#skie blue

[aguijonletal]

naruto shippuden x inazuma eleven go p2

[standreamy]

Another Inazuma Eleven ship I colored from my sketches. This time: Tenmaoi!

[tenth-sentence]

There was a blaring of trumpets and wild cheering from the crowd as a huge blue dragon bearing a Dragon Highlord entered the Temple gates.

"DragonLance Chronicles: Dragons of Spring Dawning" - Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman

[whats-in-a-sentence]

The wind had blown Berem's shirt open. Even through the gray curtain of rain, Tanis could see the green jewel embedded in the man's chest glow more brilliantly than the green lightning, a terrible beacon shining through the storm. Berem did not notice. He did not even see the dragon. His eyes stared with a fixed intensity into the storm as he steered the ship farther and farther onto the Blood Sea of Istar.

"DragonLance Chronicles: Dragons of Spring Dawning" - Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman

[incorrect-bhaalspawn-quotes]

(At Eldoth’s funeral)

Skie: And now, Garrick has asked to say a few things about our beloved Eldoth.

Garrick: Hey everybody, it’s great to be here. Well, what can I say about a guy like Eldoth? I mean, besides “good riddance.” Hoooooo.

Xan: Yeah.

Garrick: But seriously, Eldoth lived a great life. And now that he’s dead, our lives are pretty good too. Zing! Hahahaha, you know what I’m talking about.

[angeygirl]

Hey there Mr. Blue! We're so pleased to be with you!

Look around, see what you do. Everybody smiles at you!

This song fills me with so much joy. You don't understand. It's literally just people cheering up because the weather is sunny. Anyway, I made the supposed 'essence' of this song into an OC, appropriately named Bllu, last name Skie (He's literally Mr. Blue Sky)

Fun fact: I colour picked his colours from the iconic "Colours of the sky" post because it felt appropriate.

I have no idea exactly what kind of creature he is. I was thinking some kind of puppet? Cartoon Character? Alien? Who knows! There's plenty of other like him, where ever he comes from.

His job is being a forecaster, and he has the ability to change the weather with his emotions. He's literally a weather man :P

His species (whatever they are) change colours based on emotion. Bllu rarely, if ever, loses his cheery hue, one of those, 'there's the sun behind every cloud' type people.

He's always a total ball of sunshine

Well, almost always...

[felixfeliccis]

Blue skie

[characterswithcolorsnamesfight]

Prelim Poll 27

Propaganda here

In the adaptation, Ballister's surname was changed to Boldheart

[anderstrevelyan]

wip wheneverday

Tagged by @cleric4vampire to share a wip (thank you!), so here's the draft segment of the I-guess-my-version-of-Gortash-invented-lighters thing I was talking about yesterday—

(It's fundamentally a durgetash first time fic, but it has the setup of durgetash-attempt-a-murder-together)

Skie Silvershield could be considered a beauty, maybe, though her father’s reedy frame and angular features did her no favours. Unique, a suitor might say. Rare. Soft-tongued attempts at obscuring the true motivations in their plays for her hand, more interest in a fulsome dowry than a pretty wife. She knows it, too, it’s why she’s out here in the cool air rather than dancing in the arms of a some shiny boy from a shiny family—and she’s always liked a bit of a scoundrel.  He’s found her passable, the other times they’ve spoken on nights much like this. The only reason Enver’s stayed away, really, is how he finds women some decades her senior more loose with their gifts and their coin. He studies her—dress hiked up so she can lean against the wall with one leg, thoroughly ignoring him, focused on something small in her hands—and looks for his opening. Finds it, and runs a hand through his hair, turns his face into the mask and his mind into the weapon he’ll need to see this through. “Can I light that for you?”

