Zadown

A loud, resounding boom echoed through the Pen Keep, originating somewhere from the general direction of the cabaret room. The sound reverberated through the oft-abused stone of the huge, rambling building, shaking dust and dirt loose from hidden places and sending small armies of rats and bats scurrying from one deep, dark place to another. It was easily felt more than heard – a tangible wave of air, a tremor creeping through the floors. In the ground zero of the blast that had cause that sound was the prone body of Zadown of Old, coughing blood on his rich green robes the color of summer forests, trying to push himself upright with a sheathed metallium katana. Standing opposite of him to complete the tableau was the Dreamer. He was clad in dirty grey robes and there was no crown on his head, no Pain ready to be unsheathed at his back, only his boots of dragon leather showing from underneath the robes that were girded with a simple hemp rope. From behind the planewalker, perhaps, it might have seen like a quarrel between two brothers, so alike were their body structure. But the eyes did not match: the Dreamer had two bottomless pits dug into his ravaged face, his scars writhing around the two black pools that both held a red star in their grasp. Zadown glared back with his ordinary and very human green eyes and spat still more blood to the ground. The planewalker raised both of his hands in a gesture of spellcasting, underlining the power he was about to unleash with the fact even he needed to go through the proper rituals for the spell. Nevertheless, Zadown's bloody smile radiated dauntless defiance. Despite his injuries his hands still moved quickly. Leaning on the section of the wall that had cracked from the impact of him landing against it, he dipped his fingers in his own blood and draw a glyph of warding with that potent paint in the air between him and the crackling sphere of energy appearing above the Dreamer's head. A ward flashed in the empty space before fading from normal sight, and the samurai leaned back, clearly exhausted by the spell. The Dreamer grimaced before roaring aloud words that shaped the primal energy he was weaving out of raw mana, perfecting his spell with unhurried cold rage. The spell hummed with a dangerous sound that permeated the whole nearby ambient mana flow, tugging and whispering and screaming into the ears of all mages of the Pen. Then it sprang forth as a lashing, two-pronged tongue of living lightning, too bright to look at, too loud to hear. It hit the barrier of Blood Magic and punched through but did not reach the broken samurai, writhing a moment in the middle of air like a harpoon that had punctured the armor but hadn't been able to reach the flesh underneath. The thunderbolt winked out of existence. In the now dark and silent room smelling of ozone and charred flesh, the planewalker fell to his knees, huge dark stains growing on both the back and front of his robe.

Ohh laziness, what an adorable virtue in a man! Slaps his stamp of approval on both the reason of absence and the return.

I won a nanosecond today did not push the newspaper all the way did not do my job very well I won a nanosecond today from gravity laughed a little when it grabbed dragged the paper down I lost a nanosecond today laughed a little when gravity did my job pushed the newspaper all the way I spent a second today did not move when the birds sang a song did not hurry forward very well I spent a second today during work smiled a little when I was paid for a moment of beauty I gained a second today smiled a little when a song inspired me allowed me to dash forward the rest of the way I misplaced a day yesterday did not find the hours afterwards did not stay awake very well I misplaced a day yesterday somewhere in my bed drifted a little in the chaotic dreams floating through the hours I found a day yesterday drifted a little in my memories of the chaotic dreams in their intricate visions lost my way Note - mostly just an exercise in repetition. Meh.

Minus 30 degrees Celsius. Happy questing!

*reads several times* Good stuff, even if not happy.

That's putting nicely what I would've said less nicely if Ayshela wasn't quicker to post than me.

I agree about the "of" -> "about" change - it is only through tiny errors like this that one can notice the fact english is not my primary language, heh. Wouldn't use "did not care for" because of the implied negative emotion, yes. Edited Felidae as well. As I've already said, I'm glad if my hastily written sketch managed to tap into such reserves of my skill and vision that it managed to do something I did not expect: amuse others.

0.93 beta * Added Sleuth, Glimpses, Web, Ward, Oblivion, Shards, Blue Flame, Thunder, Pilgrimage and Felidae and edited Index file. * All the files are still pretty messy but all the data is there, heh. The limits between posts are quite vague so reading them might induce headaches, swearing and/or tossing heavy objects at your computer. You have been forewarned. Anybody who wants 'em, give me a PM or send me an email, stating to what email address you want the 500 kb zipped attachment sent to. The stories are in MS Word .doc (97/2000) format. If you want them in some other format, you'll have to do that yourself, sorry.

