[In spite of all the novelty and gleaming lights, Rosamund finds herself drawn back to the room full of glass coffins. Her fingers trace over the edges, watching the numbers and letters flicker on each pod. She's not so familiar with the terms used, nor what the measurements are exactly, but she's gathered enough.
It's something to do with their bodies, isn't it?
She startles when she hears footsteps from behind.]
behind rosamund is...temenos! he's dressed in much more ye olde now, just immediately giving off the vibe of a cleric. it's the holy aura tm. when she startles, he calls out - ]
Ah - my apologies, I didn't mean to give you a fright. [ and gives a little wave and a warm smile. ] Rosamund, yes?
It's a sort of sweaty anxiety that beams out to Temenos. Typical of a teenager maybe, but tinged with a real fear. And yet all Rosamund is doing is cradling a cup of tea and glancing sidelong at the expanse of space outside.
They're probably lying. They're in armor, and we've never seen their faces, and we're in the middle of nowhere being taken to who knows where...and for what? Are we the cargo?]
[ THE WAY I WROTE A TAG FOR THIS AND LEFT IT OPEN ALL NIGHT NOOO
oh, this poor little lamb. when temenos feels rosamund's thoughts through this bizarre sharing...incident, he pauses midstep, observes the scene, and... doesn't initially approach. actually, he turns and disappears for a moment, and returns just a few moments later.
this time, he too has a cup of tea! and he comes over towards rosamund, giving off these incredibly soft, warm emotional waves of calm, then comes to join her. ]
Rosamund. [ gentle, in greeting. ] Everything alright?
[ it clearly is not considering her anxiety beam but he is a nice cleric who doesn't immediately point this out. ]
[ HELP HELLO it does not take him long to answer, thankfully! the door slides open, and there's temenos. his emotions are placid if deeply thoughtful - he's holding a notebook in one hand. ]
Rosamund...? [ in greeting - there's a little blip of curiosity ] Good evening.
[ it's monday!!! we kick sadness out there's stuff to be done
by which i mean temenos is currently standing outside of one of the clothing shops. he has his hands full - there are just so many bags on his arms. however, he is also just kind of :man_standing: out here, looking at one of the window displays... a man in a shopping mall ]
[A few rations of bandages. That's all they had, while people were missing limbs and had holes in their guts and hollowed looks in their eyes, and all that before another murder.
Rosamund isn't sure everyone knows about it, so she's running supplies to the people she knows are in need.]
Temenos? [She approaches him with a hand outstretched, rations at the ready.] For your stomach.
here's the thing: when she finds temenos, she will find him outside of the food court. he's standing, leaning very heavily on his staff, but he's... not moving?
his eyes are closed, his other hand is on his chin, and he's not moving at all. in fact, when she comes over, he doesn't even respond.
[Feeling a touch too squeamish to approach the other girl herself, she goes through the intermediary. It's many hours later, long after she hid herself for the afternoon. But tomorrow they'll be gallivanting off somewhere else, and she doesn't have the luxury of wasting time.]
[ all of her sad icons make me so sad. holds her face
poor rosamund. temenos is settled in the lounge with a cup of tea between his hands, looking out at the stars - when she comes over, he smiles, gentle and tired. he looks less (frankly) hungover than he did this morning so there's that. he's also just radiating temenos standard levels of extremely calm and settling. ]
[ boy these memory voids suck, huh! by now temenos is starting to - well. maybe not get used to them, but he's certainly starting to experience them. which means when the void shows up with him and rosamund, he inhales, once, then exhales, the picture of calm. ]
...Brace yourself, your highness.
[ and sure enough, the void ripples, and a memory begins to play. ]
[ in the frigid cold of stormhail, you and crick wellsley discover the body of vados the architect.
in a way, this confirms many of your suspicions. you have known for some time now that something terrible lurked within the order of the sacred flame - in fact, unveiling that truth has been your missive for five years now - and here, the evidence stands before you. the coverup of what must have been an assassination. (clearly so, considering someone tried to kill you mere seconds ago. crick leapt to your aid - perhaps you might rely on a godsblade such as me! he had shouted, all the picture of a valiant knight.
how you teased him about it, afterwards, playfully asking if crick would denounce his gods. and how he looked away, and said -
Temenos. I...wish to believe in the gods. As I wish to believe in you.)
