I AM A WOLF TO MAN.

A     BREATH,     A     MOMENT,     ----------     [     that’s     all     it     took     ]     -------     treading     upon     slicked     rooftops,     these     were     the     wretched     wolf’s     hunting     grounds.     the     silence     was     deafening     as     he     takes     each     step,     beneath     him     are     the     hushed     cries     and     clinking     of     shingles.     heart     a     steady     beat     now,     when     he     was     a     younger     man     it     would     have     been     rushing,     treading     in     for     the     kill     upon     unsuspecting     individuals.     but     now     he     wasn’t     looking     to     draw     blood,     for     now     all     he     sought     was     to     slip     through     unseen.

A     BREATH     IN,     -----     [     the     blink     always     pressed     deep     into     his     lungs     ]     and     he     jumps!     goes     falling,     gaining     speed     before     the     color     slips     from     the     world.     the     power     of     the     void     in     a     hushed     whisper     as     he     grips     hand     into     a     fist,     the     brand     upon     his     hand     glowing     harshly.

AND     THE     WORLD     STOPS,     before     slowed     boot     could     reach     the     lower     roof.     taken     in     by     the     void     once     more     he     beholds     the     hovering     figure     before     him.     A     WORLD,     A     MOMENT     ALL     THEIR     OWN.     it     could     all     fall     away     right     now,     it     wouldn’t     mean     a     thing     [     he     would     end     up     there     anyhow,     left     to     toil     endlessly     ]

A     QUIRK     OF     HIS     LIPS     UPON     CORNERS     WHO     KNEW     NO     JOY,     surely     just     a     trick     of     the     mind,     before     he     speaks     to     him.     spoken     like     a     kiss     upon     the     back     of     hand,     with     a     tenderness     and     affection     that     rang     out.     the     only     worship     he     would     offer     him     in     these     moments     they     had,     glint     in     tired     eyes,     twinge     of     lips     and     carefully     picked     words     to     lay     at     his     feet.     simple,     but     meaningful     all     the     same.

TO     THE     QUIET,     HE     BELONGS.     the     last     shred     of     peace     or     silent     distress     ‘fore     blade     met     skin,     and     flesh,     and     bone.     ——     ended     another     life,     another     body     to     stack     upon     the     piles     that     bled     and     bled.     let     it     flood     the     cities,     flood     the     streets,     all     hoping     to     swallow     him     up     in     their     grief     and     greed.     but     the     wolf     seeks     only     to     feed,     to     quiet     the     howling     empty     and     raging     need     within.     he     had     always     been     so     terribly     stubborn,     a     trait     that     his     mother     would     pinch     cheek     and     ear     for,     proclaiming     that     he     was     just     like     her.     but     a     sadness     in     her     eyes     spoke     to     the     fear     that     remained,     she     saw     the     devil     within     him     before     he     did     &     she     begged     by     all     the     powers     of     the     void     that     this     wolf     of     man     would     turn     sheep     and     relinquish     what     hungry     canines     lie     beneath     pinked     gums     and     wide     bewildered     gaze.     

YET     STILL     SO     TOO     DID     HER     CALLS     FALL     UPON     DEAF     EARS,     for     death     followed     him     like     shadow     and     then     came     the     outsider.     knew     what     strength     he     held,     what     he     brought     about     with     his     fire     and     change.     promised     him     in     hushed     whispers     that     he     would     shift     the     balance     of     power     in     time,     all     in     time…     never     like     this.     back     then     it     made     him     feel     powerful.     back     then     he     trusted     in     his     rage,     for     it     kept     him     alive.    NOW,     THOUGH…

Q    ;     do     you     enjoy     the     quiet,     daud?     or     does     it     drive     you     mad?

TAUNTING     HIM     HE     IS,     THE     BASTARD,     and     what     sick     dance     could     they     share     now?     what     laugh     to     be     had     at     the     end     of     all     the     world,     sitting     there     amongst     ruins     knowing     his     hands     would     never     be     clean?

A    ;     ❛     I’m    not     one     for    noise,     for     the    sake     of     noise.     ❜

❛     were     you     there?     ❜

COMES     HIS     VOICE     DRIFTING     FROM     BEHIND,     cigar     brought     to     lips     and     the     end     burning     to     life     as     he     puffs     on     it.     quick     as     it     came     it     ended,     the     way     he     exhales     thick     smoke     and     plunges     the     duo     back     into     the     darkened     twilight     of     early     morn.