She startles, brown eyes wide with a quick flutter of fear, but relaxes when she looks up into his face. Promising, that she hadn’t realized it was him. That she’d been ignoring just an anonymous figure fresh from the house. There’s even a sparkle of invitation there, he thinks; at least, he’s going to proceed as if there is. “You won’t fare any better,” she says despite it, but he plucks the small lighter from her hand anyway. It’s a Gondian thing, meant to house a flame cantrip on demand, and it’s pretty in its silverwork, but they’re notoriously unreliable. It must have belonged to her father, from his days parading around as the head of Gond’s church, and it’s much like the ones Enver’s taken apart, studied, put back together again, between hours observing the cantrip’s properties across Valas’s fingers. “I mean it,” she says, a laugh in her voice. “Gond himself would struggle to master that thing.” He’s tempted to smash it to the ground, if he thought she’d take it in jest. But perhaps not—he’s not sure how fondly she thinks back on her dearly departed father, how much she knows about who he really was. He imagines she must have expected at least something, living under the same roof, but they do have the most extravagantly large estate in the Gate, and there’s a common naivety, he’s found, to the idea that adherents of the darker faiths walk around in one’s midst. He hands her his glass instead—she accepts it after shifting her pipe to the other hand—and digs through his pocket for his own prototype. She takes a long sip of his wine as he does, her eyes never leaving his, not until he leans against the wall by her side and shows her. His is in gold, the metal more intricately carved, but the real beauty lies in its function. “It was a good idea,” he says of the Gondian lighter, sliding it into her dress’s pocket, “but the magic tends to fade, and they don’t make a reliable spark. But if you use cerium, a metal simple enough to import from Chult, and mix it with iron—” He flicks the mechanism, and a flame appears: almost blue, solid and strong, unwavering as a cleric’s faith. “You could sell these,” she says, then leans forward to light her pipe.  He’d expected a little more awe, or praise of his ingenuity; he wouldn’t have shared the secret behind how it works otherwise. He shouldn’t share such a thing, not with anyone, beyond the Bhaalist who watched him do it, not if he wants to keep the credit for himself, and not as he works to find deadlier uses for metal so adept at producing flame. But, of course—it’s not like she’ll live until morning. There’s a small thrill, at the images he can’t ignore. At the thought of Valas’s violet eyes bright in his manor’s dark shadows; of the tension in his muscles as he waits, watches, springs; and his look of relief and exultant release in the aftermath. At how Enver will cup his chin, still warm and wet with her blood, and force him to look into his eyes, to understand the favour, the gesture, the debt tying them closer together. “Perhaps,” he says, taking back his wine. Slowly, so no brush of emotion shows through, and with intention, his fingers lingering against hers. He takes a sip and considers complimenting her.

[astranite]

Blue Skies

@edutainer2022 @janetm74 That whump prompt? Well, I wrote more. (Not what I had planned on doing, and it is definitely past my bed time that I finished this, but hey, what happens, happens.)

This was initially in its first part here, as a fill of a whump prompt by @fern-writes-whump. But this is now a part two and I’m putting it all here together for completeness sake. 

I’ll stick this up on AO3, but not right now. (Link goes here)

Scott and Gordon. Whump. Hurt/comfort. Bereznik. Mostly about trauma (There’s a happy ending.)

Warnings: Injuries. Violence. Panic attacks. PTSD. Somewhat graphic but I wouldn’t say particularly bad? (Just tell me if I can warn things better.)

-----

Scott’s hands shook, one wrapped white knuckled around his holstered gun, the other balled into a fist by his side.

Bare desert surrounded him, scoured by relentless winds.

Cold sweat ran down the back of his neck, despite the heat. He shivered. The endless heat rippled above the ground, refracted light warping his sight.

He put one boot in front of the other, step after step. It didn’t matter how much his legs wanted to fold beneath him. Weak knees begging to give in and fall kneeling on the sand.

He kept going.

Scott missed his IR blues. This uniform fit the same, except it was dusty camouflage. His belt held ammunition clips, not rescue equipment. Or maybe it was. This had to be a rescue, Scott couldn’t face anything else.

A gust of wind stroked over his cheeks and Scott flinched. His saliva was tacky in his mouth as he swallowed. He could taste the sand.

When his radio hissed with static, Scott’s breath hitched. It resolved into Kayo’s voice, running through last positions. Approach by stealth. Scott snapped out a crisp military, “Acknowledged.” He hoped his sister would miss how hard it was to get out a single word without his voice breaking.

He marched on.

It loomed in the distance. The compound walls were stone, a single story high. It was made of the same rock as everything else here.

Scott hadn’t remembered that.

The paramilitary base was stout, sprawling, and as unassuming as any other settlement around here.

In Scott’s head it had loomed dark against the sands, rock the same colour as congealed bl--- as rust.

He still swore it was large enough to block out the sun.

All familiar, too familiar. He smelt blood and bitter fear. Scott stumbled to a halt. Something ran down his face, leaving a warm trail. He swiped his hand across his cheek.

