Cleo ran as fast as she could, the axe in her hands gripped tight and ready to be used for more than just cutting wood. Running out of the light underbrush, she looked around. the company’s wagons were arrayed in front of her, a few steps from the forest edge, the dogs saddled and ready to move at any time. Men ran left and right, grabbing thrown down weapons and armour. Looking through the space in between two carts, Cleo felt her heart sink to her feet. Setting off in a dead sprint, she quickly grabbed the first sword she saw, not even bothering to buckle its scabbard to her belt. Passing through the wagons, she felt her mouth go dry as cold sweat started to run down her spine.

Less than 2 hetaroi from them stood fifty riders, all arrayed as if on parade. Two banners, one the white and gold of the Faith Inquisition and one grey and red of Order Putrelis stood proudly in front, slightly flapping in the spring wind. In between their bearers, Cleo saw three riders. The one who immediately caught her eye was the one atop a great beast of a wardog, his heavy armour hidden behind a blue and red tabard. Everything from prayer beads to fortune charms and purity seals were plastered everywhere on his armour. Heavyset pauldrons, linked together by a golden prayer bead, held a heavy silk cape, parts of it snuggly fitted around the neck to form a sort of scarf. The man hid his face with a great helmet which was unlike anything Cleo had ever seen – shaped to look like the face of a stern, chisel-jawed man with slightly parted lips, long nose, bushy beard and furrowed brow, it had precise detailing on its bronze face which she couldn’t pick out at a distance. Along with all of this, a depiction of the Holy Diamond adorned the top of the helmet, with long feathers swooping down from it. ‘Definitely the commander,’ Cleo thought, as she noticed a white-robed inquisitor and a Sister standing next to him. The inquisitor looked like any other of the White Legion, his robe long and white, his hat wide, while the Sister seemingly wore something akin to padding with her heavy woollen dress. Looking towards the men, Cleo now knew why Wymond was so afraid of the Putrelis Order. Every single one of the bronze masked men seemed just as terrifying as their commander, most seemingly even taller than him!

Looking around frantically, Cleo noticed something appear at the edge of her vision. As it did, she felt her jaw drop and the cold sweat running even faster. Pietre, dressed in that green tunic of his, stepped out, his arms shaking like a Shaker's branches. Standing out in front of the arrayed men, he looked around frightfully. Still, his shaking slowly dissipated. Raising out his hands, he screamed out:

“I…” he started, his voice trembling. “I-I’ve come to give myself up! I-I will go will-willingly! I promise! So-so please, S-Sister Almona… Please s-sp-spare these men! L-let-let them go! I-I beg you! L-Leave them be!”

Suddenly, everything and everyone fell silent. Cleo only now realized the men around her, most of them ready with pikes or shields. All stood as if turned to stone, looking at the boy. She couldn’t believe it. Why was the Faith after him? And how was he able to stand so still? He still shook uncontrollably, but a strange aura of immovable determinations enveloped him. She imagined that if she were to be in his position, she probably wouldn’t be able to maintain her bladder, she would feel weak in the knees. Yet that kid was able to stand in front of all of them, the only thing in his hands a simple prayer bead. But why were they after him? What did the Faith want from a simple ten-year-old?

The large man on his wardog pointed to the boy and asked something of the Sister. The woman nodded in response. Turning back to Pietre, the man raised his gauntleted hand and started rubbing his bronze beard. Finally, after what felt like hours, the large knight pointed to Pietre.

“Take him,” he said in a loud and commanding voice that echoed thanks to his helmet. A single inquisitor rode out, slowly heading towards Pietre. Cleo got ready, tightly gripping the hilt of the sword, the men around her ready to drop the pikes at a moment’s notice. She looked at Pietre. The boy seemed… relieved?! As if everything would be okay now. Suddenly, he turned to her. He was crying. Crying with a relieved smile on his face. As tears rolled down his cheeks, however, he tried to give her a reassuring nod. Cleo felt her eyes widen. The inquisitor was now a mere trot away from the boy. Then, Cleo heard the click of a sword bouncing free from the sheath along with the chattering of armour.