❛     were     you     there     when     she     accepted     the     deal?     when     she     stood     over     me,     ...     and     contemplated     following     through?     --     and     what     if     she     had?     ❜     

The Outsider remains silent in his seat across from Daud, hands still folded tightly together; glimmering, alien eyes scanning the man as though he could find some angle, some weakness that he could exploit in order to illustrate to him how such a bold accusation of the god is incorrect. The habit is there, even on this, the assassin’s dying day. The need to bark back at Daud and eloquently and verbally punish him for daring to thrust the blame of his heavy shoulders onto the god almost becomes too much to continue to deny his tongue. 

He supposes he shouldn’t bother arguing with a man who was running out of time. But he cannot ignore that sting that swells inside him as he listens to the words of the Wolf to Man, spoken with confidence as he faces the end. How calm he appeared, almost unafraid of the finality of his life (if only he knew); it contrasts the exhaustion in his eyes as he beholds the god in the setting Serkonan sun. The Outsider didn’t require his sight to see that this was a man that was too tired to continue playing their old game, too old to dance their old dance. 

The Void Walker dares peel his eyes off of Daud, although it is reluctant; fearful of looking away from one of his best marks as though he might crumble into dust and carry off into the wind before the Outsider is able to look to him again. The thought of such a powerful man in such a weakened state sinks heavily onto the Outsider; now, and when watching him remain imprisoned by powerless witches and cult members using the same equipment the Abbey of the Everyman used to combat the Void’s magic; released only so often, just to make an example of young brawlers that hadn’t much of a clue of who Daud was, what he was capable of, and what he’d done.

Black Magic Brute. 

A title that irritated the Outsider far more than it should; it was a name that hardly touched on the raw force of his champion, yet it was one they branded him with anyways, simply for the purpose of building an audience, selling tickets, filling seats and using him to entertain the bored youth of Karnaca. They played with the old Knife, the so-called “magnificent bastard”, like a toy.

(Much like the Outsider had.)

“What do you want me to tell you, Daud?” The Void god finally lifts his gaze back to the dying man. That dark black reflecting a deep sadness that one might recognize from the ocean’s whalesongs in the dead of the night. or the final wing flaps of a moth that flew too close to a flame. “What is it that I can say to you that could release your anger? What might finally bring you peace?” He attempts to hide the urgency in his voice, fully aware of where the assassin would go once he breathes his final lungful of air, should he not be cleansed of the red that has stained his hands for so long. It’s certainly a last resort and he knows it will likely lead to nothing. 

But there was always a potential; after all, Daud was always capable of changing things.

THEY     SIT     IN     SILENCE,     but     the     silence     feels     different     tonight.     perhaps     it     was     only     a     trick     of     the     mind,     then     again     ...     perhaps     not.     for     gut     ne’er     steered     him     wrong     though     he     didn’t     often     listen     to     it     enough     to     turn     down     coin     ----     if     Jessamine     was     proof     enough.     Yet     hackles     lower     if     even     for     a     moment     as     cigarette     is     drawn     to     his     lips,     and     tired     eyes     that     had     seen     the     rise     an     fall     of     a     city     look     upon     the     horizon     for     the     last     time.     The     last     day.     The     end     is     coming.     ---     he     saw     a     man     walking     on     a     tightrope     above     a     sea     of     blood     and     filth     and     the     water     was     rising.     Though     it     seemed     to     lapse     like     waves     as     he     balanced,     searching     for     stability     in     a     world     he     hoped     to     hide     and     disappear     from.     Fear     and     shame     rattling     his     core     and     every     day     spent     wondering     if     the     royal     protector     would     finally     come     for     his     life     with     a     fury     of     a     man     stripped     of     everything.

