Chapter 6
A Demon in the Dark
March 12th, 2933 TA.
West. Eriador.
The White Towers. Emyn Beraid.
﴾Arthedain﴿
West of The Shire. South-East of the Grey Havens.
YAAAAOW...
That sound. That horrifying, shrill, unearthly scream. It violently tore him out of deep torpor. He bolted upright from whence he lay, eyes wide and peering into the darkness. His calm shattered, fragmenting like glass upon stone. He shuddered, drawing in a sharp breath and holding it, in response to the suffering sonance that assaulted his ears.
YAAAAOW...
YAAAAOW...
YAAAAOW...
Thrice over it came. Each repetition bit at his heart, filling him with cold fear that tore at every nerve ending. Never before had his ears heard such a harsh, murderous howl. A wave of lightheadedness and nausea overcame him. He swallowed thickly, his mouth acidic and musty.
He had yet to fully wake. He was disoriented, a mild headache throbbed, slowly growing until it malleated maliciously behind his eyes. His vision blurred; albeit he gathered that he should be seeing things singularly, that was not the case. He was seeing double. He strained to focus, a taxing endeavor as the space surrounding him was both dank and dark.
'Where am I?' he thought to himself, as he allowed his distorted gaze to slowly sweep over his surroundings. Beneath him was a taut cloth, affixed at each intersection to a single solid piece of pine. The cloth was soiled. He gathered as much not by sight yet smell. A pungent stench struck his nose; ammonia - something coppery and metallic - albeit more. The scent was foul, putrid.
He swallowed thickly. His sharp ears strained, in an effort to ascertain his current surroundings, or how he came to be in such a place. Off yonder the horrifying howl continued. Moreover, the crashing of waves. The wail of a forceful wind. Yet loudest of all was the hammering of his own heartbeat, his shallow gasping breath - and the slow, persistent plink of what he could only pray was mere water.
He was scarcely aware, for the fear he felt drove his fingers deep into the gnarled wood of the makeshift bed. He tore his hands free, straining to straighten his cramping fingers, bringing them to feel his own form, assessing himself for injury or illness. Pain. It pierced his right side as his fingers brushed against the place between his hip and ribs, eliciting a sharp intake of breath. The flesh below his fingers burned.
He stopped, recalling exactly how such deathly injury came to befall him. "Orcs," he whispered roughly to himself, as the terror of the day came flooding back. 'The incursion... Eldrithèm... Esola... Sariël!' His head spun with confusion, grief, and raw panic. Dear Eru - what had become of his kin? His kingdom? What would become of him? He breathed painfully, raggedly - stilling when he heeded a soft sound nearby, the echo of scuffing upon the sedimentary ground.
"Who goes there, show yourself?!" he commanded. Perhaps there was no-one there at all; perhaps this was only delirium, a momentary fancy of his fevered brain. A dream, a horrid one, spun by his deathly injury. It was not an uncommon thing for orcs to paint the points of their arrows and swords with some foreign poison, was it? Perhaps something far fouler - some substance that would rot his flesh and send his brain into a whirl of fevered dreams.
A new sound broke the quiet dark - a cold, cheerless chuckling. He quaked when he gathered the voice was his own, the chilling sound coming from his own mouth. By the Valar, he was losing his senses! It was lunacy! He gripped his head frantically. More words spilled forth; he knew not from whence they came, "Some teeth long for ripping, gleaming wet from black dog gums. Thus you keep your eyes closed at the end. You wish for naught to see such a mouth up close. Afore the bite, afore its oblivion in the goring of your soft parts, the speckled lips shall curl back in a whinny of excitement." He shook with despair, recognizing his sanity had fled.
From the darkness they emerged, startling eyes glowing red like the smouldering remains of a crooked man's corpse. What it was could not be seen. Yet beneath its garnet gaze he felt fear gripping him. A power and terror seemed to emanate from within it and go before it. 'A Dhia cuidigh liom!' ﴾God help me﴿ he thought to himself. Had he contrived this tumultuous terror? Was it false? Or would his fear consume him, like the hungry teeth of a hellish warhound, bred and birthed from the bowels of hell?!
His eyes were wide as a winter moon. The air amidst him was cold, albeit the days of wintertide had not yet come. A fine sheen of perspiration burst forth upon his brow and palms. His better senses screamed, do not look away! Yet he could scarcely do anything but. His right flank began to burn. He doubled over in blinding, searing agony and cried out.