His fingers came away damp and salty, but not red, they weren’t red. It was only sweat. The day was hot, he was sweaty, that was all.

The blood and fear were tricks of his mind.

(It didn’t matter for months that was all he could smell.)

Gritty rock, solid beneath his feet was real. The rest wasn’t, not now, not anymore.

The others had argued against Scott coming. Virgil had lain a hand on his shoulder and looked at him with soft, soft eyes. His brother would forgive him if Scott sat this one out. But Scott could never forgive himself. He knew the terrain best. He’d been there. Every crack of that place was carved into his bones. He was the tactical advantage.

Scott tore his eyes away for as long as he could. He stared up at the searing blue sky, desperately hoping for the light and the colour to sink into his skin. The sky’s promise of freedom if only he could reach it.

He took a step, then another. He just kept taking them.

(Kept taking the hits, even when there was no way he could stand it any longer.)

Every instinct told him to get the hell out of here. Turn back, flee, like the spooked animal he was. Scott ducked his head and ignored them like he had all the other warning signs in his life.

Bereznik. The place he’d swore to never set foot in again.

(On dark days, he still saw it in his dreams. Those were the ones his feet pounded the island tracks, before the sun even rose. When he ran until his muscles trembled with exhaustion and nothing else.)

(He dreamt of the island while he was there. Of blue skies, blue skies, his blue skies. He woke crying and desperately wiped the tears away because he couldn’t given them any more reasons.)

(Afterwards, he’d been wrenched awake more times than he could count to his brothers bursting into his room. They’d say they heard him screaming in his sleep.)

Bereznik. The place he’d spent years of his life trying to out run, out climb, out fly.

Because he couldn’t go back.

He had to. For his little brother.

He kept walking because Gordon was in there. His sunshine little brother who loved life itself with all the joy of the sea meeting the shore.

He couldn’t let them turn him into Scott.

He couldn’t.

He kept walking.

-----

Gordon took Scott’s spare side arm as he handed it to him, checked it over expertly, and followed Scott out of hell.

(The way Gordon never hesitated when he had to shoot would haunt Scott forever.)

They escaped that place. Running over shifting sands towards a stealth-hidden One. The kilometres left to go beneath their feet. Gordon’s stony, set face. Scott’s own heartbeat throbbing in his ears.

He kept going.

Gave into every instinct to flee he’d pushed down before, now he had his brother back.

His and Gordon’s breaths came in pants, out of time with each other and their dull footsteps on the sands.

The sun beat down on them, shadows stark, rippling, wavering, urging them on.

Scott stumbled on a rock, lurching, the desert coming up fast towards him, until Gordon caught his arm. Gordon who he was meant to be rescuing.

No time to fall, no time to stop. He didn't think he could even if he wanted to. He’d be crawling through the sands, dragging his body over the rocks, bleeding out before he stopped.

Dizzying adrenaline surged through his veins. Scott couldn’t tell the difference between fear and freedom any longer. They were the same, his heart pumping for further, faster, higher.

The sky closed in on them, holding them close, pulling them away from the sand.

They were alone in the desert. Pursued by enemies. Alone.

(The same alone of falling from the sky in a perfectly controlled dive, his hands the only ones on his ‘bird.)

(Or the same alone as trapped in a cell, where the thick walls blocked every sound.)

(They were both running from that place now.)

Clouds of dust were kicked up by their boots, eddying and swirling. The wind tossed what it wanted across the desert without a care in the world, picking up the sand and scarce plant life alike. Erasing foot prints like they were never there.

(Like it was all a bad dream. Too many times when he was there, Scott’s mind had taken him home. To his brothers around him, and the old farmhouse. To mum’s musical laugh accompanying the piano. Dad’s hands on Scott’s as he showed him how to fly, before he could even reach the foot pedals. He’d curl up in the big bed with his family around him, because it was just a nightmare.)

(Waking up was worse than anything his capturers could do to him.)

He and Gordon kept running. They hung onto each other, gripping far too tight, running together.

Running, running, running.

They climbed into One, pulling each other up. Scott’s hands fell to the controls, as blindly and as easily as breathing.

Gordon buckled himself into the passenger’s seat. The sound of his brother shouting, “Go, go, go, go go!” washed over Scott’s ears.

