Precious Temper
The jeweler, Master Ilvo, told the duke to come back in nine days. On the tenth, the duke found him asleep at his bench among the wreckage of eight failed animals.
"A swan," Ilvo said, without opening his eyes. "The stone cracked straight down the neck. A lioness went cloudy and sulked like a cat in the rain. And a peacock." He pointed at a heap of gold feathers. "That one laughed at me, I'm fairly sure."
The duke, who could barely order soup without blushing, asked what the stone wanted.
Ilvo unfolded a velvet cloth. On it lay a seahorse no longer than a thumb, its body glowing red-gold like a small, furious sunset. A row of diamond spines ran down its back like raised eyebrows.
"A seahorse?" said the duke. "She's a princess. Not a… fish."
"Look how it stands," said Ilvo. "Everything else in the sea swims lying down. Not this one. It moves through the water upright, chin high, as if it were entering a ballroom. It can't outrun a current, so it doesn't try. It wraps its tail around something it believes in and lets the whole ocean argue with it."
The duke thought of the princess at the Spring Council, when three ministers had tried to marry her off to a margrave. She had simply smiled, held onto the arm of her chair, and outlasted them all, until the margrave went home engaged to someone's aunt.
"And the fire?" he asked.
"Seahorses change color when they feel strongly. Yours will never be pale." Ilvo coughed. "One more thing. Among seahorses, it's the gentleman who carries the family. She will lead, my lord. You will be the one holding things."
The duke considered this for the length of one held breath, then paid double.
The princess opened the case that evening by the fire. She went very still. Then she laughed, a real laugh, unladylike and enormous, which rolled through eleven rooms and woke a footman.
"It's me," she said. "Look at it. Absolutely furious and perfectly composed."
"The jeweler said it stands upright in any current," the duke managed.
"Of course it does." She hooked the chain around one finger and studied him. "And did he tell you about the gentlemen seahorses?"
The duke turned the exact color of the pendant.
"Good," said the princess, and handed him her gloves, her fan, and the empty case to hold.
They were married by midsummer. Over the next forty years he carried a great many things, and was never once sorry.
The seahorse passed through nine generations of women who wouldn't bow, and the men patient enough to stand beside them. Every owner swears the same thing: whenever a room turns unjust, the little pendant warms against the collarbone, like a tail curling tight and holding on.

Отредактировано Laura-LBB (2026-10-02 19:16:56)

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LBB 

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Guild: Tag Along

В ту ночь, когда деревья Японского сада заговорили, первым заговорил маленький дуб.
Он стоял в низкой чаше у пруда -невысокий, изогнутый ветрами, с крошечной кроной. Рядом росли изящные клёны, цветущие вишни и старые сосны. Все они считали себя красивее него.

-Посмотрите на мои листья, - шелестела вишня.

- А я пережила три столетних зимы, - гордо поскрипывала сосна.

Дуб долго молчал.

Наконец клён спросил:

- А тебе есть чем похвастаться?

Дуб тихо ответил:

- Есть.

И впервые за ночь зашумели все его листья.Дуб рассказал, что когда-то был огромным деревом в далёком лесу. Под его кроной прятались олени, на ветвях гнездились птицы, а мальчик каждый год приходил собирать жёлуди и говорил:

- Когда вырасту, построю здесь дом.

Но однажды пришла буря.Молния расколола старый дуб, и садовник нашёл среди корней маленький росток.

Он пересадил его в чашу и много лет заботился о нём.

- Значит, ты потерял свой лес? - тихо спросила сакура.

-Нет, - ответил дуб. - Я принёс его с собой.

Деревья замолчали.И тогда они заметили то, чего никогда прежде не видели: в тени маленького дуба каждое лето прорастали крошечные зелёные ростки.Жёлуди.Его лес продолжал жить.

На рассвете деревья больше не спорили, кто из них красивее. А старый садовник, проходя мимо дуба, услышал тихий шелест:

«Большому дереву нужен лес. Маленькому -память».

С тех пор остальные бонсаи запомнили дуб не за высоту и не за красоту. А за его удивительный характер:

он был маленьким деревом, которое никогда не забыло, каким огромным когда-то было его сердце.

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Даже тигры любят игры!
      🐅 Ррррррр! 🐅

               f1ec22

История бонсай-фикуса по имени Хару
В самом тихом уголке Японского сада, на небольшой каменной подставке возле пруда, рос бонсай-фикус по имени Хару.