SEEMED     THE     HOWLING     EMPTY     THAT     HE     CARRIED     WITH     HIM     WAS     NOT     SO     EASILY     BARED,     not     so     easily     relinquished.     Not     matter     how     it     squirmed     and     writhed     and     pulled     at     his     wounds.     He     offers     him     a     means     out     --     offers     some     peace,     the     Outsider     himself.     And     how     many     would     wish     for     this     moment,     how     many     would     so     quickly     blurt     all     their     wishes     so     desperately     at     his     feet     like     some     groveling     hound?     Dogs     beg,     but     wolves     hunt     for     themselves,     they     know     their     masters     are     their     own     nature     and     he     is     without     a     will     to     stoop     to     the     level     of     a     dog.     Especially     in     his     final     moments     --     and     it’s     coming     for     him,     he     can     feel     it,     the     endless     cold     wrapping     tighter     and     tighter     ‘round     his     form.     But     what     could     he     give     to     him     that     would     truly     make     him     be     at     peace     as     he     passes?     He     could     not     grant     him     the     one     thing     he     wanted     and     by     the     time     he     had     the     gall     to     speak     of     her,     it     would     already     be     too     late,     and     her     names     would     be     long     gone,     lost     to     the     void.     HE     CAN’T     REMEMBER     HER     FACE.

SO     WILD     WOLF     SPEAKS     SOFTER     THAN     BEFORE,     like     lowering     lips     to     cover     sharpened     canines.     Might     as     well     make     their     last     meeting,     the     last     time     they     speak     in     the     daylight,     pleasant.     Or     rather,     as     pleasant     as     it     could     be     with     how     much     they     had     ...     between     them.

Q     ;     WHAT     MIGHT     FINALLY     BRING     YOU     PEACE?

A     ;     ❛     you     can’t.     it’s     far     to     late,     to     go     back     now.     ...     but     you     knew     that     –     didn’t     you?     ❜

Drowning, falling deep into the darkest pits of the ocean. Sight is gone, thoughts muddied with a thick fog that he couldn’t quite free himself of. He still feels the effects of those elixirs he was force-fed; as a result, all perception is intangible, he is unable to grasp at reality. The child is simply left wondering in his confused, murky state. How long had he been falling? When would he hit the bottom? How old was he? What was his name?

There’s a presence near him. Within arm’s reach… Cold, but familiar. He recognizes who it is. But something is wrong. He can’t see him, but he knows he’s there. He knows that presence anywhere… At least, he thinks he does. The remorseful, unsettling voice piercing through his fog. The urge to reach out and seek the one who belongs to such a voice, but alas, he cannot grasp him. He is frozen in his free-fall, unable to rid his eyes of this eternal blackness and truly see for the first time in… How long has it been? How old was he? What was his name?

…

The Heart of the Void. Even the avatar, so welcoming of this endless-nothing-and-everything damns this place. The odd sobs, confused begging. They always seem to fill his ears and drown out the comforting lullabies of the Leviathan that always sings out its fruitless attempts to soothe the lost souls that the Void has selfishly claimed. Even for a being that sees everything, all of time, all possibilities, every decision made… To him, this world is always becomes too much to bear. Too much to take in. The sound, the pain, the fear, the blind need–

–He rarely visits this place. His reasons are good enough.

But there is one voice he seeks, one name he dares to pluck out of the sea of lives, arms all reaching out for a salvation they cannot even comprehend. One hand he needs to touch one final time. He needs to see him. He has to see him. Perhaps, in that regard, the Outsider was no better than those, the lost men and women, who inhabited this forsaken place. Is it the Outsider that has this strong, yet blind desire? Or the one frozen in his marble prison, exposed to all of this suffering and unable to do a thing about it.

He knows fully that it would be better to leave his last memory of Daud as the one in his drunken stupor on that sorry, dilapidated excuse for a pyre.

                                                                   He deserved better.

But he can’t.

His sight won’t let him. Every possibility of the poor wolf’s soul being torn apart, ravaged by the Void. The dangerously curious god has to know which possibility is the reality and he believes he is prepared for what he’ll see. 

But he is lying to himself. The actuality of Daud’s soul feeling around in the dark for his mother’s hand like a lost child is truly sickening to witness. The Outsider has observed many disturbing things in his long existence, but to see the Knife of Dunwall himself, a beast of a man who wreaked chaos all throughout Gristol and Serkonos and rocked the entirety of the Empire using his two hands alone, in such a vulnerable and incomplete state, is far beyond the Outsider’s definition of disturbing. Heart aches for this shell of the Wolf to Man – at least… what he believes is his heart. 