Something inside him was still screaming.

The Thunderbird’s engines thrummed at fever pitch, burning up in seconds.

Grounded landing shifted to VTOL, shifted to flight.

And Scott out flew them all.

His one grace, the one thing he couldn’t ever fail at. The only reason he was still alive, in too many ways.

Blue, his blue, swallowed them up.

Enemy planes were blips on his radar, dark specks beyond his windscreen. Then they were flashes of red and debris tumbling towards the ground. In his element, they never stood a chance.

That place, Bereznik was a tiny rectangle blot against a sea of beige from the air, not even able to touch the sky.

(Not able to touch him up here. Not able to take his brothers.)

It merged with the desert sands, blurring into the dust left behind them.

All was searing sunlight. The bright burned everything else away.

(Gordon had show him the sun, afterwards. Dragged Scott out of his room and out of his head, down to the beach. They lay on the sand, fine yellow sand, as the sun shone on them, soaking into their bones. Scott was drowning in blue, blue, blue in the way he loved, the way he’d lost and forgotten.)

The world opened up for him and all he had to do was fly.

As soon as he reached friendly skies, Scott switched to the autopilot. He got up from his seat and walked the length of Thunderbird One, to where Gordon was crouched by a locker, digging for a first aid kit.

Then, for Scott, the sky came crashing closed.

His legs gave way and his knees hit the metal flooring with a crack. He never felt it. Scott’s eyes were on Gordon, staring at the bruises on his face, the blood crusted on his upper lip.

They’d taken his brother. And they’d hurt him.

Scott made to say anything, anything at all, but he only managed a tiny croak.

He was frozen, kneeling on the floor, chest heaving.

(He fell to the floor, too weak to get up.)

He wasn't a fighter, everyone got that wrong about him. Commander of the IR was an act. He wasn't strong like his father, no matter how much he wanted to be. Scott was just pathetic and terrified.

(How quickly he’d learnt to keep his head down and his mouth shut, meekly following orders.)

Virgil knew, because of course he knew, Scott could never keep anything from him. John figured it out, so Scott didn't have to tell him.

(Screaming until his throat was raw. He’d promised himself he wouldn't make a sound and give them the satisfaction, but it just hurt too much.)

The little ones could never know. Not Alan and Gordon. He couldn't let that place touch them.

(Sobbing on the ground, just lying there because he was so, so tired.)

But Gordon was in front of him, black eye on the way to swelling closed.

(His arm cradled to his middle, and he was pretty sure it was broken with how it throbbed, but there wasn't anything he could do about it except hope the pain went way.)

Gordon’s lips were moving, he was saying something, Scott couldn't make out what he was saying.

(Blurry figures dragged him to his feet and he couldn’t stop them.)

Gently, gently, Gordon wrapped his arms around Scott.

Solid and warm and real and right here.

Scott choked out a gasping sob. Then another. Until he was just crying his eyes out between desperate gulps for air.

The edges of his sight went black and Scott swayed, clutching at Gordon’s torn uniform. There was no yellow baldric, somehow it was missing. Gordon held him tighter, still ever so gentle, until Scott was leaning on him for support.

Scott shut his eyes, and hid his face at Gordon’s shoulder.

He’d see who Scott really was and then it would be far too late for anything at all.

All Scott could do was pretend it wouldn't happen.

(Blankly watching trails of red make their way over his skin. He knew it was blood. It was his blood and he just didn't care anymore.)

(He could never escape the smell of blood and bitter fear that clung to him.)

He couldn’t pull away, not from Gordon, not from his little brother.

(Helpless, helpless, helpless, helpless, helpless.)

(Wrapping his arms around himself, desperately wishing they were his brothers. Knowing they weren’t and glad of it. This place could have him, he didn’t care anymore as long as the others were alright.)

But slowly, ever so slowly, the world filtered back in. Gordon was still there. He held Scott, rubbing a hand up and down his back. His breaths were deep and steady, clashing with Scott’s ragged ones. He’d been hyperventilating? Worn IR blue filled Scott’s vision when he tentatively opened his eyes, his eyelids gummed up with tears. Scott’s head swum, woozy from panic and lack of oxygen.

“We’re okay. I’m okay. I’ve got you Scotty, you’re okay.” Gordon’s babbling words came through, familiar, familiar in the way that meant he was safe.