Ode to Korvapuusti Oh, thy unsurpassed fragrance thick anticipation in the warm air minutes transmute into aeons drool ruins the clothes Finally, the door opens your tanned shapes appear amidst the swirling mist trembling hands help you out I reach for thee my hand on thy hot skin sends shivers through me intoxicated by thine perfume Half-parted lips and thee meet in an explosion of cinnamon

October 2452 Through the bizarre landscape of the Dreaming padded a great white cat. He walked through the dreams without paying them any attention, without a pause, not caring about the glimpses various mortals on various planes had of him. Nightmares faded as he waded through them, but other dreams stood a chance to survive his trespassing, desperately adapting to his unyielding shape, shifting around his immutable form in attempts to keep the inner logic of the nightly fantasies intact. His shape was the one of tall and robust lynx, almost completely white with scarce spots of black where needed: nose, eyes, the tips of his ears. The whiteness was natural, the dirty white of snow and ice, of wintry rabbits and drifting clouds. He moved with a clear purpose, and his eyes had depth and wisdom that hinted to a reserved intelligence lurking inside the feline body. The half-realities and ghostly dream-realms did not manage to sway him as he steadily marched from the vague hinterlands towards the more stable, more dangerous core. There, as near the middle as was possible in this confusing land, was the Grail Glade, a relaxing, perfect place where none of the dangers of the Dreaming dared to walk: a field of soft, green, perfectly even grass, a few round stones, a tree or two. In the centre of it all, like a curiosity on display, shone the Grail itself or a phantasm of it, constantly shifting and pulsing in a mesmerizing manner. The lynx did not even glance towards the enticing vision. Instead, it padded through the soft, warm grass and sat down a short distance from a tall, scarred man in green robes sitting on a round stone. The man was completely enraptured by the ever changing image of the Grail, his mangled face bathing in the golden radiance, his mouth half-open as if he had been about to say something for a long time, now. The lynx studied the man for a short moment, then it blinked, wrinkled his nose and walked away only to sit again in front of empty air, something akin to a grin appearing on its furry face. “Yes, I do get the point, Shard.” In front of the lynx appeared a faint sketch of the same person the animal had been observing previously, a tall, scarred man clad in dirty and torn green robes, his eyes smoldering with the hues of hot embers. Where the identical brother who sat on a stone had a slack, dazed look, this one looked angry and ready for violence, swiftly coalescing out of the thin air of the Dreaming to stand there in vivid colors. “You can sense me, your Origin, quite as I can sense you, my Dream. Do you seek oblivion, then? For that I may grant to any errant thought.” The Dreamer's hands curled into fists and burst into fire, the same fire that had already been burning in his eyes. The lynx stared back into the inferno that stared at him, and shook his head softly, then made a long sound between a mew and a purr. Those tiny gestures were enough to abruptly douse the anger – the planewalker's hands absorbed the flames they had called forth and his eyes adopted a curious pale blue tone. “Very well, Shard. I accept the Pact you propose, out of free will and bound by my true name. Travel unshackled, Beast...” Already fading when speaking the last word, he dimmed back towards a mere sketch drafted on the empty air, turned two-dimensional and blurred, then vanished utterly. Only when he was truly gone did the lynx sigh in relief before padding away again, sparing no glance to the pulsing Grail.

Happy birthday, reverie.

Would the pirates even notice if the wenches did not shower?

*cracks his knuckles* Lessee... Keväästä Kesään Linnut iloisesti toivottivat kevään tervetulleeksi, Niiden äänet kiirivät minunkin huoneeseeni. Voipuneena maaten sairasvuoteellani, Minäkin katselin kevään voittoa talven yli. Tiesin, että näytös kestäisi kesään asti, Vaikken silloin enää olekaan täällä. Heh, my Finnish sucks.

How can you remember that?

That's absolutely marvelous, Tanuchan.

Happy birthday, Wyvern! I suck at writing these things, so I just gotta say along with the supermegasized happy birthday wishes I'm sending at yer direction, my respect (for what it's worth) for consistent creative birthday thread replies among other things. Here's hoping the ye olde age of 22 won't slow ye down any! Hands Wyvern a shiny 10 geld platinium coin without any strings attached.