What lies before him is only a single piece of the person the Outsider once knew. The impalpable remains of the man, borne of his ashes that now sink into the dark forever abyss of the deep, mysterious ocean, just like the Outsider’s own physical body. The Void Walker should be used to this. He’s seen many an assassin, a nobleman, a poor boy, a priest, a mark, come in and go out in a similar manner. 

And yet, this one is what stands out to him. This one hurts to witness.

Expression softens, brows cinch together in concern for the Old Knife’s suffering. Pale lips curl into a frown. Not of anger, or disappointment – faces he knows his mark has seen before. But unrecognizable, irreconcilable sadness. Dark eyes reflect something profound inside of them as he beholds what is left of Daud, and all he knows is to reach a hand out to the soul that aches so badly for his mother. He’s not the one Daud searches for, but the hope to offer some form of comfort as he braces for the Wolf to Man to leave once more. 

“Daud…” He states softly, hand extended to the tired assassin’s hand. His voice low while beholding the remains of what was once a force to be reckoned with. 

He recognizes the perversion of their long relationship. His fascination with such a capable man, his encouraging words embracing him as he kneeled in the dark. Their long arguments, and those frustrating conversations. Watching as coin swapped hands; he remembers growing thrilled as Daud’s blade grew more and more bloodied while secretly wishing better for such a capable assassin… All of this while the Void picked at the Old Knife. Stole pieces of him that could never be restored. The Outsider knew this was happening. During all those years, he saw how this selfish realm took from him, plucking parts of him away as though he were a jigsaw puzzle being taken apart.

The Outsider hangs his head. Inked eyes unable to stare at the shell of the Wolf to Man any longer. He alone is responsible for this.

                                                                    Ego homini lupus.

“I’m so sorry.”

HE     HEARS     HIM,     HE     HEARS     HIM     BUT     IT’S     LIKE     A     DREAM.     Some     haze,     akin     to     the     kind     felt     when     bleeding     out,     close     to     death     he     always     walked     the     thin     blade     of     a     line     in     his     life.     Never     feared     the     fall.     But     not     now,     now     he     could     muster     no     strength,     no     rasping     order,     demand,     argument     or     insult     to     throw     his     way.     Could     not     raise     his     voice     to     spit     venom     upon     the     ‘ WRETCHED     OUTSIDER ’    

Q     ;     but     would     he,     if     he     had     he     had     such     a     chance?

A     ;     yes.

Q     ;     ❛     you     ...     you     knew.     you     bastard     …     you     knew     all     this     time?     ❜ 

THERE’S     SUCH     A     LOOK     OF     SADNESS     ON     HIS     OLD     COMPLEXION.     Exhaustion     and     betrayal.     for     he’d     been     stabbed     in     the     back     only     a     handful     of     times     but     none     such     as     painful     a     deceit     as     his.     When     he     spoke,     daud     listened,     once     upon     a     time.     Words     hushed     in     the     dark     and     they     made     him     feel     powerful     (     he     needed     it     --     craved     it.     )     And     what     did     it     grant   him     instead,     a     life     filled     with     regret     and     contempt.     The     guilt     of     an     empire     on     restless     shoulders     of     an     animal     left     to     rot     by     the     world.     (     because     there     was     no     room     for     weakness     or     innocence,     right?     the     city     ate     it     up     without     mercy,     or     perhaps     it     was     just     that     way     because     he     set     such     a     perfect     example     of     cruelty.     jessamine’s     hands     were     the     only     thing     holding     the     city     together,     he     knew     because     he     watched     it     all     fall     apart.     )     An     act     like     that     doesn’t     so     easily     wash     away,     no     matter     how     far     you     wander,     no     matter     if     you     are     permitted     to   live     in     fear     for     the     rest     of     your     days.     No     amount     of     waiting,     hiding,     and     drifting     would     grant     him     the     peace     he     searched     for.     Even     now,     it     seemed     the     end     was     nothing     so     gentle     either.     He     remembers     Billie,     remembers     the     ship,     her     good     whiskey     and     laughing     ever     so     softly.     There     was     warmth     there,     and     once     the     void     took     him,     swallowed     him     whole     and     he     fell     into     the     dark     there     was     nothing     so     kind     here.     Nothing     but     howling     winds,     swept     up     with     the     cries     of     the     dead,     the     damned,     but     he     could     hear     none     of     it.     All     he     could     hear,     was     him.

