Carver looked down at the fallen elf, his gaze cool and flat. Blood soaked the earth around them. A raven plucked at the shiny possessions of the corpses stacked nearby before flying up to perch on Carver's shoulder, releasing a shrill note like a woman's laugh.

Zevran chuckled. "I surrender?"

Elissa sauntered over, wiping her sword. "I think you missed a spot, page."

Carver didn't look as the party grouped around him. Carver had managed to strike down just one highwayman before finding himself engaged with Zevran. From there, the Antivan Crow had had Carver on the defensive, until finally Carver's desire to live had cut through his inner ghosts of Ostagar and struck at a brief opening in Zevran's movements. The assassin had rapidly blinked at Carver's abrupt transformation before falling unconscious. Zevran had since awoken to all of his hired hands dead, and not a single member of Elissa's party injured.

Carver jerked his chin. "This one singled you out as 'Warden.' Your life is worth more than just a coinpurse to him."

"I'll spare you the mystery," Zevran chirped. "I am an Antivan Crow by the name of Zevran. Or 'Zev' to my friends."

"Try again," Alistair answered Zevran's hopeful tone.

"I'm just trying to discourage my death," Zevran admitted shamelessly. "If currying favour means I may continue living, then I'll be your best friend."

"Who hired you?" Elissa prodded.

"Will you spare my life?" Zevran asked.

Carver caught Elissa's sword wrist before she could get snarky.

Zevran shrugged. "Arl Rendon Howe."

The party immediately restrained Elissa as she exploded into the uncouth tongue of Waking Sea pirates, courtesy of Teyrna Eleanor. Sten stomped over and clamped two hands down on Elissa's shoulders, pinning her in place so she could vainly swing her limbs at Zevran. The air burned with her language.

Carver hastily disarmed Elissa of her sword. "See reason, Warden."

"I'll see reason when Rendon Howe is dead!"

Alistair winced as Elissa's elbow glanced his ribs. "That is an assassin, Carver!"

Carver shot Zevran a sharp look.

Zevran quickly caught on and volunteered a winning smile. "I swear to protect you from all harm, until such a time my service is no longer-?"

"Wynne!" Leliana cried out.

Leliana caught Wynne as the mage's knees suddenly weakened. The party stilled with Wynne's bleary dismissal of her brief fainting spell.

"The rush of battle just caught up with me," Wynne waved off.

Elissa sobered, her restraints slowly backing off. Carver hesitantly offered her sword back, catching her eye as she accepted.

"The Crow gave you an oath," Carver pointed out. "By Antiva's laws, that is the most sacred contract one can make."

Elissa frowned, her gaze still thunderous. "Rendon Howe-"

"Warden," Carver gravely pressed. "Remember who you are. No Grey Warden has defeated an archdemon without a half-dozen nations behind their back. An archdemon. We are facing both the fallen god and the darkspawn horde."

Elissa's brown eyes wavered, before finally her lips thinned and she pivoted off. "Relieve the assassin of weapons. Let this blight keep him honest."

Leliana perked up and brightly agreed. Sten supported Wynne, and Leliana collected every hidden blade from Zevran until the elf wore only armour. Alistair reluctantly helped Zevran up. The party followed after Elissa, who had already started down the path with Dog on her heels.

"My brother's wife is Antivan," Elissa called back to Carver morosely. "I know what an oath means."

Carver sighed as he sheathed his sword, reflecting back on the promise he had kept with Lady Oriana. Elissa couldn't know that an oath was the reason why her brother had survived an assassination.

Once, a boy had accompanied his father on a state visit designed to celebrate peaceful relations between a long-standing nation and a newly stable one. Naturally, such purpose had been lost to the boy, and even as a man, only broad strokes of the visit clung to him: the leathery hides of local beasts; arrays of ceramic jugs from the size of his torso to the digit of his smallest finger; droning tours that staggered through his waking hours like the steps of a weathered castle. The foreign kingdom had vastly differed from the boy's wild, coastal home, from its controlled climate to its towering stone structures.

But most curiously, one detail would prove impervious to a child's inattention and the muddling of time; a detail delightfully invasive, participating in almost every aspect of the political gathering like an uninvited yet riveting guest.