His gaze snapped forward, seeking the place where he last saw the terrible eyes. From the darkness emerged threads of blackness, swirling about like smoke, a towering visage, a silhouette of ruinous suffering. The flickering flames from a scant candle revealed to him the form of a fur-laden beast. It stalked forward on all fours; crouched low and bellowing with rage, it leapt at him with an unnatural haste. Its roar shook the foundations of Arda, ripping through the air like thunder amidst a vale. Like bloodless bolts of lightning, a mouth filled with piercing fangs flashed before him, ready to rip, tear, and consume. He weld his eyes shut, too fearful to look. Upon the lifting of his lids, just when the fear and pain was at its worst, the treacherous beast vanished, like fog off some terrible lake.
He glanced about once more. Beside him stood a squat cylinder of wood swathed with iron, rotting and rusting in the wetness that lay pooled beneath its base. The rippling mirror reflected a low flare from the candle. It appeared to be viscous and crimson in stain. He shuddered, hesitant to further inspect the fluid... lest it be blood... or brandy... or something far fouler. He remained blissful in his ignorance! Atop sat a rather large, sable stained candle; albeit lit, its flickering flame failed to fend off the encroaching darkness. A small wooden bowl resided there as well, draped over its edge a crisp damp cloth.
Irrationality had begun to pray on his frail, frantic mind; baleful blackness shrouded the ceiling, and the floor and walls seemed terribly, dolefully alive. Horror hummed tunelessly in his ear, whispers of a nameless fear, too terrible to imagine. He waited, nearly holding his breath -- for what, he scarcely gathered. A shrouded presence seemed near, firstly here, secondly there, its unseen gaze affixed upon him. "Eru Ilúvatar what is happening to me?" he whispered fearfully. He was alone - how could it be otherwise? Yet he whispered still, a meager measure of his mind warning him not to raise the register of his voice, 'Lest some shrouded soul answer back - perchance in that of my own voice, the most terrible prospect of all.'
He shook his head, endeavoring to clear the fog of fear, and resumed his prior task of assessing his surroundings. Beside the barrel stood a door - a weather-beaten slab of wood, a conjuring trick to the untrained eye as the door was exceedingly solid and stout. A small window at eye level bore a grid of rough iron bars. The door was a solid plank, unbroken by any knob or other device, impenetrable, offering no means of opening from within. No escape.
Suddenly he found himself overcome with a cacophonous sense of both foreboding and furor; he watched, as slowly, the door began to open.
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2933 TA. March 9th.
West. Michael Delving. Settlement within Westfarthing.
North of The Shire. South of Bag End.
They traveled on foot. A two-day journey, near about twelve leagues. There was sky above them, blue and clear, and they had traveled so long as to see the rising morning and the lifting of the midnight mist. The sun was not, however, high enough to shine down its lovely light upon them. Rather, it peeked from behind the nearby trees, high hills, and sweeping heath.
They came to be in that place, beset by a gate which was safely shut -- the hobbits that inhabited the substantial settlement, close-at-hand, held little care or concern for things on the other side. Albeit here stood these mystifying, weird men from the west, petitioning passage.
"Whereabouts ya boys say you're from?"
The tall travelers exchanged glances, and it was some time before one of them chose to speak. "We ne'er divulged such knowledge, nor bear the intent."
Wilcome Hornblower: a hobbit of standard stature, neither tall nor terse, nor featherweighted or fleshy. He was, however, getting along in age. Seventy five, with colorless curls atop his head, elf-like ears with a piddling point, sharp eyes, the stain of emeralds, and a round, jovial face. He was clad in colors customary for his kind, bold and bright. The strangers made a solid effort not to stare; alas 'twas all in vain. Wilcome's furry feet were unshod, and to the foreign foregoers this was a strange sight indeed.
