thorin’s low voice called out into the hall. He smiled when he saw Bilbo and Frodo’s heads poke out of different rooms.

“Just on time,” Bilbo praised, sounding every bit as relieved as he was.

As the dwarves piled in, they greeted Bilbo with warmth, all talking over each other and taking off their packs and cloaks as they let themselves in.

Frodo stepped over to take Thorin’s cloak from him as the space became chaotic. “Welcome home, uncle.” “Thank you, Frodo.”

“Frodo?” Half the group turned their attention from Bilbo to Frodo now, remarking on his appearance, mainly. None of them had ever met such a young hobbit, apparently, slightly shorter than Bilbo, with bright eyes and dark curls.

Bombur clapped a hand down on Bilbo’s shoulder and gave him a stern look.

“Er- Great to have you again, Bombur.” “Let’s get to work.” “I- beg your pardon?” Bombur rustled the pack over his shoulder. “Food to set out.”

“Oh!” Bilbo blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected them to bring anything, but perhaps Thorin had suggested it, given the size of the group. “Of course, the kitchen is just in here, as you may remember-”

Just as Bilbo was leading him away, the door swung open again to reveal Fili and Kili, covered in snow, shaking themselves to loose what might come off.

“You’re late,” Bofur teased. “Right, well-” Kili could barely contain his laughter. “Someone pushed us down the hill, and all.”

This sent a fit of laughter through the group as they recalled Thorin getting his revenge on his nephews for the snowballs, and a surge of warmth through Bilbo’s chest as he took heart in the happiness of his fellows. The brothers laughing about mischief they’d caused just felt right somehow. Some things don’t change.

“Well- clean up and let's go sit, shall we?” Bilbo suggested, making his way with Bombur toward the kitchen. 

Thorin led the rest of the Company toward the dining room. “Come on, you mongrels!”

--

The night progressed easily, everyone happily sharing stories and catching up between mountains of goodies and several musical interludes.

Ori had brought them a book he’d scribed about Erebor and its history, including intricate drawings that enthralled Frodo, who was an endless fount of questions for everyone. He learned - only slightly embellished - accounts of Bilbo’s bravery, Thorin’s leadership, everyone’s skills in battle, and more.

As the hour grew late, Bilbo passed around another plate of nut cakes before settling at Thorin’s side to let out a wistful sigh. “I’d missed this,” he admitted quietly, a soft smile playing on his lips as he looked out over the group that was milling about Bag End in total comfort and goodwill.

Thorin placed his hand on Bilbo’s thigh and raised a brow. “Oh?”

“It reminds me a bit of those nights on the road.” He scrunched his nose and mouth about briefly. “I was terribly nervous, back then, mind you. Sure we’d get struck down by orcs, or worse, Smaug. But this is nice.” He turned his attention to Thorin. “Like a family reunion.”

“Only without the fear of stolen cutlery,” Thorin pointed out.

Bilbo laughed brightly, distracting Frodo for a moment, who’d been caught up in one of Kili’s tall tales. 

Frodo was glad to see his uncle had relaxed. He’d thought Bilbo might actually have lost his marbles a bit in Thorin’s absence, fretting and wringing his hands as he paced around Bag End for days. 

“You’re staying a few days, right?” Frodo asked suddenly. Fili nodded. “That’s right. Just a few days, then most of us will return to Erebor.” “I hope you’ll come again soon. Bilbo really missed you.” Fili and Kili glanced at each other. It was difficult to get away like this, but everyone had been keen to the idea the moment word had gotten around.

Fili nodded. “I suppose we’ll have to.”

Kili leaned in, a grin on his face. “Say, Frodo. Have you ever built a snow dragon?”

When the teen shook his head, Kili clapped his hand down on his brother’s shoulder. “I know what we’re doing tomorrow.”

