A/N: Yes, this is the official return to this project. No, this is not the official return to consistent updates. I'm afraid that'll probably have to wait until summer. Sorry. I'm horribly, horribly, busy. However, I was reading through my binder on this project, and thought: "Wow, this is really a great idea. I need to get back to it." So I did. I'll be working on Amor Fati, Sanctuary, and an original novel simultaneously, so hopefully that will help me avoid burnout on a particular piece. My beta reader is just as busy as I am, and I feel terrible asking her to take even more time for my stories, so if any reader is interested in beta reading, please contact me.

Yes, I'm titling my chapters now. Chapter titles are cool.

Chapter Ten: Drachma

Alfred did his best not to stumble as his feet landed on damp, slick bricks. The air was humid and hot, and Alfred distinctly smelled fish in the air, covering up some deeper, almost sweet scent. The sun beat down from overhead, gleaming off the tallest buildings Alfred had ever seen. They were made of polished white marble, though many were patterned with chips of some lapis-blue gem. As they caught the sunlight, they threw a blue glow along all the twisting footpaths. Much like Aenea, decorations were strung up between the buildings.

The footpath they had landed in was empty, and while it was quiet, there was low humming in the air that Alfred wasn't sure was real. Despite the heat, Alfred shivered.

"So this is Drachma?" he asked. His words seemed swallowed up by the damp air.

Francis nodded. "The Central District to be precise. Come."

Alfred fell into step behind Francis as they followed the meandering path. In a few minutes, Alfred was horribly turned around and had lost all sense of direction. It reminded him of the canyons in Caelei, only a strip of sky visible through the tall, tightly packed buildings. Francis kept silent, but the humming was growing, definitely real now.

The noise continued to grow, until they came around a bend and onto the edge of a courtyard packed with people. Rising up from the masses was the largest building Alfred had ever seen. Walls of dusky black iron shot up to make a blocky tower, behind which stood a short, long building. The tower could probably be seen looming from well outside the city, even if the tall maze of buildings made it invisible from the inside.

"What is that?" Alfred whispered.

"A temple," Francis said.

"It doesn't look like a temple."

"It's new. Completed only a few years ago, along with the others."

"Others?"

Francis pointed out over the buildings. Through the hazy afternoon, a few other towers could be seen.

"Every district has a temple," he said. "Merchants' District has two. The towers are for watching, the buildings behind are barracks."

They started moving around the edges of the courtyard. Several men in some kind of uniform that bore the sign of Daka's soldiers eyed them suspiciously. A few broke off and followed them at a distance. Francis picked up his pace and Alfred jogged after him. They rounded a sharp bend when Alfred's boots slid out from under him and he toppled onto the brick-paved street. Grimacing, he pushed himself up and wiped the street muck off his trousers.

"Francis, what is this place?" Alfred asked.

"This is Drachma," Francis said irritably.

Alfred sighed. "I know that. But it's filthy and it smells and we're being followed by temple guards. Why is it like this"

"Come on, it's just a little further."

The street twisted and forked. Lining it were dusty, run down shops and smiths, most of which seemed closed. They occasionally passed people, but they all glared mistrustfully and swept away. Alfred was hopelessly turned around by the time the street opened out into a square that housed a group of white buildings. Unlike the rest of the city, the square was remarkably clean, and intricate patterns of blue sapphires decorated the important looking buildings. The only thing that seemed off about it was another, larger formation of guards all marked with Daka's sigil, that stood in front of the buildings.

"Welcome to the Center, Alfred," Francis said, not yet setting foot onto the white bricks. "This is where the city is run. Those buildings house the courts and quarters of the magistrates who keep the city functioning—and of late, er…representatives…from Aenea."

"It's cleaner than the rest of the city," Alfred noticed.

Francis laughed humorlessly. "Yes, it is. Wouldn't want the temple officials to have to step in grime, now would we?"

They began walking around the outskirts of the square, keeping to the shadows of the buildings.

"You can tell which streets lead directly to the temple barracks," Francis continued. "They bother to keep those clean."

"And why not the rest of the city?" Alfred asked as they turned down another dim street. This one was short, and soon ended on a small, wooden dock over a canal.

"Too expensive," said Francis. "Why clean the city when you can put that money into the war?"

"The war's here too?" Alfred asked. He wondered if Drachma had been attacked as Aenea had been the past winter.