"Hmph," the hobbit indignantly resounded. His brows were low and taut, eyes squinted, and lips pursed. His arms swathed about themselves across his chest, and his firm fingers began to beat in succession against his bicep. "I seen my fair share a queer folk and strangers, comin' and goin' round these parts and amidst my gate. You lot though..." he trailed off, allowing his gaze to graze over the two travelers before him. They were clad in what appeared to be colorless cloaks; neither were they black or brown, nor gray or green. Rather, they appeared similar to the hooded camouflage cloaks of Lórien. Their faces were shrouded amidst hood and shadow, neither could any sign be seen of trailing tresses. Elves, or perhaps men? It was a taxing endeavor, one Wilcome did not welcome. In the end he relented, yet his better senses forewarned him... something of the strangers, more specifically the one of broader build, left him ill-at-ease. It was his appointment, his charge, to ensure the safety of the settlement. Had he allowed men of meager morals past his post? Good Gods, he hoped not!
Once more the strangers exchanged glances before proceeding to offer up any utterance, "Ár mbuíochas leat!" ﴾our thanks to you﴿ Mr. Hornblower's face went blank, then contorted into a mask of confusion. Thereupon the tall travelers offered little more than a curt nod in accord, before they proceeded onward.
The scenery surrounding them was filled with flourishing foliage: from Butterbur to Ferny, Goatleaf to Heathertoe, Rushlight toThistlewool, and Mugwort. Tracing the cobblestone trail were thriving Totara trees. The trunks were great in girth, thick and resistant to rot. The sharp, grim-green, needle-like leaves were stiff and leathery. From the trees came cones with fused, fleshy, berry-like, juicy scales, bright red when mature. At the apex of the scales were two rounded seeds. A succulent sweet, sought after by the hobbits as an aid to ward off the affects of winter ailments.
"A swell sentry, was he not?!" Solan cheeked.
"Your thinly veiled farce is poor at best dear Prince!" Nossias replied.
"Why do you do that?" he chided.
"Do what?" Nossias quipped in return.
"You gather that others do not speak Neamhaí, and yet you proceed thusly!"
He stopped, marginally peering over his shoulder, then replied, "Every moment is precious to those who gather the value of time. 'Tis fleeting, none of it do I have to squander. Ne'er do I converse with fools, for they shall merely drag you nether to their degree and proceed to punish you with nettlesome experience!"
"There are far fairer ways to appeal to others."
"You would have me betray her then?"
"To what are you referring?"
"My betrothed. Your sister. Verily I gathered her worth to be greater to you then that of a scant-sized hobbit?"
"Do not dare impugn my honor, Nossias!" Solan fumed, "Ne'er would I purpose such a thing, nor place another's worth above that of her own!"
"Each moment is precious... as is your sister... yes?"
"Yes." Solan replied through gritted teeth.
"Then does it not stand to reason that we make haste? Or should we tarry our time and fall upon decorum?"
"Someday, Nossias, you shall go far - and I verily hope you stay there!"
They continued on for a time, in silence, for neither man cared to continue their caustic conversation. To the casual observer it was quite apparent -- they harbored a great deal of resentment for one another. Albeit, for the sake of Sariël, they came to an unspoken accord to tolerate one another.
The ground began to steadily rise, and as they went forward it seemed as though the trees suddenly stood taller, and were overall blissfully delighted to look upon the somber strangers. They came out of the trail of trees, and were met with a wide open space. Their trail trickled downward into a scarp slope, and at the sole was a splendid, strong settlement. Bathed in a blanket of spirited sunlight, the hobbit habitation seemed to glow with a heavenly gleam.
Cobblestone trails splayed across the heath and hills like tinseled tendrils of light bursting forth from flourishing fireworks, spanning outward across the night sky. Each trail led to a plethora of buildings: homes, shops, taverns, and vendors, all wrought of brick, stone, and wood. Large wagons decorated with a colorful collage of fruits and vegetables were parked beside the trails, their overjoyed owners standing beside them, happily hollering prices like auctioneers. The trails were astir with adults and animals, boars and bovoids, caracals and children, and pullets and pups. A cacophonous chorus of chatter, clinking coins, instrumentalists, and laughter echoed in their ears. The air was permeated with a pleasant suffusion of smells: freshly baked biscuits and bread, brewed beers, smoked meats, pipeweed and potpourri. Brightly colored awnings and banners hung aloft each establishment, with the intent to invite passerbyers in. Suffice to say, it was both a splendid and stirring sight to see.
They came to the crossroads of the settlement; back and forth, to and fro the Enkarēin Prince peered. Ultimately neither were sure where to begin. You see, it was the enkarēin customs and laws that forthwith seemed to muddle things up.