For when the boy's focus would slip from his father and the delegates around them, the boy's head would dip, and be captured by mosaic scenes below his feet that spilled seamlessly into each other and down stone steps. Mayhaps he was witnessing a fable, or the chapters of the foreign kingdom's long history. Regardless, there was life under his feet that fell across dimensional marks of public streets like an unwrinkled tapestry.

On the final day of the state visit, his father had not brought him along through his schedule; there had been a grand fight to be held in the kings' honour, and though the delegates had fostered a spirited anticipation into the boy, his father had ultimately decided that witnessing the fight was a fortune his son could do without. The boy had been crushed - briefly, for in his father's absence, local masters of the mosaic art had sat down with the boy and guided his amateur hands through colourful tiles.

He had learned much - in how not to assemble a mosaic.

"You must see ahead of your hands," one of the masters had chided. "Rarely will a piece come to you ready to be placed. You must shape the tiles as the puzzle in your head waiting to flow out into the stone."

"It is rare for a surfacer to show genuine respect in our practice," another master had commented. "Most are only interested in our lyrium records."

"You can record history with lyrium?" the boy had gasped, to which the masters had chuckled.

"You weren't paying attention for the entirety of your visit here?" they had amusedly noted. "Indeed, we shapers etch lyrium into the Stone in contribution to the Shaperate. Lyrium, however, is a different beast, even in scriptural form. You are better invested in tiles, for now."

Without planning, colourful tiles wouldn't be able to fit into the same space — and even with deliberation, special effort was required for a harmonious fit. Similarly, Cailan slowly awakened to voices crowded together like the failed mosaic he had composed as a child.

"Your Majesty!"

"Check his pulse!"

"How much tonic is left, now?"

Cailan poured his strength into blinking, then breathing. "Where—?"

His eyes focused above him, and a dozen weary faces brightly looked upon their king. Soldiers.

Ostagar.

"Maker be praised," one of the soldiers remarked. "The king is up from the taint!"

"You have Warden Theron to thank," another soldier shared.

"And Carver."

Cailan turned his head from where he laid, and sourced the reedy voice to an elf as pale and light-haired as the moon, with a wine-red gaze that seemed to pour into one's soul. Antlers branched up the elf's nose-bridge and forehead in faint, burgundy ink, so that the elf was as a halla among humans. He was an example of a life and culture found opposite of labyrinthine cities above or below ground.

The warden…Theron?

The soldiers continued overhead. "Knowing Postboy, he'd say he was only doing his duty."

Cailan dazedly found control of his voice as Theron and the soldiers chuckled in unison. Cailan could barely speak above their modest noise. "I can't…say I'm surprised…that Grey Wardens…saved my life." He coughed. "Why does…my tongue taste funny?"

Theron tilted his head. "Mabari Madness tonic. It is quite bitter. And it was brewed by more than just myself, Dragon King - Ash Warriors and your soldiers contributed as well."

"O-Of course."

Theron pressed. "You said Grey Wardens, plural. Carver isn't—"

"Pardon my bluntness," Duncan cut in. The Warden-Commander had been kneeling next to Theron. Cailan blinked at him. "The state in Ostagar has turned dire, Your Majesty. I plea for you to write to Empress Celene regarding the Orlesian Grey Wardens."

To Cailan's right, he easily recognised Loghain frown severely at mention of Orlais, but have enough sense to briskly dismiss the small crowd around Cailan before discussing war plans. When Loghain finally spoke, only Cailan, Loghain, and Duncan remained at the war table supporting Ferelden's infirm king. The activity of other soldiers bustled in their periphery, too busy and distant to overhear royal matters.

It was a strange point of focus for Cailan: the sound of wind rustling the distant peaks of Ostagar's trees. It seemed instead his mind should have been drawn to the hushed war table discussion he was literally in, or the overpowering smell of herbs and death on himself. Anything closer to earth.

"How long…was I asleep?" Cailan croaked.

Loghain supplied a waterskin and slowly tilted it to Cailan's lips. "Not asleep. Tainted. And the foulness is not done with you yet, so conserve your energy."

Duncan propped Cailan up so that the king could converse easier. Cailan noted that unlike Loghain or the other soldiers, the warden's hands were bare.

"However," Loghain grudgingly admitted, "energy from you is still needed."

"We need reinforcements," Duncan began, but Cailan silenced his advisors with an exhale.

"How fares the Line?" Cailan demanded.