Hear hear! Those evil, evil Swedes! Wanders off, snickering.

I don't use any punctuation, which may irk some people but fits best my idea of how the vision the poem was inspried by flows inside my head. YMMV.

It was almost dark, the last rays of the vanishing sun glinting on the vast beam of slanting crystal that jutted out of the top of the Temple of High Ascension. The temple itself was easy to perceive even in the dusk, its shapes massive and simple, the end result looking more like a fortress than a place of enlightenment. There were no windows on the uniform grey surfaces, however, not even portholes – the face of Balance was blind. Behind the two pilgrims the tail of the temple, the path to Balance, vanished into the deepening gloom. Before them, after the last short stretch of the sand-colored, paved path, opened up a wide, empty field of the same grey rock the temple itself was made of. The unnatural stillness of the air that allowed mortals to cross the treacherous path at all seemed to prevail over the whole place, for the silence over the temple was absolute. Even small sounds like the Dreamer's armor's metallic whispering, the mortal pilgrim's labored breathing and his footsteps seemed absurdly loud. A faint yellow glow emanating from under the planewalker's cowl revealed his extreme alertness or uneasiness – his steps showed no hesitation as he followed the young man. They had switched places so the Dreamer could keep an eye on the tired traveler and catch him if he should take a wrong step on the narrow path. A different test, then, than one of power or intellect; an invisible puzzle for the unseen power. I hope I have passed it. As sun's last rays struck the crystal staff, the pair reached the vacant space in front of the monolithic temple. The moment their feet left the path and they stood on the firm ground of the enormous field of grey rock, a gentle wind woke up and whirled around them, a detail that'd been imperceptible if the absence of wind had not been so absolute during their last three days. It carried with it a quiet melody, soothing sounds that seemed to reach through their ears and caress their minds with delicate touches, the music so faint it was easy to dismiss as a hallucination at first. The images the haunting music conjured appeared before their eyes as well, vague shapes coalescing from the now windy air, odd lumps of fuzzy rocks. Their outlines started out so blurred they seemed constructs made of fog at first, but as the melody grew louder, they sharpened and turned from incomprehensible shapes to monks and priests in voluminous grey robes, the color of the robes perfectly mirroring the color of the field and of the temple. They formed a geometrically precise half-circle around them with an empty spot right before them, the melody lazily washing away the imprecision and replacing it with details, giving the monks and priests facial features, adorned staffs and musical instruments. The Dreamer used two fingers of his right hand to firmly but not violently to force the mortal pilgrim to his knees, then followed suit and bowed his head down as well after removing his black cowl. Even devoid of his magic and supernatural senses, he could feel how the potential of Balance permeating the whole area turned into the certainty of Balance. There was no flash or boom, no gesture meant to impress those present with the power of the avatar who had just appeared out of thin mountain air. Her voice was the rustling of reeds during the summer, a whisper heard just before falling asleep. It was the tone of a mother's lullaby, the note of a lonely flute normally drowned under the powerful voice of an orchestra, the friendly whistle of a winter wind when you are safely inside in the warm. “Welcome, planewalker, mortal. I see you have passed our first little test, if barely.” Having made the gesture he wanted to make, the Dreamer stood up and looked upon the Lady Balance without further humility. She was clad in robes similar to those that the monks wore, the fabric billowing in an unseen, unfelt gale far more violent than the friendly breeze the planewalker felt. All her colors were muted, dim, refined: pale grey skin, eyes the color of spring leaves, dark hair tall enough to reach the ground. She flexed her newly created body, all the while keeping her imperial gaze on the Dreamer. Her face and mien were friendly, but there was an unmistakable element of steely will behind that first layer of amiability that made it clear she would not be amused by disrespect. “How was our sister the last time you saw her, m'lord Wodzan Xe Chanima?” “She was as mocking and amused as ever, m'lady Balance. I doubt she'd be quite that amused if I'd visit her right now, however.” While listening to her words he realized the time had stopped around them, the mortal priests and his pilgrim companion both frozen in the moment when Lady Balance appeared. A tranquil smile appeared on the avatar's perfectly symmetrical, immaculately beautiful face. “We are amused to see you here, right now, Knight of the Grail. Despite our pleasure at your past actions, you must realize there is much to do for you still, to wash the stains of Change away from your soul.” The Dreamer's answering grin further disfigured his hideous face, the contrast between the beauty and the beast huge, immeasurable. “Nothin' worth havin' 's ever easy in this multiversum, m'lady. Where do ye need me next, Balance?” Her eyes narrowed and she shifted her attention to the tall staff the Dreamer carried. She made a small gesture and the staff vibrated violently, staying aloft, trembling, when the startled planewalker let go of it. With another barely noticeable motion the Avatar of Balance flung the staff through the barrier between Planar and Astral space, threw it somewhere far away. When the Dreamer returned his gaze to the face of Lady Balance, a mischievous smile flickered there. “Follow the staff, Duke of Chaos. Bring it back to me, again...” Her voice faded and she disappeared, freeing the time to flow as it pleased. To be continued...

