She stands — stunned, one hand on the wall — when he hands her precisely what she's seeking. All the wild, displaced frustration flees and buries itself somewhere deeper for the time being. Instead, she simply feels understood. Verso had no reason to recognize what she was after, or why — except perhaps camaraderie. Familiarity enough to understand what her next highest priority was going to be, and how she might seek to solve it.
A jolt of something sweet but scary shoots through her. The more potent cousin to whatever soft connection she'd felt when he'd sat behind her, braiding. Jasnah frowns.
Nevertheless, she claims the tin and (slow, steady, avoiding sudden movements) she returns to gently nestle Ivory into the tin's interior. She uses enough linen lining to keep him snug, she thinks. Comfortable. She's not sure spren even feel physical discomfort, given their nature, but she doesn't want him rattling around in there all the same. Once accomplished, she slips the whole thing into a pocket — along with last night's spheres.
"I know," she finally answers. It's not chippy or sulky. Rather, forthright. Factual. Yes, she knows and expects she can lean on him. "Help me with the stairs," she indicates, "and I'll see how I manage myself once we reach the street."
Verso does help her with the stairs, a slow and laborious process, one palm pressed against her back to steady her and the other hand curled around her forearm. He makes idle conversation to distract her as they go, knowing she must find his assistance embarrassing at best and cloying at worst. When they finally make it down to the ground floor, he releases her arm, although his hand remains at her back for a lingering moment before he slowly peels it away.
In the bakery, Jochi waves—more to Jasnah than to him—although there's a little flicker of concern on his face as he watches her moving independently already. On an emotional level, he's worried about Jasnah's well-being; on a pragmatic level, he really doesn't want the queen of Alethkar to get hurt again in his shop.
Out on the street, Verso tries and fails not to think about how she'd needed to hold his hand for support the day before. His fingers twitch a little, and he presses them flat against his thigh.
The excursion won't be easy. Already, she can feel a lick of sweat along her spine from the stairs. And she'd had help with those. Jasnah pauses just outside Jochi's door. Silently, stubbornly, she gives herself a challenge: make it to the end of the side-street under her own steam. After that, yes, she'll lean on Verso.
There are good reasons to be cautious. But there are also good reasons to be bold. She won't let herself grow too accepting of the wound. She won't let her sense of self warp around it.
So, she answers him with a stiff nod. Sipping in a breath, she starts with slow measured steps. Hand still on the bakery's outside wall. One, two, three, and the a glance over her shoulder to see how he follows.
"... Don't help until the fountain at the earliest."
She jerks her head forward, indicating a modest water feature.
Verso holds his hands up, palms out, as if to show her physical proof of his innocence. "Not helping." No matter how badly he wants to!
He turns around, walking backwards a few steps ahead of her so that he might catch her if she stumbles, although he doesn't dare reach out unless she does. Clea always accused him of coddling, and if there's anything he knows Jasnah will hate, it's being coddled. So, instead, he just keeps a careful eye out while he takes slow steps back. Coddling only in his mind and not in reality.
"I've noticed something," he says idly. "You usually do something to your food before you eat it."
Her attention tracks him as he moves to a forward position — but walking backwards, facing her. Acceptable. But even so, her fingers graze the wall to her right. Every third or fourth step, she leans her full weight through her palm against the wall. Brief, necessary support.
She's doing well enough. Slow, certainly. But she isn't rushing.
"—Is that so?" She responds to his question, neither confirming nor denying anything.
"It is," he bats back, playful, teasing. "It may surprise you, but I actually have quite a keen sense of observation."
Also, it's obvious.
"Is it because of the taste?" Because she doesn't like sweet things; perhaps, without someone to swap with her, she's been surreptitiously changing the taste all this time.
Jasnah grimaces, but not due to effort. Rather — she's thinking about how so often soulcasting a bite of food makes it worse. If it's something she hasn't had before, if it's too processed beyond its whole self, she struggles. Storms, she's not strong with organics in the first place. No — it's never been for taste.
"All I ever do is try to re-create whatever it is. If something is meant to be stew, I soulcast it to stew. If something is meant to be a ship's biscuit, I soulcast it to be a ship's biscuit."
She hasn't done it once since arriving at Jochi's. No stormlight, no soulcasting. It's almost a relief not to have to ask herself whether or not she trusts the pastries that come up from the kitchen. She's not certain how she'd feel about revealing such fresh depths of distrust.