Suddenly, a black shadow danced from the side and lunged at the riding inquisitor. As his dog fell to the floor, yelping from pain, the inquisitor flew away, finally falling to the ground in front of the enemy commander with a loud crack. Everyone looked intently towards the suddenly created cloud of dust. The yelping dog was held pinned to the ground by a shabby, old galfrian pointer, its teeth sunk deep into the poor beast’s ginger fur. In front of Pietre, who had fallen out of shock, armed with his knuckles, stood Kosian. Looking at the assembled soldiers, he turned to Pietre.

“Get behind me,” he commanded. Pietre seemingly froze for a moment, before nodding reluctantly and standing, getting up to stand behind Kosian. The soldiers around them stood in complete shock. As was Cleo. All she could do was watch, as the young merchant’s son pierced the men of Faith in front of him with a gaze that befit a king.

“You do understand that all you’re doing is digging your own grave deeper?” suddenly said the commander, leaning in his saddle, addressing Kosian.

Kosian snorted and suddenly spat towards him. Gasps of surprise rose all around, even from the Faithmen. The commander almost seemed as if he had raised an eyebrow behind that mask of his. Getting into his stance, Kosian stared them down. The leader stared him down as well, at least for a moment. Finally sitting back properly, he coughed and loudly proclaimed:

“By order of His Most Illustrious Holy Lord, Grandfather Maximien, I hereby announce Kosian Nocamius a heretic for daring and succeeding in stealing a Slave of God from the Faith. The perpetrator is expected to give himself into the arms of the law and pray to the Lord for forgiveness! If the perpetrator refuses to comply, he will be refused the rights of hospitality and burned at the stake at the moment of return! He…”

“HOW DARE YOU CALL THIS A CRIME!” Kosian shouted, cutting the man off completely. “MY BROTHER WAS TAKEN ON HIS BIRTH BED FOR THE SETTLEMENT OF A PETTY GRUDGE!!! WHAT’S MORE, HE WAS RAPED AND FORCED TO COMMIT ACTS OF DEPRAVITY BY THAT HARLOT YOU CALL A SISTER!!!” he continued, pointing his finger at the Sister. Cleo immediately felt as the air surrounding the soldiers on the other side changed. It grew more intense. ‘This is bad,’ she realized, still listening to Kosian going. “CALL ME WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT! A HERETIC! A PAGAN! A RED-CURSED! AN URIAN-BORN! I DO NOT CARE! BUT I WILL NOT LET YOU HAVE MY BROTHER! NEVER AGAIN! EVEN IF IT MEANS I’LL BURN IN THE DEEPEST CRIMSON OF THE RED! I WON’T LET YOU HAVE HIM!!! DO YOU HEAR ME, YOU MINDLESS, FANATICAL, SONS OF WHORES?!!! I WON’T LET YOU HAVE HIM!!!”

Falling silent, Kosian stayed silent for a moment, quickly turning back to Pietre. He suddenly seemed so immeasurably sad and tired. Cleo heard him whisper: “After all, he’s all I have left…”

A moment of complete stillness fell upon the field. It almost felt as if time stopped. The commander of the Faithmen stared on at Kosian, studying him. Finally, he drew his sword which had hung on the side of his saddle. Deep blue rays danced on the white stones, as the knight held aloft his sword made of azure starsteel. Cleo felt her jaw drop. That thing was probably as tall as her! And he was able to field it with just one hand!

Suddenly kicking his great wardog, the commander flew forth, the sword held ready to slice Kosians head off. Instead of running or even standing to try and protect himself, Kosian turned around and huddled over Pietre. The Sister screamed, the inquisitors neighed their dogs. ‘You idiots!’ Cleo thought, ‘Run!’

Blue and white sparks flew onto the ground, as the loud clang of steel against steel rang through the small clearing. Kosian felt his ears painfully ringing from the sound. Strange. He didn’t feel any pain. Turning, he saw his reflection in a deep blue blade that stood a nail away from him. The blade shook, trying to inch closer and closer to his skin. Throwing himself and Pietre to the side, Kosian finally saw the full picture. The Putrelis knight and his wardog stood still, the large blue blade stopped in the middle of a swing. Before them stood Wymond, his scaly armour shining in the sun. He held onto the hilt of a sword which had blocked the great blue greatsword, its tip embedded into the ground. Similar to the starsteel blade, Wymonds sword had the patterns of broken glass, as dark lines streaked along its silvery surface. Strangely though, the weapon seemed… to be made of steel. Bewildered, Kosian slowly stood, but immediately fell to one knee. ‘My legs are weak,’ he realized, letting out a nervous chuckle. Suddenly, he heard the commander let out a loud bark.