Light had a crisp, exact quality here. It showed every little detail of everything, cut through the thin mountain air with little warmth and a blinding glare. The sun was still floating on the sky, but it was slowly sinking below them, shadows waking up near the ground where they were safe. The path to Balance was strung on the edge of a long mountain ridge, walking on it the two last pilgrims: the Dreamer, a tall, black figure, holding his 8 feet tall staff in a way that told any observer he did not need it for his balance; and his follower, a mortal boy in dirty grey clothes, vanishing into the grey and brown mountain terrain every time he stopped moving. They were walking through the calm sky itself, a path to the Heavens that showed any mortal how tiny they truly were. Below their feet the ochre path was paved with smooth, uniform stones adorned with runes, telling a story that had mostly worn away by now. No wind pushed them, indeed any wind at all would have made the passage impossible for mortals, and the still air brought no scents to them. Far ahead sparkled the Temple of High Ascension. Forbidden the use of magic, even the planewalker had trouble seeing the temple properly yet, but it seemed to have its highest part made of glass or crystal, more ordinary building components having been used for the rest of the massive building complex. Between them and the temple the path they were on meandered, climbing upwards gently but continuously. One more day, perhaps two. And still there has been no test, no guardian or trap, puzzle or labyrinth. Hmmm... “Lord?” He turned around effortlessly and with perfect confidence on the narrow path to give his mortal companion a questioning look. “I'm too tired to continue, Lord Dreamer.” “Very well. We'll rest 'ere, then.” The young man looked down at the barely 3 feet wide path, then at the deadly cliffs on both sides of the narrow strip of safety and returned his gaze to the planewalker, who was already settling down to sit on the path in lotus position. He visibly gathered his courage before speaking again, coughed to gain the planewalker's attention. “Lord ... if I fall asleep here, I may fall over the edge and die. If I stay awake, I might fall down later because being tired makes me stumble.” The Dreamer sighed and stood up. He glanced at his tall staff and at the pilgrim, then carefully set down the staff on the middle of the path and knelt on top of it, the staff's end between his knees. He then motioned the pilgrim closer and pointed at the clear space before him. When the young man hesitantly lay down on the narrow ledge, the Dreamer locked his two scarred hands over his shoulders in an firm but not uncomfortable grip of iron. “Ye may rest in peace, pilgrim. I shall keep ye on th' path t' Balance, mortal.” The dark blue flicker in the planewalker's eyes died down as he fell into a light trance.