but as the obvious to you finally becomes clear, you can tell it rattles crick. crick wellsley, godsblade (newly anointed); your by chance companion, a man who has pulled you out of trouble by your vestments more than once just by existing in your sphere. a pure hearted, endlessly good knight, a lost little lamb desperately in need of guidance. someone you have come to be quite fond of. you so rarely have friends. the travelers are an exception. but there's something special, here, something you aren't sure if you're ready to put your finger on.
he asked you if there was anything in this world he could have faith in, and you gave him the answer that keeps you moving, realistic, cynical, honest. "That you must find out for yourself. Though I must warn you, there are few things worthy of our faith."
and in his crick way, he calls you out on what is undeniable truth, that you don't have much faith in the gods. chosen cleric or otherwise, what you have faith in is the truth, the logical, the things that make sense. he knows this about you, but even so, he confesses his worries and his life story, tells you a fact that shocks you - that he met roi, once upon a time.
roi, a foundling just like you. roi, who was left at the church just like you were as a baby, raised under the loving care of the pontiff. roi, your brother, not in blood but in every other manner. and... you see so much of roi in crick: it's hard not to. they're both the same. honest. bright - so bright, they're hard to look at, sometimes. earnest. faithful. morally sound. the purest heart of the sacred flame.
but roi is gone, disappeared to the wind five years ago, and the young man who stands before you, eyes brimming with tears, tells you his dream is to cleave wickedness from the world. you can't help yourself but to poke holes in it, ever the cynic, just like you were for roi. just like you always were, for roi.
it's such a familiar conversation that you choose not to sit on it, for once. crick deserves a tiny bit of leeway, after everything you've put him through, and you push past your own guarded nature and pull the information like brambles out of your throat. casually, like it doesn't still feel like an open wound, you tell crick of roi's disappearance, and of the way he is the source of your cynicism and your realism, of the way you've mistrusted the church from the moment he disappeared, and how doggedly you searched for the truth for what happened to him ever since.
...something shines in crick's eyes when he speaks to you. he looks sad - upset, even, in the way he does when you remind him that his world of faith is not so clean and bright, but he agrees anyway. he really is learning, crick - you wonder if it's for the better or the worse, that you could be jading something so pure. honestly, crick admits, there are problems in the sacred guard, and immediately wants to jump to work.
...but talking about roi exhausts you. being vulnerable, allowing crick to see that side of you - it's like struggling to tread water. the weight of your sadness is harder and harder to bear, nowadays, no matter how easily you hide it behind your cassock. you fake an excuse about crick's injury from an earlier fight, reaching out to touch his arm, and crick calls you out on just wanting time alone. it stings, a little, to be so easily read, but it comes with a mix of pride and affection, and you compliment him on his perception, though you've been left feeling exposed. he leaves you for the night; you head to the inn for a night of tossing and turning, something close to what's called sleep.
--
in the morning, you awaken to a hubbub in the center of stormhail.
you've seen this hubbub before - the shocked crowds, the murmuring. someone died, last night - someone was murdered, and you imagine it had everything to do with the very same sacred guard and the truth you've been seeking all this time.
"That's one of them from the sacred guard, isn't it? How'd this happen?" says a concerned townsperson. another gasps, says a prayer. you ask them to move with a combination of politeness and your general aura as the inquisitor and stride through the crowd, which parts -
and once again, temenos, a part of your world shatters into pieces.
slumped up against the brick wall outside of the headquarters of the sacred guard is crick wellsley. his body is mangled; blood seeps through his white cloak and down into the white snow, down his white, lifeless face. by some miracle of aelfric, at least his eyes are closed.
your stomach does an unpleasant, horrible twist, and his name tears out of your mouth somewhere between horror and despair - "Crick!" - as you shove past the last of the crowd to drop to his side, to check his pulse. it's the same thing you felt when the pontiff died - that the healing magic you have mastered is useless, that this supposed gift you were given is pointless in the moments it matters the most. you press your fingers to crick's wrist. nothing. he's dead.
roi's disappearance, first. the pontiff, dead on the floor, mauled by a beast in his own cathedral. and now...
you don't really realize it, but like any number of mourners you've comforted before, you find yourself asking no one - why. the whammy of grief and frustration - why crick, of all people, even if you know the answer - burbles uselessly in the back of your brilliant brain, and it's as you're still holding his wrist that you notice the scrap of paper clutched tightly in crick's free hand. slowly, you uncurl his fingers, icy cold and stiff, and pull free what looks like a torn page from of a book, with a single line of writing.