Verso takes a few more steps back, nearing the fountain now. He stops there, watching to see if the independent walk has winded her enough that she's willing to ask for help. Or, as the case will probably be, imperiously command help. Maybe it feels better that way. He's not going to begrudge her the opportunity.
"Why would you do that?" he asks, head cocked in confusion. "Seems rather redundant."
Oh. She hadn't anticipated how vulnerable she would feel walking — shuffling, more like — through the streets. Yesterday, she'd been distracted first by the prospect of locating Ivory and second by the alarmingly helpful Cryptic. She's now suddenly all-too-aware of every stranger in eyesight.
She focuses on Verso like a lifeline. Eyes on him, letting his backwards steps set her pace.
"But if there's something in a ship's biscuit that shouldn't be there, soulcasting will catch it."
Jasnah reaches his side — facing forwards as he faces backwards — and leans a hand on his shoulder.
Jasnah's hand settles on his shoulder, her weight leaning into it, and he wills his mouth not to quirk up. It isn't just her closeness or the sensation of her touch, although of course both of those things are pleasant to experience. It's also—and perhaps most importantly—the knowledge that she's depending on him, allowing him to take care of her. That might actually be more degenerate than the physical attraction.
"Clever," he says, wishing he could have soulcasted on the Continent instead of poisoning himself over and over. "And exhausting."
Slowly, he turns so that they're facing the same direction again. "Speaking of exhausting," he points out, "you're sweating a little."
One meager street. That is all she manages on her own. Jasnah firmly reminds herself that this was the exercise's purpose: identify the limit, then plan to exceed it. Tomorrow, another walk. The day after that, another. As many repetitions as it takes to convince the very fibers of her being that the wound is temporary, not defining. Acceptance would be the greater danger. If she grows used to it, it will be harder to mend when stormlight returns. It will be more likely to scar.
She lets her hand fall from his shoulder as he turns, transferring the weight instead to the stone lip of the fountain. The sideways look she gives him when is sharp enough to cut, though threaded with just enough self-reproach to admit that he is, unfortunately, correct.
"Disappointing," she says coolly. "I'd hoped to make it farther before requiring your arm."
Jasnah's looks could kill if she were so inclined; Verso responds with a pointed look of his own, albeit significantly softer. Only Jasnah would find it 'disappointing' that she'd made it all this way on her own for the first time since being grievously injured. Jasnah probably finds it disappointing that she isn't able to do jumping jacks in the middle of the street right now.
"You've already gone farther by yourself than you have in the past week." Journey over destination, hm? "Is my arm that bad?" Teasing: "Do I smell?"
— Some day, mark my word, she is going to deeply regret having taught him the First Ideals. That's gonna bite her in the ass for sure.
But for now she's still stewing in her own limitations. Her expression remains clouded and cantankerous, but she stops short of ad hominem attacks. "No," she answers sullenly, "you don't smell."
At least not badly. They have access to decent water and facilities at Jochi's, and it's an improvement after the ship. If anyone's at risk of smelling, alas, it's going to be the woman who can't take the luxurious little baths she's used to because of her wound.
Wait until they get back to Urithiru and he can procure some cologne! But until then, at least she isn't gagging just being near him.
"That may be the most flattering thing you've ever said about me," he quips, amiable. But also not entirely insincere; 'you don't smell' is high praise coming from Jasnah. There isn't any physical aspect of him that she seems to find appealing, so being found neutral is as good as it gets.
A second of thought, and then he loops his arm through hers, as if they're just having a casual stroll together. "We can make it look like you're walking on your own." If that helps her ego.
"...Surely not," Jasnah protests. She's said kinder things, hasn't she? Hasn't she? Her expression darkens, and it's obvious that she's rotating through past conversations — determined to find some other sentence that was (at least) equally flattering.
She's still thinking about it when, without comment, she tightens the hold around the arm he hooks with hers. The movement zips them closer, almost hip to hip, and she adds a hand — crossed over her body — for an additional anchor point.
It's difficult being this close to Jasnah. It's too pleasant, and pleasantness is dangerous. Pleasantness only makes him want more of it, of something he can't have. It makes him wish she'd ever want to be near him for reasons that aren't pragmatic. This is why it's safer to sit on the far edge of the divan, never touching.
He inhales sharply, then exhales. It's just helping someone who's injured while she recovers.