“I must say, I never expected to see a mercenary captain armed with streak steel,” he remarked.

Wymond chuckled in answer. Suddenly pulling out his sword, he pushed the deep blue blade away before grabbing the hilt with both hands and slicing. The silvery blade cut through the standing wardogs legs like they were butter. The large animal whimpered as it fell to the ground, sending the knight flying forward. Without a single wasted move, Wymond grabbed his sword by the blade and with all his might hit the now laying knight on his helmet. Quickly taking his sword by the hilt, Wymond turned around and shouted with all of his might: “SCATTER!!!”

As if one had kicked the anthill, the entire field sprang into action. The mercenaries ran back through the wagons, most grabbing anything of use as they mounted dogs and darted into the light underbrush in front, the thick forest on the side, or even the Marrel hills. The inquisitors and knights gave chase immediately, catching those still awestruck. Without really thinking about it, Kosian grabbed Pietre into his arms and whistled for Jerod, running to the side of the road. As he did, he immediately noticed two Putrelis knights speeding towards him, their swords held low and gliding along the ground. Just as they reached him, Manguid jumped out of nowhere, knocking both men and dog to the ground. Kosian felt bewildered, lost. He had felt a dog’s breath on his cheek. No. Now was not the time. Noticing Jerod’s black fur, he immediately jumped on, placing Pietre in front of him. Without even thinking about it, he urged the black pointer forward, making him ride towards the hills. Turning around to see if anyone was in pursuit, he suddenly saw Pietre’s hair flash before him. The idiot jumped!

Everything again seemed to stop. Kosian felt his heart beating so hard, it must’ve sounded like a drum. He looked, as Pietre seemingly got further and further away from him. His mind was racing, thinking of any way out of this mess. ‘No!’ Steeling himself, he concentrated ‘Protect him!’

Straining, Kosian turned and grabbed onto Pietre’s belt. He felt the muscles in his left arm tear, and his veins pop. It felt like his arm would be torn off in an instant. ‘Don’t you dare let go!’. Straining, Kosian pulled, getting Pietre back on the saddle. Not minding the boys screaming and yelling, he just looked forward. ‘Just a little more. Keep going for a little more,’ he kept thinking. Strange. It was getting hard to breathe.

“Let go of me!” Pietre yelled, looking at Kosian with tearful eyes. “They’ll die! They’ll die because of me! Stop! Stop it! Let me go!”

“Don’t… make me…. hit you!” Kosian said in between short breaths, trying to calm the pain in his arm. It wasn’t helping at all.

“Please! Just stop! Don’t do this! Not again! They’ll die!”

Kosian suddenly felt a stabbing pain hit his left shoulder so hard that he almost lost his balance. Looking back, he saw three inquisitors and a Putrelis knight gaining on them. The inquisitors had crossbows. Cursing under his breath, Kosian suddenly ducked, forcing Pietre to as well, and suddenly pulled on Jerod's reins. The black pointer suddenly turned, kicking up dirt as he darted in between the nearby trees. Riding uphill, Kosian searched around, frantically trying to find a place to hide. Another bolt suddenly whistled past him, hitting the nearby tree. A streak of blood flew from Kosian's cheek. ‘How can they be so accurate on dogback?’ he thought, feeling the long scar on his cheek twitch due to the air. As his eyes glanced around, he kept seeing more and more white cloaks dance in and around the trees. ‘They’re trying to surround us,’ Kosian thought and clenched his teeth. It hurt. A lot. But he had to soldier on. They were after Pietre. And what kind of brother would he be if he didn’t keep his promise.

Suddenly, he saw something glint in the corner of his vision. With wide eyes, Kosian moved to duck both his, Pietre's and Jerod's heads, as a large blade suddenly slashed the air above their heads. Then, a large thud reached his ears, followed by a yelp and loud barking. Looking back, he saw the knight, who had to stop to force his large sword out of the nearby tree. Just as Kosian was about to smile, he watched a bolt fly right at him. Not knowing what else to do, he quickly held up his right hand. Pain shot up it, as the bolt pierced right through his palm, embedding itself in his hand. Kosian wanted to scream. He had wanted to scream this entire time. But just as he opened his mouth, he immediately shut it. ‘Get out of here!’ he kept thinking. ‘Get out!’

