Chapter Forty-One: Incense and Ashes

The Yangtze River stretched widely, its waters churning with a current both ancient and relentless. The sky was a dull gray, the sun veiled by clouds that seemed heavy with the weight of the world. Smoke from the embattled city of Wuhan on the far bank rose in thick, dark plumes, merging with the low-hanging mist that clung to the muddied shallows.

Overlooking the confluence of the Han and Yangtze rivers, stood the famous Yellow Crane Tower. Its silhouette loomed tall and proud against the sky, its golden eaves curving upwards like wings in flight. Though weathered by time and tempered by war, the tower had for centuries remained a monument to resilience, its storied walls bearing witness to the triumphs and tragedies of several dynasties.

And Khasar Khan now found himself standing beneath it.

The snow leopard's silver-gray fur shimmered in the waning light, eyes fixed on the distant chaos of Wuhan. He brandished his distinctive self-satisfied smirk as the sounds of conquest carried across the water: the distant clash of steel, the mournful cries of the defeated, and the thunderous roar of his unstoppable horde which had carved a swath of destruction from Xiangyang to here.

Beside him, the panda-dragon stood in ominous silence. Its immense, hulking form dwarfed Khasar. Black and white scales glistened like polished armor, their patterns twisting into unnatural designs that seemed to writhe as though alive. The beast's brutish snout and jagged horns lent it an intimidating presence, and its saber-like claws scraped against the stone as it shifted. Glowing red eyes burned with a feral, unthinking hunger, their light casting faint shadows across the ground.

Khasar glanced at his monstrous companion, the grin fading slightly into a pensive expression. He had seen countless marvels in his time—monuments of ingenuity and natural wonders that seemed to defy the heavens—but there was something about this creature that even he found unsettling.

"You know, you were significantly more interesting when you were just a big fat panda," he remarked, his tone edged with a hint of disdain. "Clumsy, stupid, full of ridiculous ideals. Entertaining as hell, though. But now… now you are useful."

The dragon did not respond. It could not. The beast that had once been Po, the Dragon Warrior, was gone, his mind consumed by the Dagger of Deng-Wa's malevolent power. Khasar studied the creature for a moment longer, his features betraying a flicker of remorse before he turned his gaze back to the tower.

The Yellow Crane Tower had always fascinated him. As a child, he had listened with rapt attention to the stories told by travelers who spoke of its beauty and significance. It was a watcher of the mists, bearing witness to the ever-flowing wisdom of the river. They said it had been built in honor of immortals, that it had been destroyed and rebuilt countless times, each incarnation a testament to the resilience of the Chinese people.

"Legacy," Khasar muttered, his voice low and contemplative. "That's what this place represents. Outlasting the ambitions of warlords and emperors alike. And yet…"

His claws flexed unconsciously, "Nothing is truly immortal, is it? Everything crumbles to ruins eventually."

His smirk returned, sharper this time, as a new thought took root in his mind—an inclination as grandiose and delusional as the ambitions that had driven him this far.

"I will add my name to this story." he declared, his voice rising with fervor.

He turned to the panda-dragon, visage gleaming with a mixture of madness and triumph.

"You understand, don't you?"

The dragon's glowing eyes remained fixed on the tower, its nostrils flaring as it drew in a deep, rumbling breath.

"Of course you don't." he gestured with his paw, "Destroy it."

The panda-dragon snarled, a guttural sound that sent tremors through the earth. Then, with a thunderous roar that shook the very air, it surged forward, its massive claws tearing into the ground as it launched itself toward the Yellow Crane Tower.

Khasar watched, his heart pounding with a twisted exhilaration, as the beast advanced on the ancient monument. The tower, so grand and unyielding, stood tall against the encroaching shadow, its golden eaves catching the dim light one last time before chaos descended upon it.

Across the riverbank, where the Yangtze's currents reflected the fires engulfing Wuhan, Prince Zhenjin stood with his arms crossed, his back facing the ruddy glow of dusk. He watched as the last remnants of the Yellow Crane Tower crumbled into smoke and ash under the onslaught of the panda-dragon. The resounding crash of collapsing stone echoed across the water.