An enkariēn shall not bring blight upon any being, or allow any being to come to ill fairing or ruin.
An enkariēn shall not portion any knowledge of Eldrithèm or its inhabitants.
An enkariēn shall not trifle with darkness.
An enkariēn shall not trifle amidst the minds of others unless permitted.
Solan was unclear as to how to go about searching for Sariël, moreover how to do so without arousing suspicion, or breaking one of their most imperative laws. A tasking endeavor, considering their current circumstances. "We must proceed in accordance; we cannot be hasty in our endeavors, lest we run afoul of the law. Any transgressions or violations shall conflict with our rules," Solan reminded Nossias in a low register.
"Whereupon did you become so smart, oh wise one?"
"Whence I ceased listening to you!"
Solan's snide comment earned him a snort of aggravated derision from Nossias, in unison with a curtly curved brow. "Come," he began, his voice like the low roll of thunder, "There must be a tavern amidst this... infernal tumult."
They wandered for a time, until their faint feet brought them upon the threshold of a large inn. The olive placard hanging aloft presented the depiction of a crimson cardinal; in its beak it carried a bare babe in naught more than swaddling clothes. In white letters were the words, The Bird and Baby Inn, by Carlso Blagrove and Gardenia Bracegirdle. From the outside it appeared a pleasant house to familiar eyes. Its brick-built front faced the trails, with four adjacent dextral wings protruding outward from the slopes of the hills. One aloft and one below. The full-circle muntin windows were portioned throughout, and past them hung hefty velour veils. The heavily-used hobbit-sized hatchway was open, and leading up to it were several broad steps.
The two travelers took a few tentative steps, hesitant to traipse forward into the unknown. Despite their doubts, they found themselves drawn inwards by the sounds of lusty laughter, merry making, and the seductive smell of smoked pipeweed and freshly made stew.
The interior was no less inviting, a common-room, filled up to the hilt with hobbits, men, and a sparse enumeration of elves. Solan found a secluded seat in the crook of the tavern; it wasn't soundless, yet shrouded in shadow. Simultaneously, Nossias traversed his way through the tight throng, in hopes of finding the innkeeper. Much to his delight, he discovered both Carlso and Gardenia behind the bar. The hobbits were hastily handing out pints of golden swill and steaming bowls of soup.
A young man Carlso looked, or rather half of one, as hobbits commonly hit below the belt. Atop his head were fiery red tresses, trimmed short and neatly at the sides. The stain of his eyes was of chrysocolla, blue-green in color, warm and welcoming. He was clad in a jumper of clover color, a light tunic, and beige breeches about his legs. Gardenia appeared similarly. Fiery tresses fell about her shoulders in a mass of tight curls. Her eyes were heather, soft and sweet. She adorned a copper colored pinafore, a transparent tunic, and a steel blue sash about her neck.
"We require -" Nossias began.
"Ah beg yer pardon, give us half a minute and we'll be right witcha!" Carlso interrupted. His hands moved about the bar like hastened horses. They came to still in a naught more than a few moments. He wiped them upon his blanched apron, breathed deeply, and bequeathed upon the unfamiliar foreigner a fair grin and friendly greeting. "Right then, what can I do ya for?"
"We require beds for two and a meager meal."
"Right, right. Ah-" He paused, sponging away the beads of perspiration that traced his temple with his sleeve. "We got accommodations fer ya, albeit they're hobbit sized; quite frankly I'm runnin' off my feet with all these friendlies and foreigners com'n 'er!"
"Any accommodations shall suffice."
"Right then. Up the stairs ya go, last room on yer left. Oh!" Carlso cried, "I well nigh forgot, I'll be needin' yer names, Mr...?"
Nossias stopped. The look splayed across his face hardened. His lips pursed and his jaw set. "Frelmo Dourmark," he replied, his lips curling into a spiteful smile that left the hobbit with a sudden hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.
"Men a Rohan eh? And yer companion?"
Once more he stopped. He gathered as much: It was a violation, what he was contemplating. It was wrong. Yet... he could scarcely charge himself to care. He placed his hand upon that of hobbit's, allowing his lids to fall low as he whispered unintelligible words.
"Oh, huh, what was I sayin'?" Carlso inquired.
"A skeleton and whatever slop you deem worthy of serving!"
