Disclaimer: The Legend of Zelda, its characters and locations are all property of Nintendo. Any and all OCs and original locations belong to me unless specifically stated to belong to someone else.

Sanguine Shackles
Chapter 1
The Opening Salvo

His breaths came in short, sharp puffs, each intake pure agony as his lungs slowly filled with blood, bubbling red, almost black, in the back of his throat. His boots clicked on the stone floor, each step a desperate fight for survival, his side scraping along the wall and leaving a wet, black smear wherever he went, painting a clear trail for his pursuer.

Not that said pursuer was in any hurry to catch him. He was definitely being followed, the second sets of clicking footsteps echoing along the stone passage was evidence of that, but they remained out of sight, content to let him exhaust himself to make the job easier.

He wasn't stupid enough to think this wasn't deliberate, that he wasn't being herded. As things were, though, he had no choice but to follow along. He clutched his side, where a bullet had lodged itself in his ribs. He'd dig it out, but he had no time. It'd make him too vulnerable.

He reached a spiral staircase, which he knew led up one of the turrets. Not ideal, but again he had no choice. He'd dropped his sword back in the banquet hall, and all he had was a small stiletto he kept for emergencies—hardly a weapon made for a full frontal assault, which was all he could do unless he managed to lead his pursuer into a trap...which would necessitate walking into their trap.

The indignity of it all! Traitors, the lot of them! Once the others found out, there would be nowhere for the little worms to hide! He'd survive this, he'd make it through, and he would watch and laugh as the ones who'd done this to him paid dearly for their mistake!

He burst onto the crumbling ramparts, gasping as the rain and wind hit him with full force. The storm had really kicked up, fuelled by a long period of unbearable summer heat that made the clouds fat and dark with moisture, the wind turning the droplets into tiny little needles poking against every bit of exposed skin they found.

Behind him, he heard whistling coming from the stairwell. A cheerful, jaunty tune, nearly drowned out by the howling wind that threatened to uproot the trees surrounding the old holdfast. Not even the encasing cliffs shielded the place from this storm, and knowing his luck there'd be avalanches and mudslides that would tear what little remained of it down.

Below, in the courtyard, he saw torches and lanterns moving as the intruders, their leather outfits coloured dark by the precipitation, turned his home upside down, shouting unintelligible words to each other. A few of his men were still holding out in the banquet hall, flashes of gunfire illuminating the windows, but it was only a matter of time before they...they...

He stumbled over a cracked flagstone and landed hard against the balustrade, his ribs smacking against the stone and making him cry out. A shape appeared in the stairwell door, a slender, curved blade resting on their shoulder, their face obscured by a hood. Not that he cared who this murderer was—just another body in a long line of would-be killers, just like the ones below. They, too, would suffer his wrath.

The opposite tower in front of him was the key. Another stairwell leading down, to the seldom-used part of the keep. His escape path—the underground that fed the well. It'd be a tight squeeze, but personal comfort was one of the things he'd gladly sacrifice to live another day, to have his revenge!

He reached the door, throwing himself against it and pulling at the handle, cackling in triumph...and cursed loudly when the thing refused to move. He pulled with all his strength, and the thing creaked pitifully for a moment before the handle came off entirely, sending him sprawling on the floor, the rain mercilessly pelting him continually. At least the cold wasn't an issue.

"What's wrong, old man?" his pursuer asked with an amused chuckle, having stopped halfway across the rampart, their sword now held at her side, a smaller parrying blade lightly gripped in the other hand. "Forgot your keys?"

He snarled, barely able to get back on his feet. His lungs and torso burned, and he could barely take a single breath. He could feel the red bubbling in his side, beneath his clothes.

He'd forgotten this door. Warped from the heat, it had gotten stuck. No amount of force could move it, not even his strength, reduced as it was. It was almost enough to make him laugh, if only for the face that appeared before his mind's eye at that moment, that arrogant smirk on his lips.

What was it Emory had said again? It was their memories, or lack thereof, that would be their downfall.

His pursuer watched him as he tried to steady himself against the balustrade, pulling his stiletto from his belt. His shoulders rose, like the hackles of a cornered dog. "Come closer, and die!" he shrieked.

The pursuer chuckled again and reached up, shoving the hood off her head with the flat of the parrying blade, revealing that accursed blonde hair and tell-tale red eyes. The mere sight of them filled him with rage. But the worst was her apparent age. They had sent a child to kill him?!