[thekeepersgrove]

Rye's Floating Bookshop - 3rd of Bloom

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It is a rough night, as the strong winds whistling outside make it hard to sleep, rocking the bookshop on choppy waves. My body aches after yesterday's work, and I have to force myself out of bed with the promise of a strong cup of tea. After a breakfast of herbal tea and clover oatcakes, I go to open the shop only to see the deck outside cluttered with blossoms that have been shaken loose from their trees by the wind. Even the gutters are full of them! With a sigh, I flip the sign by the door to "open" and go to fetch my broom to start clearing out the debris. It is a slow day, due to the strong winds buffeting anyone who leaves their cozy abodes to go about their errands, which allows me some time to slowly work on the outside of the bookshop.

A couple of hours after opening, an elderly wallaby enters the shop, glad to get out of the weather. I welcome her with a smile and am asked to help her with her bags as she browses the shelves. I help her find a book suiting her tastes, struggling under the weight of the bags and wondering how this old creature managed to walk around with so much. The wallaby leaves with a mystery book, The Scarlet Clock, and thanks me warmly for my time.

After managing to clear the gutters of the gathered blossoms, I allow myself a break at the counter up front with a cup of willowbark tea and a small plate of oatmeal cookies. It does well to ward off a bit of the chill from the windy weather outside. A few minutes into my break, I hear a yelp at the door and look up from my cup of tea. A young racoon has entered, nursing his tail that seems to have gotten pinched in the door. I quickly get up, putting my teacup down, and ask if the young man requires any aid. He waves me off with a "thank you, but all is well" and encourages me to go back to my break. I continue watching him as he wanders through the store—bumping into customers and shelves wherever he goes—and hope I will not have to spend too much time picking up after him. The mess he leaves—even though he tries to pick up after himself—is not as endearing as that of the schoolchildren from yesterday. There is a huge crash coming from the non-fiction shelves, and I rush over to find the young raccoon on the floor, with books cluttered around him. With a guilty look he explains that he saw a book he wanted on the top shelf, but as he couldn't reach it he decided it was better to climb the shelf than to ask for help! I bring over the stepstool that stands next to the shelves, bring down the book—The Art of Thinking: Exploring Philosophy and the Quest for Meaning—and hand it over to this clumsy customer. I have to push down any frustration and irritation that I feel towards the customer as I decline his offer to help with the cleanup, saying that I will take care of it. While he finishes his browsing I clean up and put the books back on the shelf. When he joins me at the counter he does so with another book—Exploring Existence: Navigating the Nuances of Modern Philosophy—and apologises profusely as he pays for his finds and leaves. I breathe out a sign of relief as he does so and congratulate myself for managing to keep my emotions in check, even though I could have handled it better.

While I stand outside, sweeping away the rest of the blossoms of the deck, a squirrel approaches me with a fake smile and a briefcase in hand. It seems this lady is not a customer at all, but is in fact trying to sell me something. They show me a collection of beautiful crystal decorations—masterfully crafted depictions of frolicking animalfolk—and try their best at selling them to me. I point out that my domicile is a floating home and is therefore affected quite heavily by the whims of the river. Any such items would inevitable fall off whatever shelf they would be stored on and therefore get smashed against the floor. I also tell them that they are a bit extravagant for my tastes, even though they are beautiful pieces. The squirrel salesman tries for a few more minutes to sell them to me, before I excuse myself by saying that I have customers inside who might need my help. She makes a sound of indignation, closes her briefcase, and leaves without saying goodbye. How rude!