Loghain straightened as he stowed the waterskin away. "We have lost a quarter of our manpower, my king. And counting. You aren't the only victim of the taint, and Calenhad's blood wars against your sickness even now. I have divided our remaining able forces across the Korcari Wilds in a kennel formation and relocated the army command centre to the hidden clearing you are in now."

"Kennel…?" Cailan stiffened. "The mabari are natural vanguards; they are best served at the front!"

"The Ash Warriors have suffered the front well enough," Loghain informed, and Cailan's blood ran hot then cold in an instant.

A quarter of his soldiers, dead. The fact was starting to sink in.

"I currently have the Ash Warriors focused on running messages and serving as the army's medical team," Loghain continued. "Until the quartermaster returns, we must procure supplies from the wilds ourselves."

"A quarter lost," Cailan muttered. "And counting, due to the taint…." He turned to Duncan. "The Wardens gave me a tonic, and my condition has improved enough to rouse me from unconsciousness."

Duncan bowed. "Warden Theron, specifically. However, in short, the tonic is only effective with elves, dragonsblood, and mabari; your army must suffer the taint on their own. You must decide for your army what next steps they must take." He amended, "We must all take."

Loghain nodded. "The Line is yours."

Cailan was the king.

He held the kingdom's fate in his hands.

"First," Cailan coughed, "I demand honesty from you both. How long do I have?"

For once, Duncan and Loghain shared a look in sync.

"I can feel my very blood burning," Cailan exasperated, "and I admittedly fear death as any man, but this…" he winced, "…supersedes my personal fears. I must face the truth. Loghain, I am wedded to your daughter - tell me if I am to widow her as well."

Loghain, whose tongue usually cut with the truth, mirrored Cailan's pain. He seemed repulsed by the very words that left his own lips. "I don't know. I dare say no one else in history has received the treatment you're being given, thus I cannot say with confidence if you'll survive the taint. Warden Theron can only buy you time."

"Time until the Wardens can process you through a Joining," Duncan elaborated. "Then, we pray that the Joining grants you immunity to the taint, and you may keep your life."

"I won't be a Warden?" Cailan asked.

Duncan sharply exhaled. "Ordinarily…. No, I cannot ask this of a nation, that it would surrender its king. The Wardens have only been able to push back blights in the past due to the support of the world's nations. If you survive the Joining, I pray you return to Denerim."

And if Loghain would have his way, never again leave the capital.

"Then my purpose is clear," Cailan determined. His voice was still weak, but he had enough strength to speak without pause. "I will survive this sickness, and I will return to Anora. Ferelden's king won't fall here. Sorry, Duncan; it looks like I can't join your renown order after all."

"We may share a victory," Duncan indulged, eyes glittering. "That said, if you are determined not to set a successor for Head-Commander of the king's army, then I will continue demanding orders from you as such, regardless of your physical state. I firstly need a decision regarding the admittance of Orlesian Grey Wardens."

"I wrote to Empress Celene concerning their arrival." Cailan slowly blinked. "She has surely written back."

"Anora received a response." Loghain's farmhand accent unconsciously, subtly bled through. "The empress has cleared a path for the Wardens to the border – and no doubt readied legions of bloody chevaliers on top of other soldiers to follow them in while she was at it."

One fact Cailan couldn't immediately recall through his bodily pain was that Loghain wasn't the only soldier in the king's army who remembered the abuse that Ferelden had experienced under Orlais. The empire's chevaliers had been allowed to rape and murder as they pleased, so long as their victims hadn't been Orlesian nobility –– which meant the entirety of Ferelden's population. Presently, however, it was just Loghain and Duncan who had Cailan's ear, and between the two men, it was just Loghain who could recall Orlesian occupation first-hand. It was a mistake for anyone to take Loghain's current noble title at face value, and not recognise that Loghain had fought at Maric's side and freed Ferelden as a farmer's son. Loghain had only been granted the rank of teyrn after the war.

Not to say that Ferelden's nobility hadn't also suffered from Orlesian hands –– like Maric and the royal family, to speak of a few. The Painting of Rebel Queen was a famous artwork treasured in Ferelden for a reason. No one wanted to remember Moira Theirin as the head on a pike the Usurper King had proudly displayed at the gates of Ferelden's royal palace, early in his reign.

All good Fereldens, however, knew the nursery rhyme of the Tall King Made Shorter.