Fire drowned the distant lights of the moons and stars. The pilgrim's camp had turned into one giant bonfire and the air was filled with the growling of the naked flames, the screams of the wounded and pursued, the cruel shouts of the bandits. Instead of heaven, they had found hell on the bare mountains, the attackers striking them without warning, without provocation. Ironically, there was less of the bandits than the pilgrims, but the pilgrims were not warriors, most of them so far gone on the path of peaceful Balance they did not even consider defending themselves. Some sinners, carrying the staves of iron well-suited to be used as cudgels, tried to resist the wave of fur-clad warriors but they were quickly separated and slaughtered by superior numbers. The cool night air was heavy with the smells of blood and burning flesh. The flames reflected on the black eyes of the Dreamer seated on a nearby, tall rock formation. His staff lay on his lap in perfect balance, and he did not move a muscle when the mortals clashed and died before his uncaring gaze. Behind him and the rock cowered his mortal shadow, the young man whose name he still did not know or cared to know, cringing silently every time a particularly loud or painful scream reached his hiding place. Slowly the bandits finished their cruel business, buckled their belts back up, cleaned and sheathed their blades painted black, pocketed the bits and pieces of silver they found, their every move observed by the immovable planewalker. Almost they vanished back into the now peaceful night without noticing the Dreamer, but they lived and died by the keenness of their senses – one of them saw his dark shadow obscuring the stars and alerted the others, and they turned towards the planewalker. At first they ran over the rocky terrain, then seeing that he did not flee them they slowed down and stopped nearby, a few of them readying short horn-bows. The Dreamer sighed and leaped softly down, his eyes black as the night. From the ranks of the bandits appeared a larger man, his necklace adorned with a large number of trophies, his sword of better quality. He stared at the bottomless pits of the Dreamer's eyes, dismissed it as a shadow created by the planewalker's cowl, and snarled challenging words in the dialect of the mountain people. “Hoi, you! Are you not afraid, why do you not flee, lowlander? Paralyzed by fear, feet frozen by the black visions of us eating your liver, lowlander?” The planewalker removed his cowl with a careless swipe of his hand and glared at the leader of the bandits. In the depths of his murky eyes small sparks of red were kindled, as if there had been two candles lit inside a scarred skull. When he spoke it was in a low monotonous voice, the thick accent almost gone, the words carrying far in the still air despite him barely speaking louder than a whisper. “Ya, I'm beset by fear, lowly mortal. I fear ye make me lose my temper, here, and that I shall in my anger break the oath of the Prayer of Long Trail and kill one of you. Once the vows are broken, I lose nothing by continuing, by crushing every single one of you with this tall staff of mine. By then the fires of my wrath at the stupidity of all humankind are reaching higher than any flame you kindled earlier tonight, and I will track your last steps backwards and crush your puny village, showing the exact same amount of mercy you have shown today. That I fear, mountain chief, and I can already taste your blood in my mouth.” With languid, relaxed motions he raised his tall staff to a ready position, the yellow and red flames he had promised flickering inside the unfathomable depths of his black eyes. A moment of uncertainity passed, and then before him the bandits melted into the shadows of the night and were gone. Slowly, very slowly the Dreamer let the tension dissipate from his posture, let his eyes dim to leaden color. He turned when he heard movement behind him and he saw the young man who had been hiding behind the rock. On the mortal's face was a look of shocked incomprehension as he saw the devastated camp, approaching dawn revealing the corpses scattered around. “Why? Why did you not stop them, lord?” The Dreamer shrugged and leaned on his staff, turned to look thoughtfully at the remains of the pilgrims, the scars on his face concealing if the view stirred any emotions in him. When he spoke his gaze stayed on the dead humans. “Why did ye not stop them, mortal boy? Fo' they were yer kin, not mine, an' while I do not go out of my way t' inflict harm to mortals, I do not go out of my way t' prevent it, either. An' I'm 'ere to bid farewell to th' ways of th' war, not t' embrace more of it.” The shocked incomprehension changed to incredulity on the young man's face. A few broken syllables escaped his lips as he tried to find the right words to tell the Dreamer just erroneous the planewalker's point of view was, how absolutely clear and right it would have been to protect the innocent pilgrims. Suddenly he saw the scarred face and the shifting, deep eyes, the tall thin body and even the fairly ordinary black cloak as something alien and otherworldly, realized the vast distance between him and the impassive creature studying him back. That realization brought with it a heavy, unbearable sense of loneliness, and the young man fell to his knees to cry.

Items Only two items that have practical value to the Dreamer are his two swords. Pain was the sword of one of his shards who clung to existence even through an Armageddon of Terra but lost his bodily form. That shade, Inhumatus, also clung to his no-dachi, and carried its ghost with him. That spectral blade was later named Pain, and in some ways it is more powerful that its wielder was - it can cut through spirit and body alike, inflicting so horrible wounds most mortals die of one blow, no matter how trivial the actual visible injury looks like. The Benefical Dragon was what the Dreamer used before his long sleep - a long slender katana made of jade, its sharpness and strength a function of the old magics that bind the blade together, not qualities of the material. He quested for it during his youth, after he passed the Rites of the Planewalker in BADE 431. Other than being highly magical artifact and slightly influencing its users luck to the better, it has no obvious powers. The Dreamer's clothes, even his blood-red chaos armor, are mostly decorative and hold no enchantments that would really help him. If any of the items would be removed from his possession, they'd be so infused with his aura of power that they would be in effect magical items of considerable power.