Behind the prince, his guards loitered with practiced indifference. A mixture of wolves, hawks, and leopards in thick armor, they lounged near the remains of a collapsed wall, some sharpening weapons, others sharing muted conversation. The destruction unfolding around them was nothing new; they had grown numb to the scenes of conquest which had defined their campaign.

But not Zhenjin.

His arms still crossed, his claws began digging faintly into the fabric of his ornate tunic. There was no mistaking the tension in his broad shoulders, the way his ears twitched at the sound of each crashing stone and bellowing roar across the water.

"Majestic, isn't it?" came a voice to his right, light yet edged with forced cheer.

The tiger glanced sideways to see Tsagaan approaching with an awkward smile. The jackal's crimson and gold robes caught the glow of the burning city, lending an almost regal air to his otherwise servile posture.

Zhenjin didn't answer immediately, his gaze returning to the scene of destruction. Tsagaan stepped closer, clasping his paws behind his back in a gesture of obsequious reassurance.

"It's a spectacle, certainly." Zhenjin replied at last, his tone clipped. "It's reckless."

"Reckless, perhaps," Tsagaan mused. "But effective. The populace will remember this day—not for their defiance, but for their defeat. The Khan is a master of symbols, my prince. He understands the power of erasing one's past to cement a new future."

Zhenjin turned to face the jackal fully, "And what future does he imagine he's building, Tsagaan? A wasteland of ash and broken monuments?"

"You underestimate the Khan's vision, my prince. His conquests are not about preservation but dominance. He believes—"

"I know what he believes," Zhenjin interrupted, his voice low and firm. "And I see where it's leading us. These people may be broken now, but every stone of that tower, every life lost here—these are not victories. They are seeds of resentment."

"One might hope for less sympathetic words from someone destined to inherit an empire." the jackal interjected.

The tiger prince ignored this, asking instead, "What do you see across that river, Tsagaan?"

Tsagaan took a moment, as though savoring the gravity of his response, before replying with a single word.

"Power."

Zhenjin's ears flicked back slightly, his posture stiffening as his eyes remained locked on the devastation. "Power," he echoed softly, the word rolling off his tongue like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

As Tsagaan studied the tiger prince, he could no longer see the naive child he had always known. That boy, who had once clung stubbornly to the fervor of youth, was gone—burned away like the timbers of the tower crumbling across the river. The Zhenjin who stood before him now had been tempered by the relentless march of war, the bitter taste of his sister's betrayal, and the weight of watching his father's ambition consume everything in its path. There was no denying the change. Where once there had been bright-eyed certainty, now there was a measured, brooding intensity that unsettled the jackal more than he cared to admit. It wasn't the loss of innocence that struck Tsagaan—it was the realization that Zhenjin had gained something else in its place: a will sharpened to steel and an understanding of the world's cruelty that could not be undone.

For all his sycophancy, Tsagaan felt the weight of that loss keenly. It was easier to serve the dreamer than the realist.

Zhenjin turned sharply from Tsagaan's presence, his frustration proving too much. He had heard the jackal's words, but they did little to reassure him. The callousness of the Khan's conquest was too clear, too evident in the smoldering ruins of Wuhan. His thoughts were a whirlwind as he began to make his way through the ravaged city.

The streets of Wuhan were a mess of devastation and exploitation. Broken carts lay abandoned along the curbs, their wares pillaged or burned. Crumpled papers, remnants of records and deeds that once held the lives of its citizens, littered the ground like fallen leaves. The Mongol soldiers paraded through the streets, their armored forms towering over the cowering civilians. Those who dared look up were met with hostile glares and rough shoves. A family—a mother and two young children—was pushed to the ground as a band of soldiers laughed, one of them swinging his weapon idly in the air.

The distinct sound of war drums echoed through the streets, the heavy beat reverberating against the walls of shattered homes. The air, thick with smoke from the burning remnants of homes and shops, hung heavy with the scent of charred wood and blood. Mongol banners were being raised from the rooftops, their symbols of conquest unfurling as reminders of the city's fall. Zhenjin's gaze flitted from one ruined corner to another—at the garrison where soldiers had set up camp, their fires had begun casting an orange glow as sunset created ever larger shadows.