As the evening and closing time approach the weather turns for the better—the winds calm down and warmth replaces the chill. I consider closing early to enjoy the sun now that my deck is clean, but seeing as how it is approaching the end of the workday anyway, I decide to simply sit out in the sun and enjoy it while waiting for any last customers to arrive. The fox kit from yesterday approaches me again, this time with some shyness. I welcome him with warmth, telling him how I am pleased to see him again, which makes him glow with joy. I ask his name, and he introduces himself as Darcy. He has come back with yet another question about my hometown, this time asking how it was to grow up there. I am more than happy to share my stories—even though I have to think to recall some of the details. I tell him of playing in the lower branches of the Undertree with my older siblings, running across the bridges between the houses built lower to the ground around its massive trunk. I smile a bit as I mention how angry our parents were with us when we came back covered in scratches after playing a bit too recklessly in the foliage around the base of the tree. Darcy listens with rapt attention, asking follow up questions occasionally. He laughs with me when I tell him—voice low and conspiratorial—of stealing pies that our mother had placed on the window sill of our home and running off to eat them at our favourite spot at a nearby creek, full of the kind of satisfaction only children get when doing something they shouldn't. I make sure to tell him to not get any ideas and to be a good kit, but I cannot help but smile at him as he claims that he would never do such a thing in a way that is clearly a lie. We speak for a little while before an older fox arrives, who introduces themselves as Darcy's parent. I shake their paw, giving them my name in return, and tell them that Darcy has been a joy when they apologise for their son taking up my time. As they leave, I thank Darcy for joining me and tell him that he is welcome to come back, if his parents allow it. I wave as they leave and head back into the shop to finish the day.

After the last few customers leave, I turn the sign at the door to "closed" and do any paperwork and cleaning up that is required. I think of Darcy and find myself hoping he will return, as the company of the young kit reminds me of my nieces in a way that brings warmth to my heart. I end the day out on the deck again, watching the sun set beneath the horizon, quite happy with how things are turning out so far.

| Total customers: 40 | Books sold: 30 (Inventory Total: 433) | Earnings: 83 (Till total: 238) |

[hatchan]

> kids party going on next door to where I'm chilling for my break. a lot of good-natured screaming typical of the age range, seems to be 6-8

> minding my own business but kids eventually spill over to where I am and they're chatting about the cake and cookies and sweets

> one kid rolls her eyes and says to me "they're acting crazy because they had cake"

> I ask "is there cake left?"

> "yeah"

> "I'll give you a dollar if you steal me slice of cake"

> takes off like a fucking rocket and 60 seconds later I have a slice of melting ice cream cake all to myself

> give her the dollar as promised

> another kid offers to bring me a cookie for a dollar

> ok sure kid

> those two kids are going feral over a single dollar bill each

> the children yearn for the mines fetch quests

[lockpickingliar]

Ouma Kokichi (Cookie) on Death

Or: Ouma Kokichi on the Hydraulic Press

CW: Explicit descriptions of gore

By the time Momota and I had everything prepared and I was finally on the press, I was genuinely unsure if the press or the poison would finish me off first. That panel moves pretty slowly, y'know. The game seems to speed it up a little bit to get the satisfying look of the splatter of a grape being stepped on, but it was actually much, much more agonizingly slow.

The poison was eating away at my brain and nervous system, making it difficult to breathe and shutting down my organs little by little, basically turning my insides to soup. I thought it was the most painful thing I'd ever had to go through, and to my credit it was.

But that doesn't count the impending pain of the press and my imminent death.

Imagine already being in that much pain, and then slowly that panel comes down and you can feel your skull slowly splitting like a watermelon. Your rib cage flattening into whatever's left of your lungs. Your hips cracking like a wishbone under the pressure.

I couldn't scream. The camera would catch it and then it'd all be for nothing. Thankfully you can't really scream when you can't breathe, especially when all the air is being methodically pressed out of your lungs like a particularly slow compression of an accordion--too slow for the passage of air to make any noise.

You'd think once your skull cracks it'd be over, but you'd be wrong. The brain is a funny thing and can handle a surprising amount of damage before it finally checks out--you've probably read horror stories about lobotomies and victims like Phineas Gage--and the press... it was so slow I never quite passed out from the pain as it slowly increased.

I wonder sometimes what Momota must have heard as he was forced to witness it all. I was in so much pain my senses weren't exactly functioning properly. I couldn't really process the sound of my own bones cracking. I couldn't process much of anything at all in the face of pain, pain, pain. A steel panel makes things pretty dark when it's slowly smashing itself into your face.

Don't scream.

Don't cry.

Don't let the camera hear your voice.

You'll ruin everything.

It was a mantra that kept me sane. (Could I still be called sane by that point?) That and the thought that maybe with this, I'd be able to make up for all my mistakes. The shoddy job I'd done as a leader. What kind of Ultimate Supreme Leader couldn't lead one little group of fellow Ultimates? I could make up for it, pay for such pitiful work with my death and my plan to end the killing game.