A narrow boat pulled up to the dock. An old man with a long pole stood in the back. When he saw Francis, his wrinkled face split into a grin.

"This solstice may be blessed yet," he said, dipping his head. "It's been far too long since you've graced us with your presence, Francis."

"Far too long indeed," Francis said, his expression lightening for the first time that afternoon. He took the old man's hand and stepped into the boat. Alfred remained on the dock. The boat did not look particularly stable as it swayed against the dock.

Francis rolled his eyes. "Come on, Alfred, there's no need to worry, the Drachman boat runners are good at their job. You won't fall in."

Reluctantly, Alfred stepped in. The boat swayed a bit under his feet, then steadied. Alfred immediately took a seat. Francis joined him after giving a destination to the boat runner.

"Yes, the war is indeed here, to answer your question," Francis said. "Drachma has become the gods' stronghold—our base of attack in the south."

The boat runner snorted.

"So Daka's guards aren't supposed to be here?" Alfred asked.

"'Supposed to be here' is the wrong way of looking at it," Francis sighed.

"I think the boy has it pretty well," the boat runner interrupted. "The gods ruined our city. That's enough evidence that they're not supposed to be here."

Alfred had never heard such things said about the gods from anyone but Arthur. It took him aback, and he sat in silence as the narrow boat quietly drifted eastward through the city.

When they finally got out, they reentered the maze of buildings, which was even thicker and more convoluted than those in the Central District. The buildings here were cheaper, mostly made of wood, rather than the expensive stone they had seen before. Nevertheless, underneath the layer of soot and grime, Alfred could make out faint traces of patterns where the wood had once been painted.

They ambled along, and Alfred started to get the impression that Francis had no particular destination in mind. That was well enough, for just the aura of poverty that hung around the slum weighed heavily on Alfred's soul.

People eyed them warily, often retreating into the collapsing houses as they passed—or at least until they recognized Francis. Alfred was startled by the swing of mood the god caused. Many came out to greet him personally, as if he were an old friend, and he in turn addressed many of them by name. Soon, Alfred found himself dragged behind Francis into an open, if dirty, square. The crowd grew around them in both number and sound. Francis mingled happily with them.

For the most part, they ignored Alfred. Most glanced at him, then away, and Alfred realized it was because they didn't know who he was. It was a stark contrast to the reverence he was met with in Aenea, but Alfred found he didn't really mind the anonymity. He stayed close to Francis and let the musical voices wash over him.

The crowd began to organize itself, obviously starting up some ritual; people dashed into the dirty buildings and returned with various instruments, which were often better kept than those who played them. Alfred moved off to the side, but Francis stayed in the throng. They formed several lines across the square and soon the musicians started up a flowing, tune led by an elderly flautist. She was soon joined by several stringed instruments, several lyres and then ones played with a bow that Alfred had never seen before.

It was a simple, obviously well known dance than moved like water throughout the lines. Pairs joined hands then let go, never staying with one partner for long. The flute sung in the old woman's firm hands, but soon the tune changed. The lines dissolved, and the people broke into another clearly well known dance. Where the previous dance flowed gracefully, this one had no clear pattern of motion, though there seemed to be a set of steps that everyone followed.

They clapped and skipped along, setting a definite beat to the flittering flute and the strange strings. Alfred found his own feet tapping as he stood observing the dancers. The townspeople were in torn, ragged clothing, but it didn't stop Alfred from admiring the way the women's skirts flew out as they spun or the glittering of cheap glass jewelry in the bright solstice sun.

Laughing, Francis came up to him, and pulled him into the fray. Alfred caught on to the dance quickly enough, and finesse didn't seem to be an issue here. Soon enough, Alfred found himself laughing and clapping as the strings crescendoed and the flute rose above them in a twittering harmony.

That was when the screams started. Guards bearing the sigil of Daka moved into the square and began breaking up the crowd with heavy, lead-lined batons. The throng exploded, everyone trying to get away at once. More than one fell under the harsh cracks and shouts of the guards.

Alfred looked around, bewildered. He struggled not to be trampled and managed to pick up some of what the guards were shouting.

"Damned heathens!"

"How dare you worship scum on the day of the gods!"

"Blasphemers!"