As he reached the entrance to the military headquarters, he saw the opulence that had been claimed by the Mongol war machine. The lavish Chinese villa was a sharp contrast to the destruction outside. Its stone walls were adorned with ornate carvings, its pillars supporting an intricate roof that still held some remnants of its former grandeur. The green vines that once trailed gracefully up its walls were now torn and trampled, but the beauty still lingered beneath the grime. Mongol soldiers waited outside the gates, standing at attention, but their eyes shifted uneasily when the tiger prince passed. They offered him only the barest of salutes as he entered.

The courtyard inside was serene. Stone lanterns illuminated the walkway, casting long shadows over the marble pathways, and the scent of fresh incense wafted through the air. Despite the quiet beauty of the place, Zhenjin could not shake the heavy feeling in his chest, nor the fire that had taken root in his heart. He did not need to hear Tsagaan's words to know that something was terribly wrong here.

The Khan's vision was a blind one, and Zhenjin was beginning to wonder if he had ever truly been part of that vision. The once-strong ties that had bound him to his father now felt weak, frayed, as though they would unravel completely. The ruler was unreachable and unchecked; none dared to question him, especially now that such a monstrous beast did his every bidding.

Zhenjin entered the inner chambers of the villa, the path leading him deeper into its quiet, reserved halls. His footsteps echoed along the polished floor, his breath coming in shallow bursts as he approached the temple. There, he was met by the golden eagle general, Altan, who stood by a set of lavish doors.

"Prince Zhenjin," Altan greeted him, his voice respectful yet observant. "You do not look well. Your anger is evident even from a distance. Would you like to speak of it?"

Zhenjin's expression hardened, but he said nothing. Altan recognized the storm in the prince's eyes and gave him a brief, knowing glance before stepping away.

"The Khatun is inside," Altan said, gesturing toward the doors.

Without a word, Zhenjin strode forward, his pace quickening with each step. He was tired of the speeches, the justifications, the posturing. The doors themselves were delicate works of art—carved wood depicting a lush forest scene. But Zhenjin barely took notice of their beauty as he pushed them open.

The room inside was mostly dark, save for the soft glow of a few scattered candles. Shadows pooled in the corners, obscuring much of the space, but the heavy scent of incense filled the air. Zhenjin's eyes narrowed slightly, his breath catching in his chest. He was not sure what he expected, but the scene before him felt unsettling. His mother stood with her back to him, her movements slow and deliberate as she lit a series of incense sticks, her claws handling them with a delicate precision that seemed almost ceremonial.

She did not acknowledge his presence immediately, and the silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Zhenjin's eyes traced her form, the way she stood in the dim light, her figure regal even in the quiet solitude. His gaze lingered on the back of her head for a moment longer before he spoke, his voice softer than he had intended.

"Mother."

Nadya didn't move, didn't even acknowledge his presence right away. Her back remained turned to him, her paws still working in the soft glow of the few flickering candles as she carefully lit incense. The air grew thick with the scent of sandalwood, but the atmosphere felt heavier with every passing second.

He waited for a response, but the silence only deepened. His breath quickened as his frustration began to swell. Finally, unable to hold it in any longer, he took a few steps forward.

"Mother," he repeated, his voice more insistent this time, "I need to understand why you're letting this happen. Why you're letting him do this."

Nadya remained unmoving, the tip of the incense stick glowing briefly as she exhaled a thin stream of smoke into the air. She didn't look at him, but Zhenjin could feel her presence, her detachment in contrast to the storm swirling within himself.

"War is not about understanding, Zhenjin," she said quietly, her voice distant. "It's about necessity. About survival."

Zhenjin's eyes narrowed, frustration tightening his chest. He couldn't understand how she could remain so calm, so composed in the face of all the destruction surrounding them.

"How can you say that? You don't even seem to care."

The faint glow of the embers illuminated her face in profile, sharp and shadowed, but she still did not turn to face him.

"I care more than you know," she said, her tone measured but devoid of warmth. "But caring changes nothing. The world is not shaped by sentiment."

"Is that why you were able to discard my sister so easily?" Zhenjin's voice cut through the silence, even sharper than he intended.

Nadya's paw hesitated briefly at the mention of the princess, but she resumed her task with deliberate precision.

"Yuelen discarded herself," she replied coolly. "She chose ambition over loyalty. Over family."

"She chose ambition because that's all she ever saw," Zhenjin countered. "What else could she have learned in a court where power is everything? Where every move is a test of strength, every gesture a play for survival?"