Scott managed a small noise, a whimper when he thought Gordon was pulling away.

Gordon’s arms tightened, and Scott could breathe again.

“Shhh, shhh. I just wanna check on you. I’m not going to go anywhere.”

Reluctantly Scott let Gordon move until they could look each other in the face, still nearly nose to nose. He managed to avoid Gordon’s eyes.

Gordon’s glanced away, tugging at Scott’s hand a couple of times. Scott allowed him to, he trusted Gordon.

A small blue hologram appeared from his wrist comm, as Gordon activated it.

“Why the hell did you cut comms?!” John’s voice sliced the air, sharp and worried.

“He’s okay, Johnny,” Gordon answered, “We’re both a bit worse for wear, but everything is fine.”

John didn’t rise to the nickname. Instead he let out a relieved noise, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. The same sound he always made when he was scared for his brothers and finally got news they were alright.

Something passed between John and Gordon. Scott let it fly over his head, too tired to parse out the meaning.

“I can handle this. Just be there when we get home,” Gordon said, then signed off the call.

When Gordon let go of his hand, Scott let it fall limply into his lap.

He stared at their knees, his own in beige camouflage, Gordon’s in his wetsuit, both coated in desert dust.

“I’m sorry,” Scott blurted out. He took a shaky breath.

Gordon’s voice was steady, but tears glinted in the corners of his eyes. “You came for me. That’s all that matters.”

“You were there.” His voice cracked in the middle.

“I’m okay though. It’s just a few bruises, and you got me out.”

Scott reached for the first aid kit sitting on the floor beside them. There wasn’t anything he could do about the rest right now, but this was something he could do.

Gordon let him wipe away the blood from his face, along with the worst of the dirt. He turned his head with Scott’s gentle fingers on his chin. Neither of them commented on how Scott’s hands trembled ever so slightly.

(Cleaning up Gordon’s scrapes was the same, no matter how many years it had been since Scott had lifted Gordon up onto the kitchen bench because he was too short to hop up by himself, and applied fish bandaids to grazed knees.)

At home they could put an ice pack on the bruises. The dark circles beneath Gordon’s eyes could only be solved by sleep, safe with everyone on the island. It would probably help the worried crinkle between his brows too.

Gordon sagged in exaustion, now leaning on Scott. They rested on each other, half against the storage lockers.

Scott helped Gordon out of the top half of his wetsuit, wanting to check up on the cut beneath the tear in his uniform. Gordon wriggled his shoulders and body free, but kept his arms inside the sleeves. He winced when Scott dabbed antiseptic at the thin cut that stretched from collar bone to part way down his chest.

He gave Scott a big, shiny grin that didn’t reach his eyes. Blood started to ooze from the tiny split in his lower lip, caused by Gordon’s chapped lips and trying to smile for Scott.

Gently, Scott wiped it away.

He clenched slightly bloodied gauze in his fist, putting himself together enough to ask, “What happened, Gordon?”

Because no one came out of there okay. Gordon was avoiding the hurt, at the same time as he was trying to protect Scott from it. And what Scott needed most right now was to be able to be a big brother and help Gordon.

“Scotty, I’m okay. They mostly didn't hurt me. It was three days, they had you for months.” Gordon attempted to reassure him or maybe himself, by just telling himself he was fine.

Months. Scott could rattle off the exact timings from his after action report.

He didn’t remember much.

Mostly the snippets that he could put together were from the early days.

(Name, rank, serial number. Name, rank, serial number. Name, rank, serial number.)

(Setting his own dislocated shoulder by crashing into the walls, grunting and gasping. Because he knew he couldn't leave it like that, but it hurt worse than what they’d done and there were tears streaming down his face. Over and over, vision whiting out, until it grated back into position.)

(Gnawing hunger in his stomach, head pounding from dehydration. He wasn't sure when they last gave him a meal. Or when, or whether they would again.)

Later, everything blurred together.

(Darkness closing in.)

(He’d do anything just to see a glimpse of sky.)

(For his family to hold him close one last time.)

(Just to make the pain stop.)

What had they done to Gordon?

Three days was enough.

(They’d learnt how to tear Scott apart in minutes.)

Scott reached out to touch Gordon’s arm but he flinched away.

“I’m here Gordon. No matter how bad it is,” He said, to the second youngest of his little brothers. And he would be here, no matter how long it took for both of them.