Groups of people fled out of the square, and Alfred was dragged with them. Finally, he managed to extract himself and took cover in a mostly empty alleyway. He looked out, searching for Francis in the mess. He spotted the god's golden hair easily.

Francis was caught up in the crowd too, looking reluctant to leave those who had fallen. However, once he spotted Alfred, he vanished and reappeared by Alfred's side.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Fine," Alfred said. "But what about them?"

"I'll take care of it. Go—"

A cold laugh cut Francis off.

"You're little ploy worked well, didn't it?" a familiar voice asked.

A shadow dropped from one of the rooftops and landed with a thud on the bricks. Arthur stood, glaring, and swept his black cloak behind him.

"What are you talking about?" Francis demanded.

"Clever," Arthur said. "Luring all those people out, just so they could be beaten down by Daka's guards."

Francis' face bloomed scarlet. "That's outrageous? I would never—"

"Oh, shut up," Arthur snapped. "You had guards tailing you. Don't tell me you didn't notice."

Francis froze, his eyes widened in horror. "Those dances. They were Daemon dances."

"What?" Alfred asked.

"Those dances are traditional of the plains people. They worship Elizaveta."

"That's right. You got them to blaspheme and led the guards right to them," Arthur said. "As I said—clever. But I'll warn you now, Francis. Everything changes today. Our people will not—"

"Your people?" Francis shouted. "How are these your people?"

"Are they yours then? You're not even from this world; I am!"

"I'm their patron!"

"What sort of patron leads his people to their death?"

Francis paled. "I…I didn't know. We were just dancing," he said softly.

Alfred stood behind Francis, trying to catch Arthur's eyes. Maybe Arthur would listen to him, but the Daemon carefully avoided even glancing at Alfred.

Arthur snorted. "This is just like you, Francis: too excited about the dancing to ever really notice what's going on around you."

Francis' head shot up and his eyes blazed at the comment. Arthur continued, a cruel smile just barely appearing on his lips.

"Oh, I remember you and your music. You used to play and play and play, lording over everything in existence just because you could harmonize two chords. You even thought that would keep me interested, keep me distracted while you went off and seduced every charming peasant you came across."

"You were envious of my talents. Don't try to deny it," Francis spat. "I know why you left."

Now it was Arthur's turn to flush. "I left because you were an arrogant, selfish fool!"

Francis took several steps toward Arthur, seeming to inflate as he approached. "And then you stole my most precious gift."

"Yes, I was involved. How could I not be when you began to steal our world's gifts?"

Francis lunged forward and hit Arthur across the face with a shout. Arthur reeled, but spun and kicked, his blunt, black nails scraping over Francis' skin.

The two threw themselves into the fight. Francis was bigger, but Arthur was faster and a more experienced fighter. They exchanged blows, neither backing down. Their argument had devolved into a shouting match, and they didn't hear the screams that started behind them, in the square.

Alfred heard it though, and it make his blood run cold. He turned, leaving the feuding pair, and ran towards the noise. The sight made him freeze.

The white bricks glistened with blood. Several bodies were strewn across the square, nearly unrecognizable as human. The guards stood in a circle, executing the rest they'd managed to capture, many of whom were screaming. Alfred recognized the flautist among the crowd, one of the few who remained calm. The guard held her arms behind her back and her flute lie broken a small distance away. Nevertheless, she kneeled straight-backed, and when Alfred caught her eyes, they were determined, not frightened. Get out she mouthed at him.

With a small nod, Alfred turned and took flight. However, he wasn't running. He was going to do his job: he was going to spread the word.

He saw heads poking out of the doors and windows of the collapsing buildings. Daka's guards were trained soldiers, but there weren't that many of them. Yes, the slums were packed, Alfred noticed. Family upon family lived in a single building.

"The guards of the city—they're beating and slaughtering your neighbors and friends," Alfred shouted, his voice echoing along the street. "What will you do?"

Eyes gleamed defiantly. Alfred departed, satisfied. He wouldn't tell them to fight—they'd have to choose that themselves. But Alfred saw the anger and the resentment in them. They had the numbers. They would fight. They could probably win.

He rushed through the air, filling the other streets with the news. Once one area was finished, he flew up and away in search of the other districts' people. He was flying through the air over the canals when something also airborne almost slammed into him. He spun around and found himself face to face with Elizaveta. She still hadn't recovered completely from her fight with Daka. Her wing beats were strained, and she wore only light mail. She glared at Alfred, and swung her spear at him in warning.