Он был невысоким, с причудливо изогнутым стволом, густой кроной и маленькими блестящими листьями. На первый взгляд Хару казался самым обыкновенным деревцем. Но остальные бонсаи знали: характер у него совершенно необыкновенный.

Хару был любопытным, упрямым и удивительно доброжелательным. Он никогда не хвастался своей красотой и не спорил о том, чья крона пышнее. Зато он обожал задавать вопросы.

— Почему сосна всегда смотрит в небо?

— Зачем клёну нужны такие яркие осенние листья?

— И правда ли, что ветер знает все дороги мира?

Другие деревья сначала посмеивались над его расспросами. Но однажды в сад пришла сильная буря. Ветер раскачивал ветви, дождь заливал дорожки, а несколько молодых бонсаев испугались, что их хрупкие стволики не выдержат непогоды.

Именно Хару первым заметил, что вода из переполненного ручья направляется прямо к их подставкам.

— Не бойтесь! — позвал он. — Мы должны помочь друг другу!

Его корни крепко держались за землю, а широкая крона задерживала порывы ветра. Хару не мог остановить бурю, зато сумел привлечь внимание садовника: его гибкие веточки стучали по бамбуковому ограждению, пока тот не услышал необычный сигнал.

Садовник поспешил в сад, отвёл воду и перенёс самые маленькие деревца в безопасное место.

Когда буря закончилась, остальные бонсаи благодарили Хару. Но он лишь улыбнулся листьями:

— Я просто заметил то, чего другие не заметили. А спаслись мы все вместе.

С той ночи деревья стали смотреть на фикус иначе. Они поняли, что за его любопытством скрывается внимательное сердце, за упрямством — стойкость, а за весёлым нравом — настоящая забота о других.

И когда в следующую ночь перед праздником фонарей бонсаи снова собрались поспорить, чья история интереснее, сосна неожиданно сказала:

— Давайте послушаем Хару. Он всегда замечает то, мимо чего мы проходим.

Фикус немного смутился, поправил листочек и начал рассказывать о том, как однажды видел крошечную лягушку, которая пыталась перепрыгнуть через дорожку из камней.

Деревья слушали до самого рассвета, смеялись и удивлялись.

С тех пор бонсай-фикус Хару запомнили не за необычную форму ствола и не за красоту листьев, а за редкий дар: он умел находить удивительные истории в самых обыкновенных вещах и напоминал всем, что настоящая сила дерева заключается не только в крепких корнях, но и в добром сердце.

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Уровень 257;  6b0f91

Quête Jardin japonais

C'était une nuit de velours noir, celle qui précédait la fête des lanternes. Dans le grand jardin japonais de Kyoto, le vent s'était tu, laissant place à un silence vibrant. Puis, à minuit pile, le miracle annuel se produit : une vibration douce parcourut la mousse fraîche, et les bonsaïs se mirent à converser.

Parmi les azalées miniatures et les genévriers centenaires, tous les regards - ou plutôt toutes les cimes - se tournèrent vers le centre du jardin. Là, sur un piédestal de pierre brute, trônait un espace vide. L'arbre qui l'occupait autrefois n'était plus là, mais son souvenir hantait le jardin.

Il s'appelait Shinju, un Érable du Japon ( Momiji ) au tronc tortueux et aux feuilles de sang.

Les autres bonsaïs se souvenaient de lui avec un mélange de terreur sacrée et d'admiration absolue, car Shinju possédait un caractère unique : il était incendiaire, rebelle et d'une passion dévorante.

Alors que la philosophie du bonsaï exige la soumission à la main du maître, la patience et le calme, Shinju, lui, bouillonnait de vie. Il refusait de se laisser domestiquer. Chaque fois que le vieux maître jardinier tentait de poser des fils de cuivre pour pincer ses branches selon le style traditionnel  Moyogi , Shinju brisait les fils pendant la nuit par la seule force de sa sève. Il ne voulait pas être une imitation de la nature ; il voulait être la nature elle-même, sauvage et indomptable.