"There is no need to make this difficult, old man," the Sheikah said, arms held out wide. "Come quietly, and I will make it quick. I give you my word."

His next words were drowned out by a gust of wind, but he wasn't interested in talking anymore. Shrieking again—a wordless, meaningless exclamation of his sheer rage—he rushed forward, swinging his stiletto wildly, forcing his body to move forward despite its agonising resistance. His lungs were full of blood, his legs buckling beneath his weight, his ribcage slowly collapsing in on itself. He didn't care. He'd kill this blood-eye, and the next one, and every single fucking hunter down there until all that was left was blood and gristle and bones and—

The Sheikah dodged, moving aside with seemingly boneless grace while also lashing out. Her main blade cut through the bone and gristle of his right wrist, severing the hand like it was nothing, while the parrying blade rammed itself deep into his side, which went instantly numb; she twisted it to make the wound even worse. Then it was yanked out, and something hit the back of his knees, forcing him down. Something clattered on the stone, and there was a fist in his hair, yanking his head back, forcing him to stare up at the red-eyed hunter.

"I'm tempted to draw this out," the Sheikah said, her jaw clenched as an unholy fury was reflected in those ruby orbs of hers. "But we're on a tight schedule. We're cleansing this entire region, starting with you."

He chuckled, choking on his own blood. "You'll break the Accord—"

"It's already broken! By one of yours!" the Sheikah interrupted with a bark. "We do this for the lives lost at the Studio, at the hands of a parasite. You started this war, not us!"

Not us, he wanted to say. Not me. Another traitor. The same traitor. It's not too late. We can still go back to the way things were. We leave each other to our own devices. Water under the bridge, all this.

But it's too late for that, as he feels the Sheikah's blade bite into his neck...and all goes dark.

Jhaan maintained her grip on the vampire's hair as she sawed at the bone and tendons until it gave way, and the body fell at her feet, blood pouring from the stump where its head had once been. Sheathing her blade on her back, she turned the head so she could look into the monster's face, frozen in a mixed expression of pain, outrage, and fear. It was a look that belonged there—on the face of every vampire she would ever cross paths with.

She heard footsteps behind her, recognised the weight and the owner of that particular sound of heavy breathing.

"You got him?" Reyne asked, holding his side as he leaned on Magnus. The Hylian's nose was bleeding.

"What does it look like?" she asked, tossing the monster's head at their feet. Reyne grinned at the sight of it, while Magnus simply sighed and ducked, causing the Hylian to yelp at the sudden lack of support. The silver-haired human picked up the head and stared at it with distaste.

"Didn't put up much of a fight," Jhaan continued, grabbing the body under its arms and beginning to drag it towards them. Shoving the head into Reyne's hands, Magnus quickly joined her, helping her heave the body on top of the balustrade, black blood still pumping slightly from the stump. "That was a good shot, Mag," she said, punching the wiry man in the arm.

"I was aiming for his head," the human stated in a neutral tone, but he punched hers in return nonetheless.

"Look at this," Reyne said, limping towards them. "The notes weren't joking. They really do have venom. See?" He pointed at the vampire's fangs, which had clicked into place when he'd tried to attack Jhaan. A small bead of liquid, barely visible in Magnus' torchlight, was growing at the tip of one of them. "Remind me to apologise to whoever wrote that if I ever meet them."

"Apologise to Master Kafei, noted," Magnus said, smiling a little when Reyne gave him a sour look.

"You know, you're awfully uppity to the one who took a knife for you," Reyne said, mock hurt in his voice, gripping his side for emphasis.

"It barely grazed you," Jhaan said with a snort. "Don't be such a baby." She took a breath and whistled into the courtyard, drawing the attention of the hunters below. The gunshots from the other parts of the keep had long since fallen silent. "Oi, we got the vamp!" she announced, drawing cheers from them. "Prepare a bonfire inside, we've got to burn this son of a bitch before he comes back!"

As she spoke, Magnus tipped the headless body over the railing. It crashed into the cobbles below with a wet crunch, where several hunters immediately surrounded it and began dragging it inside the main keep.

"Should I throw this down too?" Reyne asked, shaking the head back and forth by its hair.