"Right, right. Ah- Gardenia lass, mind the bar erstwhile I fetch Mr. Dourmark's requirements!"
The hobbit appeared to meander aimlessly, albeit the advisor gathered as much, the meager male was on a mission. Nossias brought his back to face the bar, whilst his eyes swept across the room. 'Hmph.' He thought to himself, 'She is not here.' His sharp senses said as much, sifting amidst the scads of soulless forms. They were naught more than that -- hollow shells. There was nothing to be ventured and nothing to be gained from these cretins. They were useless, and there was nothing they could do or say that would aid him in any fashion in his search for his Sariël. Moreover, the same could be said for that insufferable insect. Solan. A nagging gnat. His voice an incessant droning that refused to dull. What he wouldn't give for the opportunity to squash the little bug! 'To swath my fingers about his throat and squeeze... his eyes wide with the sudden realization that the deliverer of death denied him breath... the feeling of his failing pulse neath my fingertips... the sensual sound of Solan gasping greedily.' The lids of his eyes slowly spread open, his gaping mouth came to close, and he swallowed thickly. His breathing was brisk and his heart hammered wildly beneath his breast. He looked down, taking note of his rather evident erection. His jaw clenched, ridged cords formed in his neck, and low thunder of embitterment tore from his lips. He would find no relief. He shrouded his shaft, pulling his cloak to close about him. Therein, he directed his gaze to the source of his throbbing embitterment, that provoking enkarēin prince, settled in the overshadowed corner. Solan busied himself with a bit of charcoal and parchment... ordinarily Nossias would not trifle amidst such meager matters, yet awaiting the return of the half-witted hobbit, had begun to bore him. He came to be in that place, seated himself at the table, and said, "What are you doing?"
"Penning my own eulogium."
"Praytell, wherefore, you are nay dead?"
"No indeed, albeit journeying with you shall surely be the death of me- hey!" Solan cried, as Nossias's fast fingers managed to filch the piece of parchment. "What is this?" he inquired, his brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, and his head came to tilt everso. The language was foreign and unfamiliar. "Ramba auta lasū. Avathar auta lasū. Ornómi. Nasto equë furu."
His dialect was disheartening to the ear, and scarcely escaped the sharp senses of two nearby elves. Their glaring icy gazes froze both enkarēin's in their place. A searing scowl splayed across their faces, with both jaws and fitsts clenched, they slowly stood from whence they sat. What had he said?
"Cac!"﴾shit﴿ Solan swore beneath his breath, swiftly snatching back the piece of parchment from Nossias's nimble fingers. He hastily tucked it beneath the cloth of his tunic at the place of his breast, "Still find my 'thinly veiled farce poor' dear Advisor? Because I find it ironic!"
"Silence!"
They came to them, the elves, like the footsteps of doom, stopping to loom over the enkarēin men. "Who are you, that the sacred tongue should slip so shoddily from your lips?" one of them demanded.
"Right, beg yer pardon sirs, been a mite mad round 'ere today!" Carlso interrupted. He set upon the table a large tray. There were two bowls of copious amounts of steaming soup. Two pints of golden swill, a skeleton belonging to their chambers, and an opulent piece of folded parchment with the words, Our Thanks, penned amidst the front. "If I'm sure of it, that'll be all- oh!" he gasped. "Indeed... I daresay I didn't take no note a ma own surroundin's!"
"Avaro naeth, min le hannon sav, garo aur!" ﴾worry not, you have our thanks, have a good day﴿ the other of the two elves replied, addressing the hobbit..
"Ah, you're welcome!" Carlson cordially countered, for he had a great gathering of many tongues: Adûnaic the tongue of Númenor, Khuzdûl the tongue of Dwarves, Sindarin and Quenya the tongue of Elves, and Westron or the Common tongue spoken more than that of others in Middle Earth. He was not an empty-headed or foolhardy hobbit, Carlso Blagrove; rather he was quite learned and sought to be as serviceable as possible to those who entered his inn.
An ill-fitting silence hung amidst the air, as each man afforded one another a fleeting glance, for the sake of feeling out the other. Yet, the pained moment soon passed, along with the hobbit and the elves. Solan expelled a heavy withheld sigh of relief, and then proceeded to say, "Every man is permitted to act foolish time and again, albeit you are verily abusing the privilege!"