With forced levity: "You look as if the gears are turning so quickly that steam is about to start coming out of your ears."
"I complimented your braiding skills," she tells him — almost as though she never even heard his comment about gears and steam and her ears. Her ears are a little red, though. Like being caught stealing spheres from the palace braziers. Like realizing all your careful self-work hasn't paid the dividends you hoped it might.
"And I'm sure I've told you I like your playing. The piano and the guitar. Both. And the way your voice gets when you talk about your little sister..."
It's like he's stumbled across Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A, Start for a small windfall of sincere compliments. Soak it up now, 'cause it's gonna be patched pretty soon.
Verso's ears darken a little, too, although for a different reason. Luckily, they're mostly hidden beneath the thicket of his hair.
"—I don't think you said that last one, no," he points out, because he would certainly remember if she'd ever said she liked anything about his voice. Every other compliment is about what he can do; that one is about something that he is.
He clears his throat, taking a step. "It wasn't a complaint." Not... exactly. Of course, he'd like to be the recipient of her praise, but he wouldn't dream of demanding it. "Merely an observation. You're"—he waffles, trying to find the right word—"quite judicious with your flattery."
Oh. Well, she's absolutely thought that last one. And a cavalcade of others, but she bites them down because she regrets what she's already spit out. It's a good thing that they're beside one another, and she can fix her focus on the path ahead. One foot, then the other, and then the first again. However, she's letting him lead. Some combination of fatigue and knowing he's got at least three-to-four more excursions outside than her.
"I should think so," she answers — voice once again cool and distant. "My is never to flatter."
Verso walks as slowly and as casually as he can, trying to make it look less like he's helping a hobbled stab victim walk and more like they're just taking an incredibly meandering stroll together.
"—Praise, then," he laughs. "Compliments. Approval. Your choice of appreciative synonym." With a glance her way: "Flattery isn't the worst thing." Some people happen to enjoy it!
It's difficult not to think about Shallan. Ultimately, the young woman's attempt on her own life had been a manipulative tactic to cover her theft. Still, Jasnah remembers pacing outside the hospital room questioning every thing she had and hadn't said. And she remembers the clumsy apology once she'd been allowed to see the girl.
Jasnah knows she can be withholding. Distant. Hard. Half the reason why she's rejected so many potential wards hasn't been because the girls didn't meet muster, but because she knows she's not the teacher that most of them need.
"Noted." She answers. Simple and direct. Unwilling to gild a lily she's already flushed with compliments a minute earlier.
And he drops the subject. He hadn't been intending to needle her into compliments, exactly, although he's certainly not mad at having received a few. It's just that it would be nice if she were to spare a little more approval, that's all, and his communication style is far too passive-aggressive to say that directly.
Moving on— "There are a few places to eat the street over." He remembers because of the smell; he'd been glad just to smell something that wasn't yeast and sugar. "Think you can make it?"
...Except in her mind, it absolutely was a good talk. And while Jasnah certainly doesn't intend to trip over herself to dispense praise at every turn, it's helpful to realize there are things she perhaps shouldn't leave unvoiced. Not everyone is as patient and understanding of her silence as her blood relatives.
But! Yes. Moving on.
There is a mild list to her her walk — canted ever so slightly towards him. It's enough to make it seem like they're tête-à-tête, conspiring. Reality is far, far more pragmatic.
"One street?" She considers. "I'd like to try. I'll — I'll tell you when I need a pause."
A brief, intentional squeeze on his forearm. As though it might replace signing on a dotted line.
The trek down the street is lengthy, but Verso works hard at keeping her distracted with idle, inane comments. Pointing at the window of a shop and asking her about the product on display. Looking up at the sky and noting that a cloud sort of looks like a snake riding a magic carpet. That sort of thing. When she wants to pause, he pauses. When she wants to go, he goes.
Eventually, they make their way all the way down to the next street over, where he leads them not by sight but by smell into the establishment that has the strongest aroma of spice. Not his first choice as a fantasy Frenchman, but it seems a good reward for Jasnah.
He pulls out her chair, helping her into her seat, saying, "Good job. Tomorrow, maybe you'll do two streets."
But — oh, the spice on the air makes her stomach rumble. The thought of something more than bread and various stuffings within bread is just-almost-maybe enough to erase some of her current worries. Verso helps her into a chair and she can be grateful that they're in Thaylen City. Where some of the population still worship the Passions, and the strict divides between men and women aren't quite so strict. At least they didn't encounter too many horrified stares as they'd walked down the street arm-in-arm.