"Surrender yourself not unto silent dusk. For the light shall fade."
it's the same words. the same ones scribbled onto a scrap of bloody paper in the pontiff's final book of scripture. it's a clue. it's a - it's information.
it's as you're holding this in your hand, eyes wide and head already starting to spin, that you hear the sacred guard bark at the crowd to leave. one in particular comes to the corpse, to you, and speaks with loathing. "What are you doing here?"
you snap at one of many useless crows that he's your friend, that you want to help with the investigation, but you're called dead weight, and the sacred guard scoffs and sends you away. you go, without protest, clutching the paper crick died for in your hand, safely stolen away from the prying eyes of the crows.
for a moment, you look past them. you think of crick, his beseeching eyes and naive, pure dream. his want to fix corruption, the way roi had, the way you want to. the last bastion of goodness left standing in the church of the sacred flame, the little lamb who you'd grown quite fond of, now struck down - a lamb in the den of the wolves - and you stare at the paper in your hand.
"Your clue is safe, and it was not laid out in vain. I will follow the path you've laid out before me."
and you do what you've done a hundred times in your life. you do what you did when you were standing at the body of the man who raised you, the only authority figure you've ever known and trusted. you do it now, at the body of your little lamb, who despite all the questioning you led him to, believed in you.
you close your eyes, and you tap into yourself, and say: ] The truth...lies in the flame.
[ invocation spoken, you let the world around you fade away to blue. (visual. to 55:06 - 58:03.)
--
by now, this visualization technique is familiar enough to you, but there's something different about feeling the light of the sacred flame form the ghostly shape of crick wellsley. silent and unspeaking - they never speak, when you see them - he walks up to you, and waits patiently for your guidance.
you feel something heavy in your heart as he does - waiting to be guided, like always. a lost little lamb, expectant. waiting. you want him to be able to move on in peace. you close your eyes, in the midst of the visualization, and regard him after a slow, deep breath. Crick. I swear to you, I will carry on the work you were torn from yesterday.
...and so, you must be off.
crick's ghost gives a near imperceptible nod, then turns around and starts walking under your guidance. you follow him, follow the path that he takes, into the rooms of the sacred guard, into a library. his ghost shows you a book that's a little too worn, and he touches it - you do the same, thinking it might be the book that he tore the page from, but as you pull the book, it's just the scripture on the creation of the heavens and earth. you frown at something scrawled on the inside about the heavens and making the earth shake, and when you look up, crick's ghost is turning around and walking outside - you follow him.
you see him again up in the rafters, and realization hits you, followed by a rush of affectionate pride, followed by a hollow sort of sorrow. clever little lamb, who read the clue, who investigated the 'heavens', who leads you to a pressure plate on a tall column that opens a door in the stained glass paneling of the cathedral. you follow his path as he walks away - you can imagine his startled expression but you won't, and he leads you down the stairs and to the stained glass.
crick's ghost stands before the door, his back to you. for a moment, you feel like you're standing in your home again, watching roi disappear into the distant night, and you realize that this is it. the ghost stays still. he doesn't look back for even a second. you swallow.
...You became a true knight before you passed, Crick. No ordinary man would notice such a thing.
you feel the power of the sacred flame pulling away, and you roll your shoulders back, and exhale, and release. the world around you flickers, and the ghost, his mission complete, fades away into nothing, framed and translucent by the holy sacred light that leaks in through the glass...
...and you're standing in the too-silent cathedral alone, the world in its normal light, carrying only the ghosts you always do. ]
I'm going to find the truth, Crick. [ you say, out loud. his ghost is gone now, but you promise him anyway. ] The truth you were diligently working towards.