Let it not be said that Maric hadn't known how to exact vengeance in equal Orlesian fashion.

Duncan sighed. "My remaining Wardens are stretched thin between the front lines, running with the Ash Warriors, and locating the archdemon. Meanwhile, Warden-Commander Alisse and her order are ready and waiting." He raised a hand, and a couple nearby soldiers noticed and approached. "Your Majesty, I need only a word, and I'll send a Warden to the border to summon them."

Loghain glanced at Duncan sharply. To a suspicious ear, one would receive the impression that Duncan was preying on Cailan's weak state to pursue an agenda.

Cailan nodded. "More Grey Wardens are needed."

Loghain cut in. "Arl Urien is already heading north to gather the Cousland and Kendells legions. With your army at its full might, our current forces in the south need only focus on the south."

"I've long made my decision," Cailan stated, and addressed the group of soldiers. "Summon a runner."

"Belay that," Loghain commanded, and the soldiers around them stumbled. "Cailan, I will not let you open the floodgates into Ferelden for ten-thousand Orlesians."

"You will welcome the Grey Wardens of Orlais into Ferelden, and that's an order."

Loghain's voice tensed. "Cailan—"

"This is war," Cailan recited. "One must observe formality. Now, I wrote to Empress Celene to clear a path for the Wardens to Ferelden's borders, and she will allow no one else past them."

"Pray tell, my king," Loghain drawled, "what prevents the empress from sending her legions of chevaliers despite your intentions?"

Cailan's face hardened. "The command of a king."

They evenly met each other's gazes.

Loghain bowed first, chastised.

Cailan clenched his fist. He shouldn't have caught the taint. He shouldn't have marched south without leaving a child behind. Anora had it right, he should have been more politically aware of himself as a king.

He missed his wife. She was a bold yet delicate woman as sharp as a whip, a blossom in a moving stream that Cailan had chased until they had married, and was constantly chasing even still. Neither of them were certain they were good enough for a child, but they still should have tried –– one, two, five years ago. It was a fact that was clear in hindsight.

No matter. The blight was an epic in the making, certainly, but Cailan saw now –– between corresponding with the empress and holding the southern line –– that the blight was also a stream. And Cailan and Anora were going to navigate it –– together.

Cailan turned to Duncan and the soldiers. "Summon the Orlesian Wardens, and a runner for the capital."

As the warden's party neared Lake Calenhad, Carver began discreetly shuffling to the side to engage in quiet, erratic conversations with the homeless. The task proved simple, with the party focused more on their assassin and the road ahead than on the young soldier who followed at the tail end of the group. However, Carver's endeavours soon reached their end, when the warden's party eventually arrived to grudgingly open doors at Kinloch Hold, where conflict had upset all souls into ripples of despair now touching the waters of the next great unknown. Faren's presence split through the tension like divine wind.

"Faren?" Elissa remarked.

"Surfacer? Ack."

Elissa squeezed the red-haired dwarf with ecstatic surprise. "You're alive!"

Faren and Elissa's closeness made Alistair's jealousy leak out. The former templar tersely addressed the weary faces around him. "What happened?"

Faren shrugged out of Elissa's hold, answering for the Templars and mages caught frozen in the midst of arguing.

"I was killing darkspawn going after the mages, who kept running away no matter how loudly I shouted at them. So I kept killing and killing, until I found myself with the mages in this stone tower here." Faren fluttered a hand at Kinloch Hold. "I ran out of darkspawn to kill. I was about to leave, when one of them mages suddenly stabbed himself and started finger-painting with his blood, everyone got into hysterics, and these Templars' solution was to lock the doors. They wouldn't let me leave out the front, so I looked for a back. I found a window about my size at the top of the tower, and enough mages to supply a rope out of their dresses. One of them helped me tie it together."

A nearby grey-haired mage inclined his head. "Warden Faren has been helpful beyond description. The Circle is in his debt."

Faren chuckled. "This surfacer has such a strange devotion to a stone tower. I like him."

Carver pinched his nose bridge at Senior Enchanter Irving smiling softly in gratitude to the cutpurse. Faren's alignment was chaotic, definitely.

Evidently, Wynne had chased after the runaway mages but lagged behind to treat casualties, including Faren. It explained why the cutpurse had been able to keep fighting all the way to the Circle Tower.