...However, a slightly agitated waiter now hems and haws on the periphery of their table. Jasnah makes a split-second decision to fall back on their previous ruse. Maybe it'll be slightly more reassuring to have a man and woman dine at the same table if they're man and wife.
"—Gemheart," she snaps a glance at Verso. Trusting him to pick up on the tactic. "Let's stick to the pink wines today, hm?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
A jolt of something sweet but scary shoots through her. The more potent cousin to whatever soft connection she'd felt when he'd sat behind her, braiding. Jasnah frowns.
Nevertheless, she claims the tin and (slow, steady, avoiding sudden movements) she returns to gently nestle Ivory into the tin's interior. She uses enough linen lining to keep him snug, she thinks. Comfortable. She's not sure spren even feel physical discomfort, given their nature, but she doesn't want him rattling around in there all the same. Once accomplished, she slips the whole thing into a pocket — along with last night's spheres.
"I know," she finally answers. It's not chippy or sulky. Rather, forthright. Factual. Yes, she knows and expects she can lean on him. "Help me with the stairs," she indicates, "and I'll see how I manage myself once we reach the street."
no subject
In the bakery, Jochi waves—more to Jasnah than to him—although there's a little flicker of concern on his face as he watches her moving independently already. On an emotional level, he's worried about Jasnah's well-being; on a pragmatic level, he really doesn't want the queen of Alethkar to get hurt again in his shop.
Out on the street, Verso tries and fails not to think about how she'd needed to hold his hand for support the day before. His fingers twitch a little, and he presses them flat against his thigh.
"So far, so good?"
no subject
There are good reasons to be cautious. But there are also good reasons to be bold. She won't let herself grow too accepting of the wound. She won't let her sense of self warp around it.
So, she answers him with a stiff nod. Sipping in a breath, she starts with slow measured steps. Hand still on the bakery's outside wall. One, two, three, and the a glance over her shoulder to see how he follows.
"... Don't help until the fountain at the earliest."
She jerks her head forward, indicating a modest water feature.
no subject
He turns around, walking backwards a few steps ahead of her so that he might catch her if she stumbles, although he doesn't dare reach out unless she does. Clea always accused him of coddling, and if there's anything he knows Jasnah will hate, it's being coddled. So, instead, he just keeps a careful eye out while he takes slow steps back. Coddling only in his mind and not in reality.
"I've noticed something," he says idly. "You usually do something to your food before you eat it."
no subject
She's doing well enough. Slow, certainly. But she isn't rushing.
"—Is that so?" She responds to his question, neither confirming nor denying anything.
no subject
Also, it's obvious.
"Is it because of the taste?" Because she doesn't like sweet things; perhaps, without someone to swap with her, she's been surreptitiously changing the taste all this time.
no subject
"All I ever do is try to re-create whatever it is. If something is meant to be stew, I soulcast it to stew. If something is meant to be a ship's biscuit, I soulcast it to be a ship's biscuit."
She hasn't done it once since arriving at Jochi's. No stormlight, no soulcasting. It's almost a relief not to have to ask herself whether or not she trusts the pastries that come up from the kitchen. She's not certain how she'd feel about revealing such fresh depths of distrust.
no subject
"Why would you do that?" he asks, head cocked in confusion. "Seems rather redundant."
no subject
Oh. She hadn't anticipated how vulnerable she would feel walking — shuffling, more like — through the streets. Yesterday, she'd been distracted first by the prospect of locating Ivory and second by the alarmingly helpful Cryptic. She's now suddenly all-too-aware of every stranger in eyesight.
She focuses on Verso like a lifeline. Eyes on him, letting his backwards steps set her pace.
"But if there's something in a ship's biscuit that shouldn't be there, soulcasting will catch it."
Jasnah reaches his side — facing forwards as he faces backwards — and leans a hand on his shoulder.
no subject
"Clever," he says, wishing he could have soulcasted on the Continent instead of poisoning himself over and over. "And exhausting."
Slowly, he turns so that they're facing the same direction again. "Speaking of exhausting," he points out, "you're sweating a little."
no subject
She lets her hand fall from his shoulder as he turns, transferring the weight instead to the stone lip of the fountain. The sideways look she gives him when is sharp enough to cut, though threaded with just enough self-reproach to admit that he is, unfortunately, correct.