[ and you step off into the darkness.
in the belly of the proverbial beast, you find the book crick tore his page from - you find a secret library, and you find the deputy of the crows, who informs you with a cackle that it was the head of their ilk who killed crick - that he had to die because he knew too much. you, by leading him to the truth, led him straight to the lion's den.
you're so angry, suddenly. angry for the injustice of it all. angry for crick, angry for the pontiff, angry that your intuition about these gods-damned crows has always been right, angry enough that it shows on your face when you ask where kaldena is.
the deputy points it out, and mocks you. "Does it hurt, knowing your cute little assistant's been killed?"
you don't respond, lest she know that she's right. the deputy tells you cheerfully that kaldena's gone, and you have to die, that the hound must be brought to heel, and you draw the staff of judgement with a kind of quiet, holy fury that you never show. ]
Fine. [ you snap. you're so angry. you're so angry, and heartbroken, and - you have to keep moving forward. the truth waits for no grief. no sorrow. the truth lies in the flame. you take a battle stance; the other travelers follow behind. ] Seal your lips, you so called messenger of the divine
[ with the aid of the other travelers, you will walk out of here alive, and leave cubaryi dead on the floor.
because the truth, the truth that crick wellsley fought to find, must be brought to light. ]
[She fits the vestments ill, she thinks. If Rosamund were to put herself into anyone's shoes, they might be Crick's. That's a mentality she feels in her bones. She's not so clever. Not stupid, but she's met people here that can spin her in circles with measured words and leave her doubting what she ever had worth saying to begin with.
People like Temenos.
Temenos, whose wisdom guides Crick to his death. Who can see the truth, but not in time to prevent the losses from queuing up. Anyone who investigates turns up dead. People he's loved and was loyal to.
And in the end, he might have a chance to avenge them.
Rosamund awakens. She jolts in her seat in the Rec Room. They'd been watching some silly "cartoon", about a bee that falls in love with a human? It was weird. Resuming it now feels distasteful. She turns in her seat to look at the man beside her.]
...Did you...Crick. He was...
[Sorry, let her mind catch up with her mouth first.]
[ jesus i just now saw the memshare tag dw is a nightmare his week
ANYWAY we're here! in the void. temenos is sitting somewhere, chin in his hand, looking at his notebook. he appears to be writing, and when he glances up and spots rosamund, he gives her a little nod. ]
temenos is now freed of throné babysitting duty or maybe it hasn't started, but when he comes over, he looks so amused, leaning down to hold his hand out to a puppy. ]
Goodness, but don't you look right at home, your highness? How very charming.
[ this greeting... cute.... temenos is... somewhere! he's actually probably just sitting somewhere, legs (leg and lèg, if you will) stretched out in front of him with a book in his lap. ]
Oh, your highness. [ she immediately gets a smile in return and he shuts his book. ] Have you made well with your reunions? How lovely to see you again.
[It doesn't matter where Temenos was before now. The shift is complete and consuming: he's on a battlefield, except the combatants are all quite strange.
There's the Fairy Godmother, necrotic, mad, glass shard impaling her chest. Her loyal servants, half-formed or less from furniture and with the ravenous minds of beasts, unthinking, unyielding.
Then there's the losing side. A puppet, arm broken off. Dead. An old man with a great book, a little girl with wolfen ears, both dead. The cat cannot be seen. The frog prince makes a last stand against the fairy godmother.
And then there's Rosamund. Less thorny, less scarred, but still ravaged by briars. Dead. Her eyes fixate on nothing. Her bow has fallen from her grasp. A half-barrel man stomps over her corpse, ignoring the dead to chase the last of the living.
Then suddenly it's gone. They're in a tower, and Rosamund is waking in bed. There's no thorns or scars at all. It's exactly like the tower he'd seen before. She looks around, starting at a voice from the door beyond. She opens it to a emptiness. Just a voice.
"Oh! Oh, my apologies. You're awake."
"Yes, good morning. Who do I have the pleasure of talking to?"
"Sorry."
There's a clinking, then a helmet is removed and the invisibility dispelled, revealing a beautiful woman in glass armor. Older than Rosamund by a few years, armed with a glass shield and polearm, looking relieved to see this young woman.
"Are you Cinderella?"
"I am Cinderella. Are you Sleeping Beauty? Rosamund?"
"Yes."
The woman gives a sigh of relief. "It worked."
"What worked?"
"We managed to catch you before you were completely gone. Or, rather, midway to where you are going."
well. unfortunately, the side of a ravaged rosamund, dead, is a sight that is becoming unfortunately familiar, but certainly not one temenos wanted to see twice. the way that it shifts and changes, though - now that catches his attention, and as the scene fades, rosamund will see that he has his hand resting gently against his heart, expression torn somewhere between quietly concerned and more curious. a woman in glass armor, a death. ]
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WEEK 0: First Saturday
It's something to do with their bodies, isn't it?