"Stay out of the way if you don't want to get killed," she said. Then she flew off.

Alfred planned to take that advice. He turned and flew towards another residential area. He wanted to spread the news of the uprising, not participate—at least not yet.

Gilbert cringed as he appeared alongside Daka and Vahnic outside the guard barracks. He'd never liked the humidity of the south, and the recent decline of the city didn't help any.

Now that same city was in chaos. Shouts could be heard from all around, and the gods' guards ran about trying to quell the sudden uprising. The head of the guard had sent for Daka, and he met the gods with obvious relief.

"I don't know what's happened, My Lady," he said. "The Drachmans—they just went crazy."

Daka brushed him aside, unconcerned. She turned to Gilbert and Vahnic.

"Crush the resistance," she ordered. "Make an example to the rest of the city. They are under a holy occupation, and this behavior will not be tolerated."

Gilbert nodded and turned away. He didn't really like it, slaughtering these people. But he knew it must be done. It was basic politics: any dissent must be entirely eliminated. And the gods needed this city—it was their only real access point into the south, the only way they could really mount an attack on the southern Daemons.

He stalked off down the streets, just headed towards noise. He inhaled, feeling the bright sun on his shoulders, lending him strength in the humid heat. It wasn't going to be pretty, so he steeled himself now. He thought of the woods this time of year—how they would be quivering with life. The thought sustained him as he entered one of the larger squares in the Central District. It was swarming with people and guards. Already bodies were strewn across the grime-coated bricks, mostly Drachmans. There was something about blood, Gilbert though as he stared at it, transfixed. His vision narrowed, and his hands twitched towards the bow and arrows that hung across his back.

The hunt was on. The smell of blood was thick in the air, and every movement caught Gilbert's eyes as a struggling deer or fowl in the woods. Before he really knew what he was doing, his bow was strung. He vanished from his spot, reappearing on top of one of the buildings a second later. It would be easy pickings from here.

He plucked an arrow from the quiver strung across his back. With almost reverent care, he placed it on the string and drew it, hand resting comfortably against his cheek. He stared down at the crowd, identifying individual creatures from the mass.

There, he though as he spied one breaking from the group. He fired, and the woman crumpled. Her blood ran through the cracks between the bricks. Gilbert could smell it. He notched another arrow, then fired. This time a man fell. Again. Again. Again. They dropped like stones.

He notched another arrow and took aim. Another person broke free of the panicking mob. He released, and watched it sail. He jerked with a start as a winged figure swooped down and knocked the arrow off course.

Gilbert rose from his hunter's crouch swearing as he drew another arrow, this time aimed at the flying figure. He snarled, and released. The arrow snapped towards her. However, suddenly she wasn't there, and his arrow arched away harmlessly.

A solid crack landed across the back of his skull. Howling in pain, he wheeled around, to where the flying figure had materialized behind him. Elizaveta landed softly, great wings folding behind her.

She said nothing, but lunged again for Gilbert, swinging her spear. Cursing, Gilbert duck and tried to counter attack. She blocked and gave him another solid blow with the spear's staff. Gilbert's bloodlust roared through him. "Monster!" he shouted, and he spun, trying to grab at the Daemon.

Elizaveta skipped just out of his reach. She pushed off the building roof, and snapped her wings open, taking to the air. Gilbert reached back and notched an arrow, then fired. Elizaveta ducked and the arrow sailed over her. Then she dove, slamming into Gilbert and sending him through the roof he stood on.

"I'm not the monster here," she snarled, alighting on the edge of the hole. She glared down where Gilbert lay in a heap. She spat, then launched herself into the air.

The violent frenzy that had come over him drained away, and all Gilbert could feel was pain that would take weeks to heal. He slowly got to his feet, and found he wasn't able to stand very well. He fell back into the rubble and looked up grudgingly at the hole he'd fallen through, then paused. Something was strange. He hurt all over, but that wasn't what bothered him. It was that Elizaveta had dared to call him a monster.

Though they had both been alive for thousands of years, his and the Daemon's paths had never crossed much, even before the First Daemon war. But seeing her fight today, how she moved and read all of his moves perfectly played over in his mind. And her words. They stung. Why would they sting?