Elissa stepped back, taking stock of the Templars and mages bearing blades and staves at each other. The Circle's stone walls and floors were freshly painted red. Most damning of all, the tower's doors wouldn't have been locked unless the Templars had intended to perform the Right of Annulment: the unchecked massacre of all tower mages. The fact the Templars and mages were on the verge of reigniting a bloody conflict straightened Elissa's back.

Knight-Commander Greagoir pointed a sword at the mages behind Irving, blind to Elissa's mood shift. "All of you engaged in blood magic –– and on top of that, you deserted the king! Your fates are obvious!"

"Hold it, Knight-Commander." Elissa's gauntleted hand separated Greagoir's blade from an old woman hiding a child behind her. "The Wardens need the mages' cooperation. In these dire times, one must heed the Right of Conscription."

"You can't be serious!" Greagoir rejected.

"Of course not," Elissa agreed. "I'm merely selling an idea. The mages may choose between joining the Wardens at high and uncertain cost, or remaining in the Circle and facing the risks they already know. Either way, the Wardens will receive mage help, as the Rights and ancient treaties demand."

The child mage turned to Faren shyly. "What do you think we should do, Faren?"

The dwarf blinked his eyes away from an expensive-looking vase. "You're asking me?"

Unexpectedly, all mages both old and young collectively nodded. "You saved our lives at no small risk to your own. You are a warden, and you have seen the Circle at its worst. You have even navigated the Fade itself and returned alive. We trust your judgement."

A mistake, really.

The mages continued. "What is it like, being a warden?"

Faren watched their faces, then grudgingly huffed. "Joining the Wardens isn't painless, and you always have a wrongness stuck in you afterwards. You can sense darkspawn, but they can sense you, and sometimes your skin doesn't feel like your own. I'll be straight, it isn't something I'd easily wish on anyone."

"Oh."

"But the surfacer Elissa is right," Faren went on. "It's either the danger you know or the danger you don't. Not everyone will survive the 'joining,' but from my understanding, your kind already risks death in a Harrowing."

"In other words," a mage remarked, "we have no choice."

"Not so," another cut in. "After everything we have experienced, is it not wrong to conclude that we always have a choice? We could have stepped away from magic meant to draw blood. We could have stood our ground when Uldred commanded our retreat from Ostagar, like others of our kind did. The Templars likewise have many choices of their own, but we must be better — than them, and our past selves."

A third mage spoke up. "I have suffered in the Circle, but I also remember the outside world before I was found and taken in. For the sake of other mages who might find shelter, food, and clothing here, I do not wish for my past choices to sabotage their future. I say we join the Wardens."

"I can't agree," someone drawled. "I too remember my life before the Circle, and I didn't know suffering until I became a part of it. I would rather change the Circle from the inside for the sake of mages not just in the future, but those standing with us now, here and across Thedas. I'll die or be Tranquiled into a martyr, if I have to."

The mood plummeted. Another mage confessed, "What if I don't know which choice to make?"

With great reluctance, Greagoir lowered his blade, and the Templars behind him followed. Elissa retreated her hand but still stepped between both sides of the conflict.

Greagoir exhaled deeply, like his breath was a precious thing. "Indecisiveness is a luxury only the unimportant or the friendless can afford. Choose this day where you will walk for the rest of your life. You have been a member of the Circle for this long. Act like it."

Faren tilted his head to Greagoir. "You almost sound like you care."

"I speak the same with Irving and my Templars," Greagoir dismissed. His colourless gaze found Irving, unwittingly reminded of the closest figure in his life to a counterpart.

Irving shook his head and joined Elissa, separating himself from the mages who had followed Uldred or had been swept up in the blood mage's mistakes. Irving had always wanted to live in a perfectly rule-driven Circle. He would soon get exactly that.

"I've made up my mind," a mage spoke up. "I will join the Wardens."

"As will I," others declared. The rest decided to stay with the Circle.

The warden's party stood as the brittle divide between polar factions, fencing off the marginally smaller Circle from the Grey Wardens' new recruits as their side prepared to depart. Carver couldn't gauge his party's morale, but under his leather, chainmail, and armour, he was shivering with cold sweat at the tension.

Wynne approached Greagoir and Irving with irregular boldness.

"Irving." She inclined her head.