"Call me foolish again, and you shall find my steel somewhere uncomfortable!"
"I am nay insulting you, merely describing you."
"I ceased listening, therefore you should cease talking," Nossias quipped in return, "Come!" He swiftly stood, thumping the table, and proceeded to the place they had been portioned. "Wait... argh... Nossias!" Solan gnarled through gritted teeth, he mirrored his movements, standing swiftly from whence he sat. The hot soup Carlso had brought now squandered, and the skin beneath his breeches burned. "Let us see who is uncomfortable when you receive naught to eat... hitherto your meal is mine!" Solan took up the tray, trailing after the man he had forthwith internally deemed 'the boorish, narcissistic, bastard.'
The room was indeed hobbit-sized, yet the men managed just as well. The ceiling was flat, displaying dark beams similarly stained to that of the thicket-fashioned floors. The muntin windows were murky, a meager matter that would ordinarily prove to disappoint, had the men not sought so desperately to keep themselves concealed. Along the largest wall, to their left lay a large stone ingle, unlit as it were. To their right, two board-framed beds, with light sheets changed anew. Placed beneath one of the windows was a table, on either side a billowy beige wingback chair.
Solan rested the round tray upon one of the nearby beds, he took up the piece of parchment from Carlso, feeling curious, and proceeded to read it.
Coney & Wild Grain Soup
INGREDIENTS
3 tbsp. butter, divided
1 onion, diced
2 carrots, roughly chopped
2 celery sticks, roughly chopped
4 garlic cloves, minced
2 tbsp. all-purpose flour
2 tbsp. lemon juice or white wine vinegar
2 1/2 qts. unsalted chicken stock
3 tbsp. *Gnome on the Range Mushroom Blend*
2 tbsp. fresh thyme leaves
1 cup wild rice, rinsed
1 1/2 cups heavy cream
4 cups shredded meat
*To substitute, include 8 oz. of chopped mushrooms, 2 tsp. sea salt, and 1 tsp. black pepper to the recipe. Sauté the mushrooms with the carrots and celery in step one.*
** To shred uncooked coney
﴾rabbit﴿ meat, brown in a pressure cooker and cook with 1 cup of stock for 45 minutes to 1 hour, or until the meat shreds apart. Reserve the cooking liquids for the soup.
PREPARATION
Preheat a heavy pot over medium-high heat. Once hot, drop in a tablespoon of butter. When the butter foams, add the onions and sauté until soft. Add the carrots and celery. Continue to cook for an additional few minutes before adding the garlic. Cook for one more minute or until fragrant.
Sprinkle in the flour and stir to combine. Squeeze in lemon juice and pour in the chicken stock, scraping up any bits of fond at the bottom of the pot.
Season with Gnome on the Range Mushroom Blend and fresh thyme. Stir in the wild rice.
Reduce the heat to medium-low and let the pot simmer for 30 minutes. The rice should almost be cooked through, and the liquids slightly reduced.
Pour in the cream and cook for another 15-20 minutes, or until the rice is tender. Taste and adjust with extra seasonings if needed.
When the soup is almost ready to serve, heat a separate frying pan over medium-high heat. Drop in the remaining two tablespoons of butter and fry the shredded meat for a couple minutes on each side. Don't overcrowd the pan — work in batches so that the meat is brown and crispy.
Serve the soup with a heap of fried coney on top and garnish with chopped celery leaves.
"Hmm," Solan hummed to himself, a beholden smile splayed across his face. "A gracious gift indeed. Most assuredly the source of that succulent smell amidst this inn, and what Carlso proceeded to serve us... moreover what has seared my skin!" He relocated the recipe, from the tray to his pocket, together with the script he had penned all the earlier. 'Sariël would very much relish the opportunity to wrought such a flavorful fare on her own...'
Preoccupied with the receipt, Solan paid little heed to Nossias, silently enveloped in his endeavor at the table behind him. "Nossias, we owe a --" Solan intoned without sparing him a glance.
As he spoke he turned easily, without care, then stopped, stock-still, mouth agape. Surely Nossias could not be -- his mind whirled, refusing for a moment to grasp the import of what his eyes observed. Then like the crack of a whipshot it came to be clear all at once. "Nossias!" he shouted, frantic, leaping forward -- perhaps too late. "No, you cannot --- STOP!"
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