HE’S     HEARD     HIM     SPEAK     HIS     NAME     SO     MANY     TIMES.     Spoken     with     contempt,     disinterest,     with     pride,     annoyance.     Perhaps     he’s     heard     him     say     it     every     way     imaginable,     at     least     he     thought,     before     he     spoke     to     him     like     that.     And     the     words     that     follow     seem     to     reach     past     the     fog,     he     has     no     strength     to     cry,     nothing     coherent     he     can     offer,     just     pained     mutterings     that     seem     to     be     shreds     of     him     --     the     only     pieces     left,     the     most     raw.     Picked     clean     and     freed     by     the     course     winds     of     the     void.

I’m     so     sorry.

AND     O’     THE     THINGS     HE     WOULD     SAY     IF     HE     WERE     THERE,     IF     HE     WASN’T     JUST     A     SHUDDERING     SHADOW     OF     HIMSELF     SAT     ON     THE     BRINK.     The     insults,     the     guard,     they     could     play     their     game     again     of     arguing     in     the     dark     like     they     were     meant     for     it,     like     there     wasn’t     anything     else     that     they     could     be     doing     --     should     be     doing     --     if     it     meant     just     a     moment     longer     in     the     dark.     But     there’s     no     more     time     for     their     game     any     longer          --     (     but     time     means     nothing     here,     right?     )     --          nothing     left     to     say,     nothing     he     would     hear     anyway.    

I’m     so     sorry.

Nothing     he     could     truly     respond     to.

R     ;     ❛     i     know.     …     i     know.     ❜ 

YOUR     WOLF     HAS     BROKEN     HIMSELF     ON     THE     SHARPENED     EDGES     OF     YOUR     HOME,     DEAR     OUTSIDER.     Too     worn     and     torn,     wounds     too     deep     and     brutal     to     heal,     and     far     too     tired     to     fight     its     gasp     any     longer,     or     to     bite     the     hand     that     feeds.     Now,     he’s     left     at     your     feet,     soul     sprawled     out     and     shifting,     a     glimmering     pained     thing,     in     this     howling     nothing,     howling     along     with     the     winds     --     but     for     what     he     can     barely     grasp.

MY     POOR     MOTHER,     BEGGED     FOR     A     SHEEP.

❛     i     ...     hoped     i     would     find     her     here     but --     ❜ 

BUT     RAISED     A     WOLF.

WOLF     OF     MAN     SPEAKS     LIKE     FRIGHTENED     CHILD,     WITH     VOICE     SO     UNCHARACTERISTICALLY     SOFT     AND     RAW.     The     void     is     stripping     him     away,     slowly.     sits     mere     inches     from     the     void’s     avatar,     chosen     ---     (     stolen     from     the     world     )     ---     and     yet     neither     could     do     a     thing     about     the     way     the     end     and     beginning     of     all     things     unraveled     the     old     man     before     him.

Q     ;     ❛     where     is     my     mother?     this     place     ...     this     place.     where     is     my     mother?     ❜

.  .  . “Hello, Daud.” 

Black particles of the Void dance playfully in a quiet gust of wind as the black-eyed bastard himself appears before the dying Knife of Dunwall. The Serkonan sunset beating on the pale Outsider, black eyes squinting for a moment as he allows himself to adjust to his brighter surroundings. 

Arms folded behind the Outsider’s back, there was something different about the Void god. The tone in his two-word greeting was somber; noticeably, the Outsider didn’t immediately jump to a sassy remark upon greeting his champion, nor did he chastise the man for his actions or tease him for his thoughts like he normally did. Instead, the black-eyed bastard allows a silence to fall between the two for a moment. The circumstance was delicate and the Outsider knew this was no time for games. 

The Outsider could feel the Void grasping hungrily at Daud as he slowly succumbed to death, the god knows very well how this will be the last time he will see Daud intact and he knows he has to make this last meeting count. 

He takes a step forward and allows a small smile to appear on his lips. “Thirty-two years ago, in the gloomy city of Dunwall, I approached you just like this. I offered you limitless power because I knew you could change things.”  

“I watched the coin move from the hands of one noble to another as you tore through the city with ease. I watched you murder an empress and safely guide another one to her seat on the throne. I watched you stare the man whose life you destroyed in the eye and beg for mercy and when he spared your life, I thought that would be the end of your adventures.” 

“But then you set off for one more kill. You had to make one more move–you had to change one more thing.”