"Disappointing," she says coolly. "I'd hoped to make it farther before requiring your arm."
no subject
"You've already gone farther by yourself than you have in the past week." Journey over destination, hm? "Is my arm that bad?" Teasing: "Do I smell?"
no subject
But for now she's still stewing in her own limitations. Her expression remains clouded and cantankerous, but she stops short of ad hominem attacks. "No," she answers sullenly, "you don't smell."
At least not badly. They have access to decent water and facilities at Jochi's, and it's an improvement after the ship. If anyone's at risk of smelling, alas, it's going to be the woman who can't take the luxurious little baths she's used to because of her wound.
no subject
"That may be the most flattering thing you've ever said about me," he quips, amiable. But also not entirely insincere; 'you don't smell' is high praise coming from Jasnah. There isn't any physical aspect of him that she seems to find appealing, so being found neutral is as good as it gets.
A second of thought, and then he loops his arm through hers, as if they're just having a casual stroll together. "We can make it look like you're walking on your own." If that helps her ego.
no subject
She's still thinking about it when, without comment, she tightens the hold around the arm he hooks with hers. The movement zips them closer, almost hip to hip, and she adds a hand — crossed over her body — for an additional anchor point.
no subject
He inhales sharply, then exhales. It's just helping someone who's injured while she recovers.
With forced levity: "You look as if the gears are turning so quickly that steam is about to start coming out of your ears."
no subject
"And I'm sure I've told you I like your playing. The piano and the guitar. Both. And the way your voice gets when you talk about your little sister..."
It's like he's stumbled across Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A, Start for a small windfall of sincere compliments. Soak it up now, 'cause it's gonna be patched pretty soon.
no subject
"—I don't think you said that last one, no," he points out, because he would certainly remember if she'd ever said she liked anything about his voice. Every other compliment is about what he can do; that one is about something that he is.
He clears his throat, taking a step. "It wasn't a complaint." Not... exactly. Of course, he'd like to be the recipient of her praise, but he wouldn't dream of demanding it. "Merely an observation. You're"—he waffles, trying to find the right word—"quite judicious with your flattery."
no subject
"I should think so," she answers — voice once again cool and distant. "My is never to flatter."
She says it like it's a six-letter word.
no subject
"—Praise, then," he laughs. "Compliments. Approval. Your choice of appreciative synonym." With a glance her way: "Flattery isn't the worst thing." Some people happen to enjoy it!
no subject
Jasnah knows she can be withholding. Distant. Hard. Half the reason why she's rejected so many potential wards hasn't been because the girls didn't meet muster, but because she knows she's not the teacher that most of them need.
"Noted." She answers. Simple and direct. Unwilling to gild a lily she's already flushed with compliments a minute earlier.
no subject
And he drops the subject. He hadn't been intending to needle her into compliments, exactly, although he's certainly not mad at having received a few. It's just that it would be nice if she were to spare a little more approval, that's all, and his communication style is far too passive-aggressive to say that directly.
Moving on— "There are a few places to eat the street over." He remembers because of the smell; he'd been glad just to smell something that wasn't yeast and sugar. "Think you can make it?"
no subject
But! Yes. Moving on.
There is a mild list to her her walk — canted ever so slightly towards him. It's enough to make it seem like they're tête-à-tête, conspiring. Reality is far, far more pragmatic.
"One street?" She considers. "I'd like to try. I'll — I'll tell you when I need a pause."
A brief, intentional squeeze on his forearm. As though it might replace signing on a dotted line.
no subject
Eventually, they make their way all the way down to the next street over, where he leads them not by sight but by smell into the establishment that has the strongest aroma of spice. Not his first choice as a fantasy Frenchman, but it seems a good reward for Jasnah.
He pulls out her chair, helping her into her seat, saying, "Good job. Tomorrow, maybe you'll do two streets."
no subject
...However, a slightly agitated waiter now hems and haws on the periphery of their table. Jasnah makes a split-second decision to fall back on their previous ruse. Maybe it'll be slightly more reassuring to have a man and woman dine at the same table if they're man and wife.
"—Gemheart," she snaps a glance at Verso. Trusting him to pick up on the tactic. "Let's stick to the pink wines today, hm?"
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
NITPICKS FOREVER
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...