Silver and thorns

[ Duke Paxley, Lavina de Belvoir ]

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𝖢𝖾́𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝗎 𝖵𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖻𝗒 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝗒 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗇𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁 𝖡𝖾𝗅𝗏𝗈𝗂𝗋 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖾𝗇, 𝗌𝗂𝗉𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝖺 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗎𝗇𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗅𝗎𝗅𝗅𝖺𝖻𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖾.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇.

𝖠𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖲𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁 𝗂𝗇 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗄 𝗋𝗈𝖻𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝖺𝗂𝗍 𝗎𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝖤𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋. 𝖶𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗇 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖺𝗄.

“𝖨 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗌𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝖾𝗅𝖽𝗌,” 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾. “𝖲𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗑. 𝖭𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗒𝖾. 𝖣𝗂𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝖨 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄.”

𝖤𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖠𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖻𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀. 𝖧𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾𝖽, 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗌𝖾, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗉𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝗂𝗍 𝗎𝗉.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀.

“𝖣𝗂𝖽 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗂𝗍?” 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗌𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗅𝗒.

“𝖭𝗈,” 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖾𝖽.

𝖢𝖾́𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗒𝖾𝗌. “𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝖿𝖺𝗂𝗋.”

“𝖨 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒.”

𝖲𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍 — 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗅𝗒, 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌. 𝖧𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗇𝗈𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇, 𝗈𝖿 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗈𝖿 𝖻𝗈𝗒𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗂𝗇 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾.

𝖧𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗎𝗀𝗁𝖾𝖽. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽.

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐, 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉.

𝖮𝗇𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗎𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝖾𝖺. “𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽,” 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽.

𝖧𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗈𝗄 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗉. 𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗄 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.

“𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗏𝖾 𝗇𝗈 𝗎𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝖽𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎?” 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽. “𝖮𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋?”

𝖤𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗅.

“𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗇.”

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽. “𝖤𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗌 𝗆𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗇, 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝖣𝗎𝗄𝖾. 𝖨’𝗏𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗈.”

𝖠𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗇𝖾𝖽, 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀.

𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗐 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗉 𝗍𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗐.

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𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍, 𝖫𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗂𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐, 𝗐𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗎𝗍. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝖢𝖾́𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾’𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗌. 𝖲𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗅𝗈𝗋𝗌, 𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗌, 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗋𝗈𝗈𝗆𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖻𝗈𝗋𝗇 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗌𝗁𝖾’𝖽 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝖽.

𝖶𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇.

𝖶𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗐𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖼𝗎𝗉𝗌.

𝖫𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗂𝖺 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗈𝗋, 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖾𝗍. 𝖧𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖢𝖾́𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾’𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽.

𝖨𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝗎𝗆𝖾𝖽. 𝖠 𝗁𝖺𝗅𝖿-𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗄:

– 𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝑴𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒖𝒌𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒖𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒔. 𝑯𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒅𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕. 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒉𝒊𝒎.

𝖫𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗂𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗀𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗐𝖾𝗅𝗅. 𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗋𝗇 𝗂𝗍. 𝖭𝗈𝗍 𝗒𝖾𝗍.

𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗑𝗍 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖢𝖾́𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖼𝖾𝗅 𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗅 — 𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖽.

– 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒑𝒆𝒕𝒂𝒍𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍. 𝖡𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽.

𝖫𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖽𝖺𝗒, 𝖫𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗂𝖺 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇. 𝖤𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾, 𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌, 𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗋𝗍 𝗌𝗅𝖾𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝖽𝗀𝖾𝖽 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝗈𝗂𝗅.

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗒 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗂𝗆.

𝖠𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾, 𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾. “𝖲𝗁𝖾’𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀.”

“𝖨𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝖾?”

“𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁.”

“𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖽.”

𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗇 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖫𝖺𝗏𝗂𝗇𝗂𝖺, 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍𝗅𝗒: “𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗌𝗄 𝗐𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾.”

𝖤𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖼 𝗀𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋. “𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖨’𝖽 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗐𝖾𝗋.”

𝖲𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾𝖽.

“𝖳𝗁𝖺𝗍’𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗐𝗂𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎.”

𝖧𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗌. 𝖯𝖺𝗅𝖾. 𝖴𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝗍. 𝖸𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗁𝗈𝗐, 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖽 𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝗎𝗅𝖾.

𝖧𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗎𝖽, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖽:

who is playing who?

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