"Not yet," Jhaan said, grinning viciously. "Let's see if we can find a pike, give us something to parade around first."

Reyne's eyes widened, while Magnus simply rolled his. "We get it," the tallest of the trio said, brushing wet hair out of his eyes. "You hate vamps. No need to be spiteful."

"One of these things took out an entire fortress full of hunters," Jhaan said, taking the head from Reyne's unresisting hands, glaring into the amber eyes of the temporarily dead (according to Master Kafei's reports, at least) vampire, almost wishing he'd come back right away so she could kill him again. "Including my cousin, so I think I get to be as spiteful as I want, thank you very much."

Reyne and Magnus exchanged looks, an entire conversation passing silently between them before Magnus suddenly grabbed the head out of Jhaan's hands and tossed it down to the courtyard.

"Head's up!" he shouted, shrugging apologetically when one of the hunters below narrowly avoided being struck by it, glaring up at him.

"Come on," Reyne said at the same time, taking Jhaan by her elbow and began dragging her towards the stairwell. "We've a bonfire to build."

Magnus followed them quietly.

"You did that on purpose," Jhaan hissed at the tall man, who raised an eyebrow in return. "Head's up? Your jokes are getting worse and worse every day."

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Magnus said, looking more than a little smug, his chocolate eyes sparkling in the torchlight.

Reyne didn't say anything, silently questioning how he'd ended up in the worst hunting party of all time.

Oh, right, he reminded himself shortly after. Because I love them.

"Another?"

Kerran bowed his head in appropriate supplication to his lord, avoiding the elder vampire's eyes, his barely suppressed anger so fierce it nearly made the amber in them glow.

"So it would seem, master," he said. "The hunters ambushed Lord Creighton inside his own holdfast with overwhelming numbers. He never stood a chance."

Martel, vampire lord of the Obrines, a frozen wasteland of a mountain region to the north, growled and stood up from behind his desk, pacing towards the large windows that opened onto a balcony overlooking the falls on which he'd built his keep, shielded from the sun by a series of rocky overhangs and fabric drapes.

The sun had not set, like it never did so far north at this time of year, hovering just above the edge of the cliffs, casting an ethereal light over the rushing waters, only to be swallowed up by the deep basin below, its water draining and diverting through a series of underground rivers to the various towns and cities that made the craggy lands their home.

"Poor Creighton... The Accord has finally been broken, then," Martel said, fists clenched at his sides. "Emory has damned us all."

Kerran frowned. "Surely not, master?" he said. "The hunters have more men than us, true enough, but give us a few months and we can number in the dozens, if not hundreds strong. We can—"

"Start another war?" Martel asked, turning to look at him with narrow eyes. "Follow in Gideon's footsteps, you mean?" He shook his head. "No, we did what we did to put an end to war, the sort that would bring the world to its knees and never be able to rise again. All for the sake of balance. The Accord was our last hope of remaining on somewhat civil terms with the mortals, and now it has been lost."

"All the more reason to pick up your sword, master," Kerran urged him, stepping closer. "Gideon fought for domination—we will fight for survival! The hunters condemn us all for the actions of one walker. Surely we have the right to defend ourselves?!"

Martel snorted. "And what will the hunters do when we start pushing back?" he asked. "Rally the kingdoms and nations, eventually unite the whole world against us. Gideon was mad enough in the end to believe he could fight them all...but the rest of us saw it was nothing but our doom." He flashed his teeth in a non-smiling grin, forcing Kerran to bow his head again in submission. "Or are you so quick to throw away the life I gave you, boy?"

Kerran bristled at being called boy, the word so easily tumbling out of his sire's mouth, like it had for the past eighteen years. The indignities he'd suffered for the sake of the Cabal. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, a comforting presence at his hip.

"I am not so quick to throw away my Gift, master," he said slowly. "Which is why I strongly urge you to see reason and order me to begin mustering an army immediately in preparation to meet the hunters. A show of force, to prove that we will not roll over and perish like the walkers of old—"

"That's enough!" Martel shouted, his voice echoing in the stone chamber, rattling the windows. "I will not have my decisions questioned by my own kin!" He turned his back to Kerran and watched the falls in silence for a long moment. "I will not risk open war against the hunters...or the future of our kind." He sighed. "We will go into hiding, pray that the hunters miss at least some of us. Given enough time, they will end the hunt, citing our disappearance as a success. By the time we resurface, the current generation will be long gone, and we can continue where we left off."