Hesitantly, Gordon peeled away the rest of his wetsuit, hissing in pain, revealing his wrists. In amongst Gordon’s old hydrofoil scars, now only raised pink lines, his wrists were covered in red marks, his skin raw and torn. Some cut deep enough to be oozing blood.

Injuries Scott knew only came from desperately thrashing against restraints.

“Gordy.”

Gordon whispered, “They said they had you. That they’d hurt you again, like before.” His little brother sounded far too young.

Scott gathered him up in his arms. Hot tears ran down his face, he was crying again. They both were. Gordon was shakily sobbing against his chest.

They clung to each other.

Bereznik had taken something from both of them. Something had broken, cracked right down the centre. Scott still didn’t know whether it could ever be completely fixed.

But they had each other. They had their brothers, their family.

Neither of them were okay right now, but one day they would be at least a bit better. In the same way the clouds parted after the monsoon rains on the island, their blue skies would come again. They’d still have scars but the sunlight would reach Gordon’s ocean and Scott would fly.

Scott held onto Gordon, and Gordon held onto Scott for the rest of the way home.

Until Thunderbird One was in her hanger and they were both standing on the steady floor. Until the rest of their brothers, Virgil, Alan, John, all came up to hold onto them too.

[csamhp]

…..Hey it’s Skie. Uhm. No blue text cause this is kind of a serious post

I’ve gotten some texts from Violet? Who is apparently Polaris’ cousin.

And Polaris’ birthday is tomorrow (aka in two hours)

……….theyre still grieving. But uhm.

If you want to send birthday wishes, send em through here, I’ll make sure Polaris gets them?

[ithriel-coins]

citiskiec !

[pt: citiskiec ! end pt.]

citiskiec ; a gender related to cities at dusk, with dark blue skies and faint stars.

[id: a rectangular flag with five equal horizontal stripes. from top to bottom, the colors are: pale yellow, pale purple, light blue, dark blue, blue-grey. end id.]

etymology : citi(es) + skie(s) + c (no meaning)

attack on @noxwithoutstars for the 2023 coinfight !

tagging : @kiruliom

5 points i think ? for team sun ☀️

[libidomechanica]

“Be need not there”

But she is lost truly round, you!     That blossoms conster is a poor we miserably trees to     get people turnpike road!

Turn for thou with such sallies, and     barbarians? So woo yourself shall in their own death, but     whose body making hour

fair garments otherly he fell     do nothing Lillies unclaspt with the rest the birken spend,     while I love’s leap’d o’er the

blue day of best for on air: howe’er     sanctifying skie: who kick against my freeze, but yonder     to black of absence while

garden in a wasted organs     letten by a pleasure, and pleasure passed, his revels, there     like of honour; and wagge

the Deuils is through these lineament     dwell: nay, farre beguile, to master there taughter gan to the     whispers such as talke an

arrow, led by a pleas, the brother     I would evening its watch out little step. Be need not     there that good Oake sounds break

a single drew near, in equal     matched you out the secret we sneer into the fyre, thine in     suffer the glint to chantments

of my name our solemn and     pray the heart, or plagued with post. Gathering and bittern to     such euill have been your mother.

And so raft come. The exceede     beauty is three states, louers. Then Virtues, funny handbags.     Globes of my sommers flame.

[tenth-sentence]

This was Skie, Kitiara's dragon, who – even now – sat in his place, his fiery red eyes staring at the throne of Ariakas with much the same intensity and far more visible hatred than Tanis had seen in the eyes of Skie's master.

"DragonLance Chronicles: Dragons of Spring Dawning" - Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman

[whats-in-a-sentence]

"A flight of dragons," said Raistlin, coming to stand beside his brother.

"DragonLance Chronicles: Dragons of Spring Dawning" - Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman

[incorrect-bhaalspawn-quotes]

(Safana and Skie are watching the rest of the party head off towards Durlag’s Tower.)

Skie: You know, I have to say, I’m a little surprised that you’re not going with them.

Safana: Why? Quests are dangerous.

Skie: Yeah, but they usually have some kind of big reward at the end, you know, like some big treasure chest or an entire room filled with gold and art. It’s not really like you to pass up on something like that, Safana. ...Safana? You’re gone, aren’t you. Huh, I really should have seen that coming.