The screams of people, guard and Drachman alike echoed through the city. The stench of blood was still thick in the air, but it didn't go to Gilbert's head this time. As he sat alone in the ruined house, Gilbert realized why Elizaveta's remark stung.

It was likely she was right.

Alfred soared over the rioting city. The people were making a stand. However the streets and squares were stained with blood of both sides. It pained Alfred, but the Drachmans had a right to fight for their city.

He had carried the message throughout the city. Some places had immediately holed up, keeping out of the fighting. Others had jumped to arms.

Movement caught Alfred's eye. He turned and caught sight of Arthur and Francis. They hoped across rooftops exchanging blows, neither gaining much ground on the other. Alfred could hear their shouts and taunts even over the dim of the city fighting. Maybe he could make the two stop. They weren't even on opposite sides here—they both wanted to see the Drachmans free again.

He was about to swoop in when he caught a different sight: Vahnic and Daka making their way towards the square.

"This can't be good," Alfred said to himself, and tailed them from above.

The gods approached the square, but before entering, stopped. They leaned together, whispering, then vanished. Alfred, startled, looked around, but he couldn't find them.

The mob in the square erupted. In the middle, Daka and Vahnic had appeared, and before any of the people could react, the slaughter had begun. Alfred watched horrified. Struggle between the guards of the people had been a bloody fight, but this was a massacre. In a matter of minutes, the hundred or so Drachmans who had packed the square were dead, soaking in their own blood. The guards had not been touched, but even they shrunk back from the gods in all their power.

As Vahnic and Daka left the square, Alfred knew he had to do something to stop them. He wheeled around in the air, flying towards the only people he could think of that could stand a chance—and who were currently fighting each other rather than the real enemy of these people.

Francis and Arthur were exactly as Alfred had left them. He hovered above them, wondering how best to get their attention. He shook his head. Now was not the time for niceties. He'd just seen a hundred people murdered in just a few minutes. It would happen again if he waited too long.

Throwing caution to the wind, Alfred dropped out of the air, landing between Francis and Arthur. Both cursed and stopped their attacks.

"What on earth are you doing, Alfred?" Arthur shouted.

"This doesn't concern you," Francis said.

"I know, I know. Just shut up and listen to me!" Alfred yelled. He was met with glares from both sides. Shaking his head in fury, he said, "Daka and Vahnic are tearing this city to shreds, and all you two can think about is some stupid thing that happened a long time ago. People are dying!" He took a breath to try and steady himself, but failed miserably. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his glasses and wished he could be more effective.

"What?" Arthur asked blankly. Francis said nothing at all—just turned and ran deeper into the city.

"They're being executed out there," Alfred said through gritted teeth. "And you didn't even notice."

Arthur stared at Alfred as if he had grown another head. "I…I'm so sorry," he said, then vanished.

The sun had begun to sink in the west as Alfred looked over the fallen city. The water in the great lake to the south looked uncomfortably red. Alfred sighed. He jumped into the air and set off in the direction he thought Daka and Vahnic had been headed.

It wasn't hard to follow the two gods—carnage lined the streets they had passed. Alfred sped up, eventually opening up into a square. People struggled to leave, and Alfred feared for the worse as he saw two figures in the center of the square.

But as he approached, Alfred saw that it was Vahnic and Francis—not Daka—and that they were locked in combat. It wasn't evenly matched; Vahnic was obviously the better fighter. However, he seemed thrown by the intensity with which Francis attacked.

The two broke apart for a moment, and Francis called to Alfred, "Daka ran off. Find her, Alfred, please!"

Alfred nodded and Francis turned back to Vahnic. Taking a few running steps then launching into the air, he sped off over the rooftops of the city. In the distance, he could see a pair of figures fighting against the red sunset.

Alfred raced towards them. As he approached his suspicions were confirmed: Arthur and Daka were fighting on the rooftops. Arthur didn't seem to be faring well. He was rapidly losing ground and he clutched his side where blood was starting to trickle through his fingers. They moved along the edge of a roof, and soon Arthur was cornered. He wouldn't be able to jump the gap between the buildings. He glanced behind himself, at the drop behind him—several stories tall and ending on a brick lined street. It was unlikely he would be able to survive a fall like that.