Kerran fought the urge to yell at the elder vampire, to disparage him for the coward that he was. "Is that your final decision?" he asked carefully, dearly wishing the old fool would change his mind. It would make things so much easier.

"It is," Martel said. "Go and make the preparations. Tell the staff that I will be taking an extended leave of absence, and—"

"I will do no such thing."

Kerran saw Martel's back stiffening at his blatant disobedience, and had to mentally tell himself not to look away as the elder vampire slowly pivoted on his feet to stare at him with a perplexed expression. Kerran knew he had never been the most well-behaved kin Martel had sired, but refusing a direct order? That was...unheard of.

"I beg your pardon?" Martel asked slowly. "My apologies, but I must have misheard you. I could have sworn you just...refused an order?"

"You heard correctly," Kerran maintained, his hand curling around the handle of his sword. "This is not the time to hide—this is the time to fight. If you are too blind and weak to see the truth and act on it, I will do it in your stead."

"Supplanting me already, are you?" Martel asked with a chuckle. "I'm sorry, boy, but you will need more than a fancy sword and the arrogance of youth to take my place. Guards!"

The twin doors behind Kerran burst open, and several heavily armed mortal guards armed with rifles poured inside, levelling the barrels at the younger vampire, who raised his hands in surrender.

"You will not even fight me yourself?" Kerran asked.

"Why bother?" Martel asked. "I only fight those who have earned it, Kerran, and you have certainly lost that privilege now. Take him away," he told the guards. "Bleed him and tie him up in the sunroom. Let us see how long he lasts."

"Sorry about this, milord," one of the guards said.

"Do not address him as a lord!" Martel snapped. "He is a traitor, a filthy..." he trailed off when he realised the rifles were pointed at him. "What are you doing?!"

"Sorry, milord," the guard repeated, not looking sorry about this at all. Not surprising, really, given the substantial increase in pay Kerran had promised him in exchange for control of Martel's household guard. "But we've come under new management."

Martel's face turned red, which was quite a feat given flushed his skin was already. "You...you dare...!" he managed to force out. It brought Kerran no small amount of pleasure to see his sire absolutely silenced by his own incandescent rage.

"I tire of this discussion," Kerran said simply. "Boys?"

He covered his ears as the rifles went off, watching as his sire's body was perforated by bullet after bullet. Age had been catching up with Martel at this point, and he had never been the fastest vampire to begin with. Raw strength had been his particular trait, which was useless in the face of his own guards' weaponry. One bullet struck Martel's cheek, splintering the bone beneath and tearing a huge gash in the skin of his face, his ear dangling from a thin strip of flesh. Martel fell to his knees, clutching his body where the bullets had struck him, unable to move.

The rifles fell silent, and Kerran signalled them to cease fire as they began to reload. Drawing his sword—a broad arming blade, the sort he'd carried when he was still mortal—he marched up to Martel, who gazed up at him with utter hatred. His mouth was a broken ruin from the splintered bullet, and he was unable to speak, but Martel had always been quite apt at silent communication.

I should have let you die, those eyes were saying.

"I agree," Kerran said, taking up position at Martel's side and raising his sword in a two-handed group. "You should have." He brought it down on Martel's neck, severing his head with a single blow. To his surprise, Kerran felt a small pang of guilt as he sheathed his blade, but he chalked it up to that chemical bond between sire and kin. Nothing but instinct, unnecessary in the long run.

"Take his body and burn it immediately," Kerran ordered the guards, who sprang into action at his bark. "Announce that Lord Martel has decided to retire, effective immediately, and has left me in charge until his return."

That would be enough for his mortal servants and guards. As for the other walkers...well, he was far from the only one who'd grown tired of his sire. The rest of the Cabal would be springing into action themselves soon enough. For now, Kerran would simply have to act the part of a dutiful vampire lordling.

With the stinking blood of Martel still drying on the floor, great streaks smeared by his body being dragged away, Kerran sat at his master's desk, watching the impressive array of paperwork that covered its surface. Martel had always been more of an administrator than a proper warrior, and enjoyed sitting back and letting others to the dirty work for him...like Kerran.