Nadya turned her head slightly, her purple eyes flicking toward him but not fully meeting his gaze.

"Do not romanticize her choices, Zhenjin. Yue knew what she was doing. She was not some 'victim of circumstance.' She was dangerous, reckless, and would kill you if given a second chance to do so."

Zhenjin took a step closer, his voice lowering but losing none of its intensity, "And what if it had been me instead of her? What if I'd been the one who turned my back on you and Father? Would you have 'done what was necessary' then too?"

The words hung heavy in the air, and for the first time, Nadya faltered. Her claws gripped the edge of the altar, her usually unshakable composure cracking ever so slightly. But when she spoke, her voice was steady, if not entirely convincing.

"You would not have made her mistakes."

Zhenjin's gaze bore into her, frustrated by her evasion, "You didn't answer the question."

Nadya turned at last, slowly. Her face was calm, but her eyes betrayed a latent anger beneath the surface of her reserved visage. "Do not mistake me for someone who enjoys these choices, Zhenjin. I did what had to be done—for you, for this family, for the Khanate."

"Did you?" Zhenjin asked, his voice quieter now but no less resolute. "Or did you do what was easiest? Yue wasn't a monster, Mother. She was made into one. And I don't blame her for what she became."

Nadya looked away, her eyes flicking to the candles burning low on the altar. Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. "The sister you knew... she was gone long before that day."

"Maybe," Zhenjin conceded. "But that doesn't mean she couldn't have come back. It doesn't mean she didn't deserve the chance."

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint crackle of the candles. Nadya's shoulders sagged slightly, a subtle but telling gesture that Zhenjin had rarely seen from her. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, tinged with something that sounded almost like regret.

"You are your father's son," she said, her gaze still fixed on the altar. "But in moments like this, I see more of myself in you than I care to admit."

Zhenjin frowned, confused by the shift in her tone. "And what does that mean?"

"It means you will carry this weight," she replied, turning about and meeting his eyes. "Just as I have. Feeling this way won't change the world we live in… but it will make it heavier."

"I'll carry it anyway," Zhenjin said, his voice steady. "Because if I don't, who will?"

For a long moment, Nadya said nothing, her expression inscrutable as she studied Zhenjin. Then, unexpectedly, the faintest flicker of a smile crossed her lips. It was fleeting, gone almost before it could be noticed, but it was there.

"The world devours hope, my son."

Nadya held his gaze for a moment longer before turning back to the altar, her features once again settling into the composed mask she wore so well. Zhenjin could see there was no point in pressing the matter further. But as he turned to leave, he couldn't shake the feeling that, beneath his mother's cynicism, there was a part of her that believed he was right.

The village was a wound carved into the earth, its charred remains bleeding smoke into a colorless sky. The surrounding rice paddies had turned into waterlogged pits, their once-vivid greens and golds now swallowed by ash. Smoke drifted lazily on the horizon, each plume marking another village in the Mongols' path of unchecked destruction. The heartlands of China, once so serene, were now a tapestry of despair.

Crane stood amidst the ruins, his frame casting a thin shadow over the crumbled remnants. His sharp eyes scanned the devastation, taking in the scattered debris and burned-out shells of homes. The rice paddies, now lifeless pools of stagnant water, mirrored the growing void he felt inside.

The other kung fu masters had since moved on, their paths diverging in the wake of the shattered imperial army. Most of the remaining Chinese soldiers had dispersed into the countryside, leaving whoever remained to fend for themselves in a land consumed by chaos.

The farming estate he had stumbled upon was eerily still. Household items sat untouched, as if the owners had fled in the middle of their daily routines—or perished before they could. Crane stepped carefully over a broken rice basket, his talons brushing the ground with a faint scrape. The silence weighed heavily, broken only by the faint crackle of lingering embers as he crossed the desolate grounds and entered what remained of an agrarian manor house.

Crane's steps carried him to a patch of sunlight that sliced through the building from the gaping hole in the estate's side, which offered a commanding view over the demolished village. The courtyard below was littered with the evidence of lives suddenly interrupted: tools left mid-task, a broken spindle abandoned near a loom, and stone jars tipped over, their contents having spilled and dried.

Crane lingered in the sunlight, his eyes tracing the fractured beams of the estate's roof. The way the light pierced through the wreckage reminded him of dawn breaking over the place where he had spent his youth.