Daka made a swing for Arthur. He managed to duck, but just barely. Dodging left him off-balance, and Daka smirked as she prepared for her finishing blow. She shoved him, square in the chest, and he began to fall.

"Arthur!" Alfred shouted, all his recent resentment towards the Daemon vanished. There was no hesitation. He was a blur of motion, and he collided painfully with Arthur.

Alfred grabbed Arthur, and they tumbled through the air before Alfred regained his balance. Arthur was too heavy to carry, but Alfred managed to land them safely on the ground. They lay on the street, panting and staring at each other.

"Are you alright?" Alfred asked. Arthur nodded shakily.

"Yes. I…I mean, er, thanks," Arthur stuttered. Alfred grinned.

Daka burst onto the street behind them, letting out a terrible shriek. Arthur jumped to his feet.

"Come on. Run," he said, pulling Alfred up behind him.

"What about your side?" Alfred asked. It was bleeding freely again.

"Traitor! You filthy traitor!" Daka screamed.

"I'll deal with it later. Now come on."

Arthur grabbed Alfred's hand and took off. They twisted down the streets, trying to shake the war goddess. They were running down the side of one of the canals when Arthur slipped. He hit the ground hard. Alfred knelt down beside him.

"Arthur!"

"Keep going, Alfred."

A thought occurred to Alfred. "Can't you just vanish?" he asked.

Arthur shook his head. "That takes a lot of energy. I can't."

"Come on," Alfred encouraged, pulling at Arthur's arms. "Just a little farther. I'll think of something."

Arthur chuckled, but managed to stand up. Alfred could hear Daka approaching.

They managed to make it to a sheltered corner, Arthur putting most of his weight on Alfred's shoulder. He collapsed to the ground, but Alfred remained standing.

"I'll be right back," he said. Arthur made no response.

Alfred launched himself into the sky, and searched for the figure he'd encountered before. He saw her in the distance, soaring over the city. Alfred made for her as fast as he could.

"Hey!" he shouted as he approached. The Daemon, Elizaveta whirled in the air to face him. She eyed Alfred suspiciously.

"What do you want?"

"It's Arthur," Alfred said, panting. "He's hurt badly and he needs to get out of here."

Elizaveta's eyes widened. "Lead the way," she said, falling in behind Alfred.

They flew across the city to where Alfred had left Arthur, though it seemed they weren't the only ones on the way. Daka had spotted Arthur and was sprinting for him.

"Get Arthur," Alfred told Elizaveta. "I'll distract her." The Daemon looked wary, but nodded. She dove down to the street and scooped up Arthur. Once he was satisfied Arthur was taken care of, Alfred swerved and slammed into Daka as hard as he could, throwing them both into a house that lined the street.

Alfred lay in a slight daze when Daka extracted herself from him and began to screech and curse at him.

"I knew it from the start!" she cried. "You've never been anything but an incompetent pet of Arlya and now look at the mess you made!"

She punched him in the chest. Alfred could only curl up and endure the abuse. She threw everything at him: fists, feet, and insults. Finally, someone pulled her off of him.

"Daka, stop. You'll kill him," Francis said, holding Daka's arms above her head.

"It's nothing less than he deserves," she spat. "You saw him. He helped a Daemon, or had you forgotten we're at war with them?"

"How could I forget," Francis muttered darkly.

"Then let me kill the traitor."

"No. We can't kill him."

"Why not? What else should we do?"

Francis seemed at a loss. Then he glanced at Alfred apologetically.

"We'll take him to the court. He'll go on trial for treason against the gods."

A/N: This is only edited by me, so if there's anything I've missed/could do better, please point it out to me. This includes grammar, pacing, continuity and characterization. A note about the last two though. I'm essentially publishing my first draft of a novel, and things do change as I write them. That being said, pointing discrepancies out is unbelievably helpful because then I can note them and go back (at some distant point in the future), and fix things.

I had a request to clarify Daemon anatomy: Basically High Daemons (Like Arthur and Ivan) have two forms. Their default is mostly human with animal legs, feet and tails. I picture them much like fawns or satyrs or the Greek god Pan (no relation to Paan in my story). An exception is Elizaveta, who is all human except for having eagle wings. High Daemons can also assume the shape of their Lower Daemons, though it's rather rare.

Reviews feed my soul. Leave them, especially if you have comments about any of the above.

~Kitten