« Vous rappelez son automne d'anthologie ? " murmura un vieux pin noir, la voix rauque de résine. « Normalement, nous changeons de couleur avec retenue. Lui... il est devenu si rouge, d'un écarlate si violent, qu'on aurait dit qu'il brûlait de l'intérieur. Le maître a passé des nuits entières à le surveiller, fasciné par cette rage de vivre. "

Mais ce que les arbres n'oublieraient jamais, c'est le grand sacrifice de Shinju, survenu trois ans plus tôt, précisément la nuit précédant la fête des lanternes.

Cette nuit-là, un incendie s'était déclaré dans le pavillon de thé adjacent. Les étincelles volaient, poussées par un vent soudain, menaçant de réduire en cendres tout le jardin de bonsaïs, prisonniers de leurs pots et incapables de fuir. Shinju, déployant une énergie surhumaine, insuffla toute sa sève dans ses branches supérieures et projeta un écran de feuilles d'un rouge incandescent pour intercepter les braises. Il fait barrage de son propre corps miniature pour protéger ses frères d'écorce.

Le lendemain, le feu fut éteint, le jardin était sauvé, mais Shinju était calciné. Le maître, en larmes, comprit le geste de son arbre rebelle. Au lieu de le jeter, il décide de sculpter son bois mort selon la technique du  Tanuki , immortalisant sa silhouette héroïque au cœur du temple du jardin.

"Il n'était pas un arbre de salon", chuchota un jeune ficus, ému. « Il nous a appris qu'un bonsaï n'est pas un prisonnier dans un pot de terre, mais un géant qui a choisi de concentrer toute la grandeur de l'univers dans un espace minuscule. "

C'est alors que, dans le silence suspendu de cette nuit sacrée, deux silhouettes se faisant face sur les étagères de bois sombre réprirent le fil de la discussion.

D'un côté, le Vieux Pin Noir, baptisé Matsu. Son écorce était si épaisse et crevassée qu'elle se trouvait à la roche. Ses aiguilles, d'un vert sombre et rigide, défiaient les siècles. De l'autre côté, une jeune Azalée Satsuki, nommée Suki, aux branches encore souples et au feuillage tendre, presque timide face à l'immensité de son voisin.

L'écho de la vie de Shinju flottait encore dans l'air frais.

- « Je ne comprends pas, Matsu-san », murmura la jeune azalée, faisant frémir ses quelques bourgeons précoces. «Le maître passe ses journées à nous tailler, à guider nos branches avec tant de douceur. Pourquoi Shinju ressentait-il cette rage ? N'est-ce pas une bénédiction que d'être aimés et protégés dans ce jardin ? "

Le vieux pin laissa échappe à un soupir qui fait bruisser ses aiguilles comme un vent de montagne.

- "Petite Suki... Tu as la chance d'être née pour fleurir. Le maître attend de toi la beauté, la couleur, la délicatesse. Mais Shinju était un érable. Dans ses gènes coulait le sang des forêts sauvages de l'île d'Hokkaido. Pour lui, le pot n'était pas un bouclier contre le monde, c'était une cage. Son amour pour le maître était un combat quotidien entre la gratitude et le besoin viscéral d'absolu. "

— « Mais s'opposer au fil de cuivre... se rebeller jusqu'à en saigner de la sève... n'est-ce pas rejeter l'art du bonsaï lui-même ? » demanda Suki, une pointe d'effroi dans sa voix de sève douce.

Matsu tourne lentement sa cime vers l'emplacement vide de l'érable.

— «C'est là toute la beauté de notre existence, ma jeune amie.» Regarde-moi. J'ai deux cents ans. J'ai accepté chaque fil de fer, chaque torsion. J'ai plié mon dos pour ressembler au vent de l'océan. J'ai choisi la voie de l'harmonie par la soumission. C'est le chemin de la longévité. Mais Shinju... Shinju a choisi la voie de la ferveur. Il n'a pas cherché à vivre longtemps, il a cherché à vivre intensément. "

- « Et pourtant, il est mort pour nous sauver », réalisation Suki dans un souffle. « Sa rébellion n'était pas de la haine. "

- "Précisément", répondit le vieux pin, et son écorce semble s'adoucir sous la lueur de la lune. « Sa passion n'était pas dirigée contre le jardin, elle était le moteur de son être. C'est parce qu'il aimait ce lieu avec une fureur sauvage qu'il a pu transformer son corps en bouclier de feu. Sans sa rébellion, il n'aurait jamais eu la force de briser son pot pour déployer ses branches cette nuit-là. "

Suki resta silencieuse un long moment. Elle regardait ses propres branches, si droites, si parfaites. Pour la première fois de sa vie, elle laissa l'une de ses tiges se cambrer légèrement vers la lumière, s'écartant imperceptiblement de la ligne parfaite que le maître lui avait tracée la veille.