That village, too, had been nestled amongst the paddies, its stilted homes standing tall over shimmering fields of green. He could almost hear the faint calls of the farmers and the gentle rhythm of the wind brushing through the fields, a melody that had been the backdrop of his childhood.

But that village was far from here, untouched by the horrors that had consumed this place.

Or was it?

The thought struck him like a cold wind. The Mongols had no boundaries. Not anymore. If they could reach this place, then perhaps there was nothing stopping them from destroying the home he had left behind all those years ago.

Crane let out a quiet sigh, his slender wings folding tightly against his back. He tried to shake the thought from his mind, focusing instead on the present, on what he could do. Yet the desolation around him made it difficult to summon any semblance of hope.

His gaze dropped to the floor, where he suddenly noticed the charred remnants of a scroll that peeked out from beneath the ash. He tilted his head, curiosity sparking faintly amid his sorrow. With a careful motion, he crouched and extended a wing to brush away the debris. The delicate parchment crinkled slightly as he lifted it, edges blackened but with the ink still being legible.

Crane straightened and turned the scroll toward the light, his eyes scanning the words:

The birds have vanished down the sky.
Now the last cloud drains away.

We sit together, the mountain and me,
until only the mountain remains.

He recognized the poem. Li Bai's verses had always spoken to him, but now they felt like an elegy for the land he loved.

He stood there for a long moment. The countryside stretched out before him, scarred and broken. A breeze swept through the ruins again, once more stirring the ash and carrying with it the faint, distant scent of burning wood. Crane let the scroll slip from his wing, its fragile form drifting back to the ground where it rested amongst the remains.

The poetry lingered in his thoughts, its quiet melancholy threading seamlessly into the tangled emotions that had taken root in his heart.

Mei Ling.

He hadn't spoken her name aloud in days, though it seemed to echo in his mind constantly. She was like the horizon itself—always there, just out of reach, no matter how far he traveled. Crane's wings shifted uneasily at his sides as he thought of her, the memories of their recent time together as vivid as the smoke columns that now stained the sky.

He had loved her for as long as he could remember, but that love had been uncomplicated once, a youthful idealistic hopefulness that felt light and pure. In time, it had become something heavier, something twisted by the decisions they had made and the chaos that had followed.

That moment in Khanbaliq—the moment he had chosen her over everything else—played over in his mind like a loop he couldn't escape. He felt responsible for what had befallen his friends. He had betrayed Po and Tigress, his sworn duty, and perhaps even his own sense of justice.

And all for what? To see my country laid to ruin?

Mei Ling had been quiet in the days after they had fled southwards from Xiangyang; her usually-sharp wit dulled, her movements weighed down by something unspoken. He could see it in her eyes—those brilliant, piercing eyes that had always been so full of fire. The moment she had struck down her father had extinguished something in her, something she might never recover.

And now, she was gone.

Not in the physical sense—he knew she couldn't have traveled far—but her absence was palpable. They hadn't parted with any argument or recrimination. It was simply that, after all they had endured together, they had no words left for each other.

Crane's wings unfolded slightly, his talons clicking softly against the floor as he paced. He had wanted to console her, to remind her that what she did had been necessary, that she wasn't her father. But every time he tried, the words felt hollow, even to him. He missed Mei Ling, missed her presence, missed the way her voice could cut through even the darkest of his thoughts. But he couldn't shake the feeling that their paths, once so intertwined, were unraveling with every passing day.

The bird had vanished, and now only the mountain remained.

For a long moment, Crane stood motionless, letting the silence envelop him. Then, with a slow, deliberate breath, he turned back toward the sunlight, his shadow stretching long over the broken earth. If Mei Ling had truly gone her own way, he couldn't blame her. But he still wanted to see her again—if not to heal the wounds of the past, to face the uncertain future together at least.

Crane moved toward a collapsed beam jutting out from the crumbled structure and leaned his slender frame against it. The rough, charred wood creaked faintly under his weight, a sound swallowed almost immediately by the stillness surrounding him. He closed his eyes, his wings folding tightly against his sides as he let the world seep into him.