Personality Complex would be the best word to give an overall impression of the Dreamer's personality - he has a set of personal codes of conduct he tries to follow, but to any casual observer his actions may seem highly chaotic and irrational. His basic state is one of cool, polite detachment, but it can very quickly change into cold anger, sudden mirth, raging bloodlust or tranquil contemplation when provoked in any manner. His personality used to be very volatile right after he woke up from his coma, but lately he has gotten himself under better control and no longer suffers from uncontrollable fits of rage. Despite his aggressive tendencies, he has no qualms of fleeing situations that he deems too dangerous compared to the rewards at hand. The few deadly risks he takes are carefully calculated. The Dreamer considers mortals to be beneath him, but worthy of attention if they go through the trouble of talking to him politely and if they exhibit courage, curiosity and respect in proper measures. If insulted or attacked, he will respond with deadly force very easily, considering it to be almost the same as if a human would kill an offending mosquito. Even then he doesn't always really care if his targets die or are merely maimed - revenge against lesser forms of life is beneath his dignity. Due to his uncompromising, cold manner, he does not have many allies and even fewer friends in all the worlds, but he is loyal to the few friends he has.

History Most of the Dreamer's early history is obscured or forgotten. He is slightly over 3000 years old, but he usually does not tell many stories of his pre-wakening (which happened 2451 AADE) times. In the May of 2443, he fought a god of dreams and won, but fell into a deep coma. During his long slumber he dreamed up several shards, less powerful copies of himself: the Brothers Zadown, a curious group of individuals scattered across the known multiversum but tied together with the ties of blood magic, most sharing the original Dreamer's tall and thin build but little else. Once he woke up in the July of 2451, his first action was to hunt down his shards to absorb them back into him. He found the greatest concentration of them in the Pen Keep, where he eliminated several of the Zadown brothers during a short battle. Absorbing them into himself, he felt obliged to continue what they have started and eventually set his headquarters into the nearby Astral with a connection to the Pen Keep proper. During 2451 he also met Valdar and took him as his apprentice, an event that triggered an adventure which ended by him swearing loyalty to Chaos and promising to find the Grail for them. He was harried by the agents of various gods and other distractions, however, and could not properly move on with his quest quite yet. In 2453 he slew one of his hunters, the hybrid dominion-god Sarnael - an impressive milestone on his recovery from the coma and a clear example of how his powers had strengthened under the flag of Chaos. He was nevertheless still clouded by indecision and visions of the past, not fully activating himself to work towards the goal of finding the Grail until a year later, in 2454. In a year-long quest for the Grail he was then first foiled by one of the Runelords of the Law, then trapped by mere mortals, a crime he repaid by eradicating the entire offending city from the multiversum by drowning it in elemental flames. The Dreamer halted his quest for long enough to rebuild Tlaenor as a city of undead shades before continuing tracking his prey, Mistress Sherishsen and the Grail. He reached and killed the former in 2455, but the latter literarily eluded his blood-soaked grasp. He continued to be very busy through the whole year 2455, rebuilding his assets and beginning the raising of a ward who would be able to handle the Grail, a girl called Jankiize Towikae Vangaijuua. He clashed against Sir Owiric of Chaos and met Faaye, one of Law's most respected planewalkers. The next dozen years saw the escalating of the Law - Chaos conflict, something that the Dreamer observed from the sidelines at first but later got more and more involved in while protecting his ward, Lady Vangaujuua, and searching the Grail. His patience was rewarded in 2467 and he gained the Grail, something that very quickly turned the tide of what were afterwards called as the Grail Wars. The Dreamer and his ward both played a great part in the conflict to the very end of the wars in 2472, when the Grail vanished and the Law struck back against the shaken Chaos armies. The catastrophe ended the Dreamer's short carreer as the Supreme High Commander of the Chaos armies and sent him back to seclusion.

Tested wisdom from the cold north: When doing something that requires several hours of outdoor time, wear clothing one magnitude warmer than you'd normally wear for that weather. When wondering whether to take a book or not, always take a book with you. Or take several. Don't drink a bottle of wine to an empty stomach. People you meet online make bad tourist guides, since they spend their time online. ... boring stuff, ya, but that's wisdom for ya.