It would end one way or another--I had contingency plans--but I really hoped that my sacrifice would go hand-in-hand with it, just to make it a little more meaningful. To make up for everyone who died on my watch.

For Ran-chan, who I didn't stop that night from going with everyone despite the sneaking suspicion he was planning something reckless.

For Akamatsu-chan, who I ignored despite her clearly sketchy behavior as she and Saihara went around on their little fetch quests.

For Hoshi-chan, who I left alone despite knowing the gravity of his martyr complex.

For Toujou-chan, who I never thought to consider the pressure she was under in favor of taking my stress out on her.

For Yonaga-chan, who I ignored the dangers of with her cult shit and its influence on the class.

For Chabashira-chan, who I completely failed by allowing that other ritual to take place in the first place, let alone assisting with it...

For Kiyo-chan, who I completely breezed past the red flags of as background noise to everything else.

For... Iruma-chan... who I could have just leveled with from the beginning instead of using as cannon fodder...

For...

..........

He didn't deserve anything I put him through. Much less what I made him do in the end.

Even if he agreed.

Even if he assured everyone that he was willing.

I shouldn't have suggested it. But I did.

And then right before they took him away, I lied to him. Right to his face. A kind lie, one that would allow him to die with a sense of peace, feeling like he could rest assured that everyone would get along after he was gone.

But a lie nonetheless.

I should have died with him. That vote should have been 50/50 and I should have died with him as an accomplice.

Damn you Saihara.

...

Anyway.

Between that and my atrocious performance as a leader from beginning to end--failing to convince the others of the dangers of the flashback lights, failing to pull off the Motive Viewing Party, failing, failing, failing--I was hoping it would make up for everything. I would die and I would feel better because I atoned and I made up for everything.

And I did die.

But I didn't feel better.

So now what?

But that's a topic for another essay. I wanted to talk about death here. About the pain, because even after I died the pain didn't stop.

In fact, it continued so vividly that I didn't even notice I'd died at first. I laid there in a pulpy heap for at least a minute before I realized it was over and I was somewhere else so I could finally scream.

And boy, did I scream.

Everyone in town heard it, I've been told. The agonized wail of suffering so visceral that it emanated from my soul itself, with no mouth left to project it.

And then I blacked out for a while to awake in that goddamn hospital. Tubes and wires all hooked up to try to get my organs to respond.

But no heart monitor.

Hospital rooms are a lot quieter without the constant beeping of your heart to keep you company, I've learned. It's an absence you can feel. Everything hurt. My entire body was in agonizing pain even after they put me back together. I couldn't breathe unassisted, and even if I didn't have to it made my lungs burn if I didn't. I couldn't eat because my digestive track wasn't working. I couldn't move because my muscles weren't responding. All I could do was lay there on my back and stare at the ceiling. In the dark.

The dark makes any ceiling look a lot like the press, I realized.

I still get hung up on it even now, months later, after I've already been discharged. I prefer to sleep on my side now, curled up with my back pressed against something--usually Ran-chan or another member of DICE--because I can't stand leaving my back exposed after being shot there by Harukawa.

You'd think you'd be able to leave your trauma behind when you die, but I was sorely disappointed.

Or maybe that's a good thing, because it gives you the opportunity to move on and heal rather than erase it like it was nothing. Because it wasn't nothing. It shouldn't be treated like nothing just because you died, I think.

That's a lie.

I think I'm going to have to carry the weight of that press with me for the rest of eternity. It's more than just the pain or the gore. After everything, I still have nightmares not because of dying but because that press represents everything that drove me to that point. It's a culmination of what the killing game did to me.

It put on the pressure until I couldn't take it anymore. It was unrelenting in my efforts to fight back and try to take control and dare the hope. Until I cracked and split apart and all the blood and viscera of my shockingly fragile existence spilled out in a tragic, gory mess on the exisal hangar floor. Until I became nothing.

Hope turned me to paste.