The acrid scent of flames, a bitter reminder of the destruction that had swept through this place, mingled with the faint, earthy undertone of wet ash to produce something oddly comforting, like nostalgia for something never experienced in the first place. He breathed it in, letting the sensation settle deep into his lungs, as if anchoring himself to this singular moment in time.

The sun was climbing higher now, but it offered little warmth. Instead, its light merely revealed more of the desolation stretching out before him. Behind closed eyelids, Crane tried to imagine it all as it must have been once. But the images refused to take shape, dissipating like smoke every time he tried to hold onto them.

An idea crept into his mind softly, almost comfortingly.

What if I don't move?

He wondered what would happen if he simply stayed here as the world passed him by. It wasn't despair exactly, though it brushed close to it. It was exhaustion, pure and simple. The kind that seeped into his bones and made the idea of stillness feel like the only thing left. Crane tilted his head back slightly, the cool breeze brushing against his feathers. It wasn't so bad, really—this quiet, this solitude. Maybe the world didn't need him anymore.

Maybe it never had.

Crane leaned against the beam, his eyes closed, the world pressing down on him like the weight of the sky. The scent of flames still lingered in the air, sharp and unrelenting, but then—something else. A softer note, delicate and fleeting, carried on the breeze.

Jasmine and blackened amber.

His eyes opened, his pulse quickening. It couldn't be. He straightened, his wings spreading slightly as he scanned the ruins.

And then he saw her.

Mei Ling stepped into view, her form illuminated by the fractured light cutting through the wreckage. Her fur, a reddish brown that seemed to shimmer even in the gloom, was streaked with soot, and her movements were slower than he remembered, heavy with weariness. Yet, she carried herself with the same quiet strength which had always drawn him to her.

"Xian," came the soft, steady voice he knew.

The golden cat's expression was unreadable at first, but as she drew closer, her sharp eyes softened. Crane felt a tightness in his chest loosen, replaced by a blooming warmth.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Mei Ling paused a few steps away, her gaze flickering over him as if trying to memorize every detail. He couldn't help but notice the weariness etched into her features—grief and regret she tried to mask but couldn't quite conceal.

"I thought you'd left," Crane said finally, his voice quieter than he intended.

"I almost did," she replied. "But…" Her words faltered, and she glanced away, searching for the right thing to say. "I couldn't. Not like this. Not without knowing you were…"

She stopped, shaking her head.

"I missed you."

The simplicity of her admission was what struck him to his core. He straightened, his wings unfolding slightly as if to reach for her, but he hesitated.

"You're here," he murmured, his voice tinged with disbelief.

"I'm here," she confirmed, stepping closer.

The space between them shrank until Mei Ling reached out, her paw brushing lightly against his wing. Crane felt the warmth of her touch radiate through him, a quiet affirmation that she was real, that she had come back.

"I've been thinking about everything that's happened," she said, her voice low but steady. "About what we've done… what we've lost." Her eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, the world seemed to still. "And I realized… it doesn't mean anything if I lose you too."

Crane's breath hitched. He wanted to say something, to reassure her, but his throat felt tight with emotion. Instead, he let his wings rise to cradle her shoulders, drawing her closer. She leaned into him, resting her head against his chest, and for the first time in days, he felt a sense of peace.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice trembling. "For everything. For dragging you into this—"

"Stop," she interrupted, pulling back just enough to look up at him. Her gaze was fierce, yet tender. "We made our choices, Xian. Together."

Crane searched her face, the sincerity of her words anchoring him in a way nothing else could. He nodded slowly, the weight of his self-doubt beginning to lift. They still had very few words for each other. But it was different now. They just understood.

"What now?" he asked quietly.

Mei Ling smiled faintly, a glimmer of determination breaking through her weariness.

"We find the others. We figure out what's next. We keep fighting." she said with purpose. "We don't ever give up."

Crane smiled back.

"I missed you too."

Author's Notes:

- A bit of a shorter gap between updates this time, fortunately! As much fun as it has been to follow Tigress for the last several chapters, I think a return to other characters was warranted

- Very curious to see what people think of Zhenjin's arc in this story thus far, he's gradually become one of the more enjoyable characters to write

- Since this is also ostensibly a Crane/Mei Ling fic, it has also been long overdue that I return to their dynamic - I hope it came across well!

- As always, thank you to all my readers and reviewers! I always appreciate any and all feedback, you guys are what make this stuff so enjoyable!