The Outsider walks forward and takes a seat at the table where Daud rested. Careful to not invade the assassin’s personal space, the Outsider places his hands on the table’s surface, clasping his bony fingers together. 

“When I look at you, Daud, I see contempt in your old eyes. And when I think back on the past, I can’t help but wonder…”

“Where did I steer you wrong?”

SPUTTER     ON     SMOKE     AND     ASH,     HIS     BODY     HEAVING,     —————     speaking     softly     ;     what     right     do     you     have     to     remain     with     the     guilt     you     bear,     wild     wolf?     And     he     never     did     have     an     answer.     Even     now     he     remains     upon     a     boat     soon     to     be     his     pyre     he’s     sure,     facing     death     and     a     being     beyond     the     veil     who     had     known     him     all     his     life.     Sought     to     destroy     him,     was     it     in     trying     to     clear     his     conscious,     clean     his     hands     of     the     blood     that     had     soaked     them     for     years     that     he     decided     to     aim     to     kill     a     god     of     all     things?     ;     (     but     it     would     never     come     off,     no,     the     blood     would     never     wash     away.     because     he     knew     what     it     meant     to     destroy     those     with     false     meaning     under     their     boots.     but     none     were     like     her,     no     he     supposes     none     would     ever     be     quite     like     her.     )          Status     was     a     defective     apparatus,     like     a     tower     of     sand     that     tumbled     down     and     rippled     like     any     other     faulty     structure,     and     he     was     fine     to     topple     as     many     as     needed     for     the     right     amount     of     coin.     The     old     knife     knew     that     he’d     come     to     him     in     the     end.     The     Wolf     and     the     Void     Walker     had     a     long     history,     all     muddled     with     arguments     and     resentment,     raw     and     vile.     Perhaps     he     resented     him     for     giving     him     such     powers     when     he     was     young     and     angry.     But     in     a     world     that     eats     up     innocence,     did     he     have     any     other     choice     but     to     become     this     monster?

(     A     ;          yes.     )

BUT     PERHAPS     THIS     ONE     ACT     OF     A     FRAZZLED     MAN     GRASPING     FOR     REDEMPTION     WAS     ENOUGH     TO     MAKE     UP     FOR     IT,     for     all     the     ships     sailed     on     the     royal     blood     split.     (     or     perhaps     not.     )          Sits     before     him     as     the     void     eats     away     at     him,     even     in     death     Daud     was     strong,     withstanding     the     abuse     none     could     fathom.     Still,     he     does     so     with     not     a     twitch     of     lips     nor     pained     howl,     but     there’s     weariness     in     his     eyes     that     cries     louder     than     any     shrieking     wail     of     a     trapped     creature     could     convey.     Sun     sinks     deeper     in     the     sky     on     a     hot     day,     blinding     light     to     be     followed     by     suffocating     dark     and     cold,     he     supposes     today     is     a     good     a     day     as     any     to     die.     And     as     he     listens     near-silent     with     quite     breathing     to     his     tale,     the     tale     of     Daud     the     Wolf     of     Man,     the     Knife     of     Dunwall,     he     finds     himself     almost     sickeningly     nostalgic     for     it.     That     power     he     felt,     that     he     gifted     him     so     young     before     he’d     known     what     it     meant     to     shove     a     blade     between     bone     and     meat     and     watch     a     man     die.

(     Q     ;     where     did     i     steer     you     wrong?     )

WHAT     A     QUESTION     TO     ASK,     how     many     ways     could     he     blame     him?     How     many     attempts     to     cleanse     himself     by     wiping     his     blood-soaked     palms     along     cold     ghostly     pale     skin,     as     if     silently     saying     ;     you     did     this.     we     are     in     this     together,     if     you     didn’t     help     me     then     perhaps     i     would     be     dead.     perhaps     that     would     be     better.     And     now,     here     he     is     on     his     deathbed,     the     outsider     himself     before     him     seemingly     offering     up     that     pale     skin     to     mark     like     he     had     done     before     for     him.     A     gift     of     guilt     and     bloodshed     and     a     shared     weighted     conscience     as     if     that     would     ever     affect     him.

A     ;     ❛     you     steered     me     wrong     the     day     you     marked     me.     when     you     knew     what     i     could     do     –     what     i     was     capable     of.     ❜