- « Je crois que je comprends », chuchota-t-elle. "Cette année, Matsu-san... je ne fleurirai pas seulement pour être jolie. Je fleurirai avec un peu de sa fureur. "

Le vieux pin sourit à travers le bruissement de ses aiguilles. Au loin, la première lueur de l'aube pointait, et le grand silence de l'année s'apprêtait à retomber sur le jardin, alors que les premières lanternes de papier commençaient à s'allumer dans le ciel de Kyoto. Les arbres se sont remis au silence, porteurs d'une sève nouvelle, plus forte et plus fièrement, marqués à jamais par l'esprit de l'érable flamboyant.
Merci 🥰

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Mamie code 667a2c

🌿🍃 THE GREAT DEBATE OF LITTLE TREES
PART ONE — DeNae: We Had Mochi Reservations

There are certain phrases I should have learned not to trust.

“Quick little task.”

“Just take a look around.”

“It’s probably nothing.”

And Tara’s personal favorite:

“We have plenty of time before food.”

We did not have plenty of time before food.

We never have plenty of time before food.

Yet somehow, at three o’clock on Saturday afternoon, I was following my sister through the Japanese Garden at the Mystery House while she insisted our newest assignment would take “twenty minutes, tops.”

At four, we had reservations for the Lantern Tea.

Not ordinary tea.

Special Lantern Festival tea.

There were dumplings.

There were tiny sandwiches.

There were honey cakes.

And, according to the little menu Tara had been carrying around in her purse for three days, there were six different kinds of mochi.

I had already chosen mine.

Twice.

“This,” I informed her, “is not becoming another Fitness Room Brunch Situation.”

“That was completely different.”

“We missed brunch.”

“There were gremlins.”

“You said twenty minutes.”

“They stole the muscle shirt.”

“And now you’re saying twenty minutes again.”

Tara stopped walking.

“That feels unnecessarily judgmental.”

“It’s historically accurate.”

She pointed toward a wooden sign beside the path.

BONSAI COLLECTION →

“See? We find the tree, write down something profound about its personality, and leave.”

“Before four.”

“Absolutely.”

“No portals.”

“Obviously.”

“No enchanted objects.”

“Agreed.”

“No dead people.”

“DeNae.”

“I’m establishing boundaries.”

Tara sighed.

“Fine. No dead people.”

The Mystery House heard her.

I know this because somewhere behind us, a wind chime rang.

There was no wind.

We both slowly turned.

Nothing.

Tara looked back at me.

“I hate when it does that.”

“So stop challenging it.”

⸻

The Japanese Garden was beautiful.

Suspiciously beautiful.

The stone path curved between crimson maples and golden ginkgo trees. Lanterns hung from dark wooden posts. A little arched bridge crossed a pond where enormous koi glided beneath floating leaves like they owned the property.

Which, frankly, they probably did.

The deeper we walked into the garden, the quieter everything became.

No visitors.

No gardeners.

No distant sounds from the Mystery House.

Just the soft tap of bamboo.

Water moving over stones.

And every few moments—

A whisper.

I stopped.

“Tara.”

“I heard it.”

Something rustled behind us.

Then a tiny voice said:

“She has terrible posture.”

I turned around.

Nobody.

Another voice answered.

“At least she isn’t wearing those shoes.”

I looked down at my shoes.

“Tara.”

She was staring at a row of miniature trees.

Five bonsai sat on individual stone pedestals.

One twisted pine.

One flowering cherry.

One maple glowing bright red.

One juniper with branches curling like green smoke.

And one tiny, crooked tree at the very end.

The crooked one had almost no leaves.

It looked—

Well.

Grumpy.

That is the only possible description.

Its trunk bent sharply sideways, straightened again, and then bent in the opposite direction as though it had spent its entire life refusing instructions.

A tiny wooden plaque stood beneath it.

The writing had nearly faded away.

Tara leaned closer.

“Can you read that?”

“Barely.”

I rubbed some dirt from the plaque.

Two words appeared.

MASTER KENZO

Tara smiled.