The small glade of trees suddenly stopped, giving way to a rolling downhill. As he rode out, knocking away branches, Kosian looked around hurriedly. Besides the three men behind him, there were three more on both of his flanks. All were inquisitors, armed with crossbows. Kosian’s mind raced, as he suddenly heard the sound of tight rope hitting steel. Jerod yelped. Looking, Kosian saw two bolts on his right flank and three on his left. But he kept going. In fact, Jerod seemed as if he had gained speed from the bolts, darting past the large boulders which sprung up on the hillside and the small valley just behind it.

“Oh, Lord!” Kosian suddenly whispered. “If you really are there, give us something to work with!”

As the sound of crossbows rang through the small valley, a roar came from the glade just behind them. Everyone seemingly stopped and turned in unison. As if heeding his call, a large festroen bear rushed out of the forest, toppling trees as it sprinted towards them. Trying to concentrate, Kosian thought he saw bolts sticking out of the beast’s side. As the six-legged bear closed in, the three inquisitors on Kosians left suddenly kited around it, firing their bolts into the beast’s side. ‘NOW!’ Kosian thought and, with one last urging from his stirrups, let Jerod ride with the wind through the gap they had just left. As he rode, Kosian watched as the festroen bear, its brown fur slowly trickling red, caught one of the dogs, biting down on its neck so hard the head flew off, throwing the inquisitor to the ground. But he didn’t have time to worry about if the bear would follow him or not. Still frantically searching, he suddenly saw white fur flashing behind some of the boulders. Without a second thought, Kosian manoeuvred Jerod towards it. Just as he turned the corner, a loud roar blew out his ears. Turning, he saw a white-furred bear, its four large, five-fingered paws falling down on him.

Kosian felt tired. He felt his vision fading, the numbing pain throbbing more painfully with every movement. He could feel Jerod buckling, his legs barely holding him up. He didn’t want to die here, surrounded by fanatics, killed by a wild beast…

‘I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.’

‘If I die here, then what was the point of saving Pietre? What was the point of sacrificing everything else?’

Looking down, he saw Pietre, huddled down, his hands wrapped around Jerod’s neck. Suddenly, he heard his father's voice. It was distant, faint, but the words rang like drums in his ears: ‘Kosian, this is your new brother, Pietre…’

Feeling blood and adrenaline rush through him, Kosian surrendered to his instincts. Suddenly, he screamed with all his might. This seemingly stunned the bear for a moment, as its light yellow eyes regarded him. Raising his hand, he clenched it into a tight, bloody fist and, with all the energy he still had left, punched the bear's incoming paw. The bolt in his hand pierced the black puffs, digging deep into the beast’s hand. With a quick motion, Kosian broke the bolt's shaft in two and urged Jerod onward.

“RIDE!” he screamed “RIDE!”

Just as he yelled this out, the bear's roar subsided. Turning his bloodshot eyes, Kosian noticed a giant javelin sticking out of one of the creature’s eyes.

“KOSIAN!!!”

Turning to the hill in front of him, Kosian saw Manguid running on all fours, a javelin rack on his back and a giant two-handed axe in his hands. Waving to him, he pointed to the hill on which he currently was. Wanting to change their course, Kosian pulled on Jerod’s reins. And felt his head hit the grassy ground as the dog finally fell, whimpering and squeaking as it went down. He couldn’t stop. He had to move forward. Grabbing Pietre by the arm, he ran.

Every step felt heavy. It almost felt like he would trip at any moment. He almost did too. But every time he was able to catch himself and move forward. He could hear and saw bolts zipping past them, javelins from Manguid flying overhead. Then, he heard a loud thud behind him, followed by a dog's yelping. Looking at the top of the hill, he noticed a few riders beside Manguid, which were now racing toward him. He thought he saw Cleo’s light copper hair. Two of the riders passed them, probably trying to fend off the pursuers, while Cleo and Manguid stopped in front of them.

“Get him on a horse,” Kosian croaked. Strange. It felt as if he had been screaming for hours. His throat was sore.