Sighing, Kerran reached for the day's itinerary, which Martel always insisted he draw up, only to refuse to follow it. Nothing had been checked off, ever. He was about to throw it away when he saw the last point on the list, a minor point he hadn't given any thought because he'd been too busy trying to organise Martel's betrayal at the hands of his own men.

Right, the new one. The first of his kind, really, if what the others had told him was true. It could have been interesting...if it weren't for the fact that the boy was the traitor's kin. Still, it necessitated the his presence, if only for his formal induction.

The Cabal would have to decide his fate.

Grabbing Martel's favourite pen—a ghastly gold and jewel-encrusted thing—Kerran began to write, making sure to imitate his master's penmanship expertly. The ink was red, which Kerran had always had difficulty deciding whether was ironically stupid or stupidly ironic.

Honourable Lord Sheik of Hyrule,

Allow me to be the first to congratulate you on your recent ascension to the rank of Lord of Hyrule, taking the place of Lord Emory (or Ascal, depending on his name at the time of his disappearance). Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Martel, Lord of the Obrine Mountains, and I would like to cordially extend a welcome to our very exclusive circle...

Sheik read the letter over and over, his eyes scanning the red-inked words as many times as he felt necessary, trying to gauge some sort of hidden meaning or threats or anything that felt off. Nothing did.

He'd been expecting it, of course. The summons. Ascal's notes, thoughtfully left behind after he'd stabbed Sheik in the back (literally) and left him temporarily paralysed, had mentioned the other vampire lords of the world would notice the events that had taken place in Hyrule, and who was now currently the lord of the territory.

In name only, of course. There were no lands, no titles, no money. It was simply a staked (heh) claim on Hyrule as his territory. No vampire could enter or cross it without his permission. Those who tried would be punished harshly. Or so it was supposed to work, at any rate.

Not that Sheik cared about this—he felt no need to uphold his (or, rather, Ascal's) claim on Hyrule. He'd certainly kill any vampire that entered Hyrule, but that was more out of principle than anything else. After all, despite his recently deceased status, he was still a hunter at heart. Only now, he had to be one unofficially, what with being officially dead and all the inconvenience that followed.

"Well?" Kafei looked impatient from his position by the window, leaning against the sill. "What does it say?"

"It's what I've been expecting for the past six months," he replied, walking over to his cousin and handing the letter to him, careful to avoid standing in the direct beam of sunlight that came through the window. Kafei noticed and grinned apologetically as he closed the shutter. "The summons to come present myself to the rest of the vampires." He said it with as much loathing as he could possible load his voice with, drawing a chuckle from the older Sheikah.

Kafei read the letter quickly, his eyes noticeably scanning several lines over and over, just like Sheik's, in an attempt to find some hidden meaning. "Sounds like a party for the ages," he drawled, handing it back. "Martel...he's one of the originals, isn't he?"

"He is," Sheik confirmed. "One of Ascal's. Helped him overthrow the last generation of lords after allying themselves with the hunters."

"Tch, allying," Kafei said, clicking his tongue at the idea. "More like a desperate last resort on both sides. And now we're back where we started. It doesn't say where you're to present yourself, though."

"The location is somewhere in Ascal's notes," Sheik said dismissively. "I'll have to find it later."

"You're going?"

"I have to," he said with a shrug. "Have to prove my worth to claim Hyrule as my territory. Traditional, once a lord has been replaced, apparently. Besides, my own investigations haven't turned up hide nor hair of Ascal—if anyone knows where to find him, surely it'll be his old comrades?" Kafei didn't like the idea, not one bit, and Sheik kept speaking in order to ward off the intense mother-henning that would ensue in a few moments. "You had news on Terra's campaign?" he asked, recognising the seal enclosed in one of the letters on Kafei's desk. The seal of the Atelier, the biggest hunter workshop in the world.

"It has finally started," Kafei said sourly, not happy with Sheik changing the subject. "He sent about forty hunters to take down one of the vampire lords to the west of the Atelier. Crei...something. The report's on the desk."

"Should I be reading this?" Sheik asked, not wanting to put his cousin in an even more difficult position, having to keep Sheik's survival a secret given his vampiric nature.

"I think you've earned the right several times over," Kafei said, returning his attention to the window, looking through the gaps in the shutters. The faint sounds of swords clashing could be heard outside. "Besides, the news from both sides will be of interest to you, I'm sure."