She startles when she hears footsteps from behind.]
Hello?
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behind rosamund is...temenos! he's dressed in much more ye olde now, just immediately giving off the vibe of a cleric. it's the holy aura tm. when she startles, he calls out - ]
Ah - my apologies, I didn't mean to give you a fright. [ and gives a little wave and a warm smile. ] Rosamund, yes?
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WEEK 0: First Monday
It's a sort of sweaty anxiety that beams out to Temenos. Typical of a teenager maybe, but tinged with a real fear. And yet all Rosamund is doing is cradling a cup of tea and glancing sidelong at the expanse of space outside.
They're probably lying. They're in armor, and we've never seen their faces, and we're in the middle of nowhere being taken to who knows where...and for what? Are we the cargo?]
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oh, this poor little lamb. when temenos feels rosamund's thoughts through this bizarre sharing...incident, he pauses midstep, observes the scene, and... doesn't initially approach. actually, he turns and disappears for a moment, and returns just a few moments later.
this time, he too has a cup of tea! and he comes over towards rosamund, giving off these incredibly soft, warm emotional waves of calm, then comes to join her. ]
Rosamund. [ gentle, in greeting. ] Everything alright?
[ it clearly is not considering her anxiety beam but he is a nice cleric who doesn't immediately point this out. ]
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WEEK 0: First Friday
Knock on your door.]
Temenos, it's Rosamund.
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Rosamund...? [ in greeting - there's a little blip of curiosity ] Good evening.
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w1, monday!
by which i mean temenos is currently standing outside of one of the clothing shops. he has his hands full - there are just so many bags on his arms. however, he is also just kind of :man_standing: out here, looking at one of the window displays... a man in a shopping mall ]
Re: w1, monday!
Rosamund will be passing by and glancing over. Peering into the bags, if you will.]
Someone's been very busy.
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WEEK 1: FRIDAY
Rosamund isn't sure everyone knows about it, so she's running supplies to the people she knows are in need.]
Temenos? [She approaches him with a hand outstretched, rations at the ready.] For your stomach.
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here's the thing: when she finds temenos, she will find him outside of the food court. he's standing, leaning very heavily on his staff, but he's... not moving?
his eyes are closed, his other hand is on his chin, and he's not moving at all. in fact, when she comes over, he doesn't even respond.
hmmm..... ]
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WEEK 1: Sunday
[Feeling a touch too squeamish to approach the other girl herself, she goes through the intermediary. It's many hours later, long after she hid herself for the afternoon. But tomorrow they'll be gallivanting off somewhere else, and she doesn't have the luxury of wasting time.]
Is this a bad time?
Re: WEEK 1: Sunday
Your highness - hardly at all.
[ i'm assigning us the lounge. he pats one of the couches? come, sit. ]
What do you need?
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WEEK 2: Sunday
She sinks into the seat across from him, better composed but still looking worn.]
Hi, Temenos.
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poor rosamund. temenos is settled in the lounge with a cup of tea between his hands, looking out at the stars - when she comes over, he smiles, gentle and tired. he looks less (frankly) hungover than he did this morning so there's that. he's also just radiating temenos standard levels of extremely calm and settling. ]
Your highness. How are you feeling?
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week 3, monday. / octopath traveler ii spoilers ahead!!
...Brace yourself, your highness.
[ and sure enough, the void ripples, and a memory begins to play. ]
...and you're standing in the too-silent cathedral alone, the world in its normal light, carrying only the ghosts you always do. ]
I'm going to find the truth, Crick. [ you say, out loud. his ghost is gone now, but you promise him anyway. ] The truth you were diligently working towards.