“I’ll carry him,” Manguid said immediately, grabbing Pietre and throwing him on his shoulders. It seemed as if the boy was too shocked to even try and argue against it. As he ran off towards the hilltop, Cleo offered Kosian her hand.

“Get on quick!” she screamed, looking back behind them.

Kosian hesitated for only a moment. Grabbing her hand, he forced himself onto the dog's back. The sound of men yelling, of roaring, of bolts zipping past crammed into his already full head. ‘It hurts,’ he thought, before losing consciousness.

Bel stood slowly, still trying to make his head stop ringing. Looking down, he saw Gref, already passed on from blood loss. Scooting over, he tapped the great dog's muscular neck. Gref had been with him since his first days as a neophyte at the Order chapel. The dog was fierce, able to bite through even chainmail… he was a good friend. The best a Putrelis knight could ask for. Sitting there silently for a few more moments, Bel finally stood. He felt a tear run down his scarred cheek, as the sound of a paw approached him.

Turning, he saw Sister Almona and Captain Inquisitor Arlosius ride up to him, accompanied by a small group of knights. A spare dog was brought forth. Turning to Gref one last time, Bel got into the saddle and started to slowly trot towards the number of wagons that belonged to the mercenaries. No. the infidels.

“Report,” he said in a quick, no-nonsense tone. He wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries.

“Sir! The mercenaries have scattered in every direction. Some have already been caught and executed. The slave and its robber have fled into the Marrel Hills. We immediately sent out a larger party to intercept them, headed by Brother Jonos.”

The sight of that raven-haired boy huddling over the slave flashed in Bel's mind. He felt sorry for him. Trying to take back something that wasn’t there, to begin with. But what confounded him the most was that man and his streak steel sword. He wasn’t any common mercenary captain.

As he thought of this, Bel passed the arrayed carts and entered the makeshift camp. Small logs or branches were neatly stacked into piles, axes and sickles rested on the ground, next to overturned stools and small campfires with kettles or pots. One thing piqued Bel's interest more than most. Riding forward, he looked down. A large banner lay on the ground, its cloth dirty and worn. The banner itself depicted a golden sword that plunged from a white triangle field into a red pine tree on a black backdrop. ‘Well, what do we have here?’

“Call for Mister Duomas,” Bel said, getting off his dog and picking up the flag.

After a few minutes, Bel finally heard heavy paw prints running on the stones. Turning, he saw an old man, riding a feeble and tired pointer. Duomas was his valet. A man of honourable age, he was best known for his bad hearing and wise words. If he gave advice, it was advisable to heed it. Following him were two slaves, both of middling age and height. Together, they carried a large chest that contained the bare essentials for Bel’s work – a foldable stool, ink, parchment, quills, maps and other such necessities. Carefully getting off his dog, Duomas approached Bel, his bony fingers scratching the small brass prayer beads which decorated his long, silvery beard. Standing just next to him, the old man once again surprised Bel with his elegance, making the shining example of a courteous bow.

“How may I serve you today, my lord?” he asked in a shrill, trembling voice.

“I need to know more about the man who cut down my Gref,” Bel started, showing Duomas the dirty banner. “Does this coat of arms tell anything to you?”

Duomas shakily took up a small glass lens, which hung from his neck. Bringing it up to his eye, he analyzed the banner.

“Jerod, Helio! Take out the Heraldrium,”

The two slaves immediately opened the chest, taking out a small foldable stand and placing it in front of Duomas. With a grunt, they then pulled out a large tome, its dimensions fit to be a small table. Carefully placing the large tome on the stand, they unlocked the heavy iron locks which held the book closed with chains. The leather cover was ornately covered in hundreds of small shields, each showing differing heraldry. This was the Heraldrium – the tome of Heraldry.

“Do you perhaps know from where this banner hails?” Duomas asked, standing in front of the large tome.

“…I believe the family it belongs to hails from Livadia,” Bel answered, still looking at the peculiar design. The man’s armour was a dead giveaway to anyone who knew a thing or two about the world. That sort of armour was only used in Livadia. Duomas grunted in lament.

“That may complicate things. Livadia is a wild land, and not all there conform to civilization. Still, I will try my best,” he mused, grabbing the large cover.