Greagoir loosened upon sight of her. "Senior Enchanter Wynne––"

"The Fraternity of Loyalists welcomes you," Wynne continued. "Baiting the young and ignorant with tomes on blood magic befits the behaviour of those who colour within the lines of the law, at the expense of all else."

Irving's spine curved. "I greet your return warmly, Wynne, but––"

A cutting grey gaze subdued the Senior Enchanter and Knight-Commander where they stood.

Wynne folded her hands in front of her. "In my time in Ostagar, a young mage shared with me her account of a Senior Enchanter condemning a young mage to Tranquility, and a Chantry initiate to imprisonment in Aeonar. Sister Leliana," the sweet-faced rogue perked up, "among the timeless codexes by Chantry scholars, what wisdom have you on Aeonar?"

Leliana gladly delivered. "The body whole, with shattered soul, doth the Imperium's workshop stand. Blackened sister to the stocky watcher, is she made bridewell by the Chant."

Greagoir reddened. "I have read Of Fires, Circles, and Templars."

"So well-read," Wynne dryly praised, "yet incapable of reading between the lines themselves. Aeonar and Ostagar were sites of magical experimentation by the Tevinter Imperium, built on opposite ends of the Imperial Highway. Where Chasind invasions had turned Ostagar into a scouting fortress, Andrastian extremists had made a mass grave out of Aeonar. Left structurally sound but spiritually damaged, Aeonar now serves as a Chantry prison for accused maleficarum and apostates."

The blood drained from Greagoir's face in realisation.

Irving regained his voice. "I had intended to make an example for the sake of our Circle."

"Your Circle," Wynne returned, "can recite the Chant from cover to cover, but cannot put words to the touch of grass. My Circle spreads wisdom, so that we may trust a mage who leaves the tower to gain knowledge and return to share it. Where is Jowan?"

Irving sighed. "The Tranquil perished in the fighting."

Wynne's wrinkles deepened. "…Retract your sentence against Chantry Initiate Lily, and see to her release from Aeonar. You cannot undo the girl's experience in our worst prison, nor her loss of a lover twice-over –– however, no good can be done by keeping her there."

"It will be done." Irving had been reduced into a sullen statue at this point.

Wynne turned her gaze to Greagoir. "With this, I accept the position of First Enchanter."

The Knight-Commander's face twisted at the offer he had extended just earlier that year to Wynne. Mute with emotion, Greagoir's head twitched with assent.

Wynne turned to face the warden's party, which had now grown to include Faren and a few hundred mages.

"Now, who needs healing?"

As Wynne gently worked the edges off of everyone, a tired mage caught Carver's attention.

Carver wiped the sweat off his brow. "Are you injured?"

The mage shook his head. "It's not that, soldier. A number of my classmates had fled to the basement when Uldred's followers had started summoning demons. I know not if my peers have returned, or yet still live."

Carver glanced back at Elissa and the rest, concluding that they were busy enough curbing hostilities between Templars, mages, and prospective wardens.

He sighed. "Which way?"

;

A/N:

Maric's wiki page revealed one benefit of Orlesian occupation: learning poetic behaviour. The usurper King Meghren had beheaded Maric's mother and put her head on a pike at her castle's gates to display Ferelden's severed power. Guess what Maric had done to Meghren at the end of the Rebellion?

It's a wonder that with the boner that Fereldens seem to have on the topic of the Ferelden Rebellion, no one goes as often and loudly about how the war had ended, as they do about why the war had started. I know if I had witnessed Arya Stark avenge the Red Wedding and feed Walder Frey his own sons, I'd be speaking up that story.

Additionally: how I wish the mage origin could tell Wynne, an Aequitarian, how they became a warden. I see a lot of people paint Wynne as a textbook Circle mage, but you do have to travel for some time with Wynne before she reveals that she willingly accepted a spirit into her. In the Broken Circle quest, she's evasive on the subject with even her friend. She also approves indefinitely travelling for research (see: Shale and Tevinter), thus she believes that a mage doesn't have to be confined in a tower or supervised by Templars 24/7. I'd like to believe she doesn't support tricking mages into doing blood magic so they can be arrested, either.

Which is what Irving did in the mage origin. Along with sending a Chantry initiate to prison, "so that the affair is just as embarrassing to the Chantry as it is to the Circle."

Let me see Grandma Wynne pop off!