[ and you step off into the darkness.
in the belly of the proverbial beast, you find the book crick tore his page from - you find a secret library, and you find the deputy of the crows, who informs you with a cackle that it was the head of their ilk who killed crick - that he had to die because he knew too much. you, by leading him to the truth, led him straight to the lion's den.
you're so angry, suddenly. angry for the injustice of it all. angry for crick, angry for the pontiff, angry that your intuition about these gods-damned crows has always been right, angry enough that it shows on your face when you ask where kaldena is.
the deputy points it out, and mocks you. "Does it hurt, knowing your cute little assistant's been killed?"
you don't respond, lest she know that she's right. the deputy tells you cheerfully that kaldena's gone, and you have to die, that the hound must be brought to heel, and you draw the staff of judgement with a kind of quiet, holy fury that you never show. ]
Fine. [ you snap. you're so angry. you're so angry, and heartbroken, and - you have to keep moving forward. the truth waits for no grief. no sorrow. the truth lies in the flame. you take a battle stance; the other travelers follow behind. ] Seal your lips, you so called messenger of the divine
[ with the aid of the other travelers, you will walk out of here alive, and leave cubaryi dead on the floor.
because the truth, the truth that crick wellsley fought to find, must be brought to light. ]
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People like Temenos.
Temenos, whose wisdom guides Crick to his death. Who can see the truth, but not in time to prevent the losses from queuing up. Anyone who investigates turns up dead. People he's loved and was loyal to.
And in the end, he might have a chance to avenge them.
Rosamund awakens. She jolts in her seat in the Rec Room. They'd been watching some silly "cartoon", about a bee that falls in love with a human? It was weird. Resuming it now feels distasteful. She turns in her seat to look at the man beside her.]
...Did you...Crick. He was...
[Sorry, let her mind catch up with her mouth first.]
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w3, friday
ANYWAY we're here! in the void. temenos is sitting somewhere, chin in his hand, looking at his notebook. he appears to be writing, and when he glances up and spots rosamund, he gives her a little nod. ]
Your highness. How are you faring?
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Very well, thank you.
[All things considered. She will take a seat next to him and peek.]
What are you writing?
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WEEK 4: Monday
Temenos! Isn't this wonderful?
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temenos is now freed of throné babysitting duty or maybe it hasn't started, but when he comes over, he looks so amused, leaning down to hold his hand out to a puppy. ]
Goodness, but don't you look right at home, your highness? How very charming.
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WEEK 4: FRIDAY
Temenos? Are you inside?
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is she knocking on his and mizuki's door ]
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WEEK 6: Saturday
Rosamund searches high and low, and the minutes grow long, the hours longer still. Is she just missing him whenever he turns a corner?
Eventually, as the lights dim for night, she catches sight of him.]
Temenos!
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Oh, your highness. [ she immediately gets a smile in return and he shuts his book. ] Have you made well with your reunions? How lovely to see you again.
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WEEK 7: MONDAY
There's the Fairy Godmother, necrotic, mad, glass shard impaling her chest. Her loyal servants, half-formed or less from furniture and with the ravenous minds of beasts, unthinking, unyielding.
Then there's the losing side. A puppet, arm broken off. Dead. An old man with a great book, a little girl with wolfen ears, both dead. The cat cannot be seen. The frog prince makes a last stand against the fairy godmother.
And then there's Rosamund. Less thorny, less scarred, but still ravaged by briars. Dead. Her eyes fixate on nothing. Her bow has fallen from her grasp. A half-barrel man stomps over her corpse, ignoring the dead to chase the last of the living.
Then suddenly it's gone. They're in a tower, and Rosamund is waking in bed. There's no thorns or scars at all. It's exactly like the tower he'd seen before. She looks around, starting at a voice from the door beyond. She opens it to a emptiness. Just a voice.
"Oh! Oh, my apologies. You're awake."
"Yes, good morning. Who do I have the pleasure of talking to?"
"Sorry."
There's a clinking, then a helmet is removed and the invisibility dispelled, revealing a beautiful woman in glass armor. Older than Rosamund by a few years, armed with a glass shield and polearm, looking relieved to see this young woman.
"Are you Cinderella?"
"I am Cinderella. Are you Sleeping Beauty? Rosamund?"
"Yes."
The woman gives a sigh of relief. "It worked."
"What worked?"
"We managed to catch you before you were completely gone. Or, rather, midway to where you are going."
"Catch me?"
"Yes. May I come in, if that's all right?"
And the scene fades...]
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oh.
well. unfortunately, the side of a ravaged rosamund, dead, is a sight that is becoming unfortunately familiar, but certainly not one temenos wanted to see twice. the way that it shifts and changes, though - now that catches his attention, and as the scene fades, rosamund will see that he has his hand resting gently against his heart, expression torn somewhere between quietly concerned and more curious. a woman in glass armor, a death. ]
...A friend, your highness?
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