Bel scooted his stool closer, as Duomas opened the first pages which had a giant list. On the top, it read: “The Heraldries of Evea”. Under the title spanned a list with exactly six columns, each containing around a hundred and twenty lines. Each column represented a different part of Evea, the lines pointing out a specific region, kingdom, duchy, county or even city. All in all, the Heraldrium contained the information of every family, who had the right to bear a coat of arms, whether they were the Emperors of the Allmanii or a newly established merchant’s guild. Running his bony finger across the page of parchment, Duomas finally reached the column of Livadia.

“One thousand and seven,” he mumbled under his breath. Turning, he once again held up the glass lens to look over the banner. “Pine tree… black field… golden sword…”

Reaching the page on Livadia, he analyzed the page, until finally finding what he wanted and flipping over a few hundred more. Finally, he stopped.

“The Yerldom of Haron. They are a fledgling little kingdom on the western coast of Livadia, ruled over by the Dethoen family,” Duomas noted. Bel took a closer look at the page. Amongst the beautifully drawn illuminations which illustrated stars, trees, dogs, warriors and beasts on the edge of the page, was a large window, made right next to the title of the yerldom. It illustrated a large, red pine tree in the middle of a black field. Taking a closer look at the banner he held, Bel grunted.

“Whoever our mysterious Lord is, he has a grudge against the Dethoens,” he thought out loud. Some knightly families, if betrayed by their lord, would combine their and their former liege’s heraldry, thus showing the world they had a grudge to settle. Still, it was strange. From what Bel remembered, Livadian’s had strict policies against such things. If a lord mistreated a noble or retainer, then said man would usually just leave the land, swearing fealty to some other neighbouring king. Those people weren’t known for holding grudges.

“Golden sword… golden sword…” Duomas mused, looking over the smaller illustrations of heraldry, which depicted the Yerldom of Haron’s vassals. Finally, his finger stopped. “The family of Aermund.”

Quickly flipping a few pages, Duomas stopped. Looking, Bel saw a coat of arms that depicted a golden sword plunging into a white field.

“Hold the titles of Thayn… Administer a small Burgh and several smaller villages, located on the eastern border…”

“A who and a what?” Bel asked. He wasn’t good with foreign languages.

“A lord and a castle, milord. Typically made of earthen ramparts and wooden palisades. Stone isn’t very widespread in Livadia,” Duomas explained. Bel nodded. ‘What barbarians, using wooden forts and calling them castles,’ he thought.

“Hmmm…” Duomas hummed, looking over the page “Nothing here indicates any reason why such a banner would exist…”

Bel looked at the banner again. Leaning on the stool, he thought back to the short encounter he had with the man. Besides his barbarous and wild appearance, the scale armour most often associated with Livadia, the man seemed… motivated, rekindled in a way.

“Did they perhaps have any resentment towards the ruling family?” Bel asked, looking at the page. Duomas looked down, reading a few lines, but slowly shook his head. “On the contrary, they seemed the Yerls strongest supporters, with most heads of the family serving at least a few years as the yerls Bealdor…” turning, he saw Bel looking at him. “A-A Master of the Seal, one of the highest positions in Livadian royal courts. Similar to a High Steward,” Bel nodded and Duomas continued. “They seemed to have even been given temporary regency due to one of the kings being too young to rule…”

Bel thought for a moment. Sifting through the text quickly, he hummed.

“When was this Heraldrium last checked and revised?”

Duomas looked at him. Thinking, he scratched his bald head.

“I believe around 50 years ago? Maybe even longer. Why?”

Bel exhaled loudly.

“The man I fought today was no older than forty. If that is the case, then it might as well be that one of the recent Haron kings shunned the Aermund family away, perhaps purging them or making them flee. Perhaps this man, not being able to stand the loss of his home, swore vengeance and so made this,” he flapped the banner around a bit.

“…A sound hypothesis, milord,” Duomas commented. “But Livadians aren’t known to hold grudges.”

“A grudge, a vendetta, usually transcends the norms of culture,” Bel answered. Turning to Arlosius, he commanded. “For now, our main objective is to capture the thief and his stolen goods. Send riders to the parties and tell them to not bother with the small fry. Focus all efforts on bringing back the heretic.”

“At once, milord,” Arlosius nodded, riding to the small gathering of young boys on fast dogs, which were standing around far behind the line of leftover forces. While the riders scattered to their tasks, Bel kept staring at that banner, thinking.