Sheik quickly read through this letter as well, recognising the elegant pen strokes of Master Terra on the paper. "They succeeded in destroying Lord Creighton," he murmured. "In less than a day. Impressive."

"The party was specifically put together to hunt vampires," Kafei said. "It'd be embarrassing if they failed, especially after our little escapade in Castle Town."

Sheik continued nodded silently, continuing to read. After the report on the vampire's successful destruction, there were news from other workshops around the world, as well as a special addendum that, as soon as he saw a name he knew very well listed, made his blood run cold.

"Why is Link being summoned to the Atelier?"

"His induction into the hunter ranks was never made official," Kafei said. "Impa...died before she could inform the other masters, and my seal of approval is apparently not good enough yet because of my age and inexperience." He sounded incredibly bitter at that, but Sheik wasn't sure if it was because of Link's sudden non-hunter status or his own apparent inadequacy. Perhaps both. Sheik certainly knew what he was bitter about.

"Link has more than earned his place in your ranks," he said firmly, to which Kafei could only nod helplessly.

"You don't have to tell me twice, cousin. And I think you meant our ranks."

"Where is he, anyway? I'd have expected to be pounced upon by now."

Truth be told, the lack of an excited Hylian werewolf throwing himself at Sheik the moment he entered the hunter compound had been distinctly disappointing. Sure, it was embarrassing when the recruits (including his former spies, Eren and Nikal) were training in the yard, but it was a...comforting thing to return to. And the catcalls were easy to ignore.

"He's in Blackbrook, investigating some claims the locals made about seeing the dead rising from their graves in the mines," Kafei said, rolling his eyes at the description. "Utter twaddle, if you ask me, but the request to check it out came from the princess herself, so..."

"And we wouldn't want to deny our precious patron anything, now would we?" Sheik said, grinning at Kafei's helpless look. "You can say no, you know, we're not under the Crown's control."

Technically, in order to establish a permanent hunter workshop large enough, they'd been forced to market themselves as a mercenary company, paying for their lodgings and keep by doing contract work for the Hyrulian Crown. If this contract work happened to be hunting dangerous beasts and monsters...well, no one needed to know that particular detail. Really, the mercenary part only gave them a good excuse to walk around bristling with weaponry at all times. It was nice, though, to have a permanent base somewhere that wasn't a frozen hellhole, and actually under the protection of a sovereign ruler, instead of huddling in disputed territories like so many other of the large workshops.

Really, the only other large workshop to share this trait with Kafei's was the Atelier, with its lofty perch overlooking the city state of Ravana, to the south. Ravana was frequently plagued by various types of beasts, which the hunters of the Atelier were only too happy to rid them of...in exchange for impressive fees, of course.

After all, a hunter did not work for free.

"Yes, well," Kafei said, clearing his throat and looking away. "I find it exceedingly difficult to tell her no. Mostly because Tira keeps glaring at me until I say yes."

"She's settling into her new bodyguard job, then?"

"A bit too well, to be honest," the purple-haired Sheikah said with a shudder. "I thought she was scary when she wasn't smitten..."

"I think I see a pattern when it comes to the women in your life, cousin," Sheik said with a snicker, which turned into a full-on laugh when Kafei didn't disagree, simply sinking into his chair and giving him a look of despair...which then quickly turned into one of suspicion now that he had a proper moment to look at him. Sheik's laughter faded, replaced by a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Oh no... he thought. The mother hen cometh.

"Have you been eating?" Kafei asked suspiciously.

"Er..."

A moment's hesitation, and Sheik found himself spending his first night back home having his ear chewed off...and not in the fun way Link did!

To be continued...

Well, this didn't take long, did it? I was never able to stay away from Sheik and Link very long before feeling the need to drag them into more misery...and create some (many) more OCs, because I'm just trash like that, heh. I'm not sure how long this story will be (hopefully not as long as The Hunt), or how frequently it will be updated since I'll be attempting to keep to a proper schedule this time around, so...let's see how it goes, eh?

Also, I am now accepting prompts for a series of one-shots and vignettes I call "Hunter Tales" set in this universe. You can make your requests via PM or reviews or feedback or whatever, and I'll see if I can write a little something out of it. If that is of any interest to any of your, of course, and it's just not a ridiculous idea born out of my own narcissism :)