“Oh, he has a name.”

The bonsai said:

“Obviously.”

We froze.

I looked at Tara.

Tara looked at me.

The tree rustled.

“Do stop gawking.”

I backed up.

“No.”

Tara whispered, “Did the bonsai just talk?”

“No.”

“You heard it.”

“I have decided I did not.”

The cherry bonsai giggled.

Actually giggled.

The maple whispered:

“She always does this.”

The pine replied:

“Denial is her first response.”

“WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?”

Every bonsai went silent.

Tara slowly turned toward me.

“You just yelled at shrubbery.”

“I am aware.”

Master Kenzo rustled his few leaves.

“Technically, we are trees.”

“Technically,” I said, “you are six inches tall.”

There was a horrified gasp from the entire bonsai collection.

Tara grabbed my arm.

“DeNae!”

“What?”

“You insulted them.”

“I stated a measurement.”

The juniper muttered:

“Tall-tree arrogance.”

“I AM FIVE FOOT—”

Tara clapped a hand over my mouth.

“No fighting with the magical vegetation.”

Master Kenzo made a sound that I swear was a chuckle.

Then he said:

“She’ll do.”

I removed Tara’s hand.

“I’ll do for what?”

Nobody answered.

Instead, every lantern in the garden went out.

One.

Two.

Three.

All the way down the path.

Darkness rolled toward us.

Then the little stone lantern beside Master Kenzo suddenly blazed blue.

The bonsai began arguing.

All at once.

“I survived the Great Storm!”

“You mention that every year!”

“My blossoms inspired a princess!”

“She was eight!”

“My ancestors crossed the sea!”

“Your ancestors were carried in a pot!”

“That still counts!”

Tara’s eyes widened.

“The legend.”

“What legend?”

“The trees argue the night before the Lantern Festival.”

“It is three fifteen in the afternoon.”

The pine bonsai said:

“Not anymore.”

Uh-oh.

The blue flame flared.

The garden disappeared.

⸻

I landed face-first in moss.

“Tara?”

“I’m here.”

“Are you alive?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I lifted my head.

Then immediately wished I hadn’t.

The garden was still there.

But it wasn’t our garden.

The stone path looked new.

The bridge was freshly painted.

Hundreds of paper lanterns hung overhead.

People in beautiful robes moved along the paths carrying baskets and flowers.

Somebody walked past us holding a wooden tray piled with steaming dumplings.

Tara stared at him.

Then at me.

Then back at him.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

She pointed toward the bonsai terrace.

Master Kenzo stood there.

Except he wasn’t tiny.

He was enormous.

A full-sized ancient pine twisted over a rocky hillside, its branches spreading across the garden.

Beneath it stood a young gardener arguing with three officials.

And every single tree around us was whispering.

Loudly.

“We went back in time,” Tara said.

“Yes.”

“How far?”

“No idea.”

“The tea starts at four.”

I looked at her.

“We are currently standing in somebody else’s century.”

“I’m still hoping clocks work differently.”

The massive tree rustled.

Master Kenzo’s voice rolled across the garden.

“They’re coming.”

The other trees went silent.

The young gardener looked toward the road.

“What’s coming?” Tara whispered.

Then we heard it.

Hooves.

Shouting.

And a bell ringing somewhere beyond the garden wall.

People began running.

The officials scattered.

The gardener climbed onto the stone terrace and wrapped both arms around Master Kenzo’s trunk.

“No,” he whispered.

The tree answered him.

“You cannot save everything.”

Tara moved closer.

“What’s happening?”

Before I could answer, the sky flashed.

Not lightning.

Fire.

Beyond the garden wall, an orange glow rose over the rooftops.

Smoke curled into the sky.

The gardeners began carrying trees away.

Not all of them.

Only the smallest ones.

Bonsai.

One after another.

And suddenly I understood.

Master Kenzo had not always been small.

He had once towered over the entire garden.

Tara grabbed my hand.

“DeNae.”

“I know.”

The old tree bent in the wind.

Then one of its great branches cracked.

The sound echoed through the garden.

People screamed.

The young gardener pulled something from his robe.

A small silver knife.

He cut a single living branch from Master Kenzo.

Carefully.

Gently.

Then wrapped it in cloth.

The enormous tree whispered:

“Take it.”

The gardener was crying.

“I won’t leave you.”

“You are not leaving me.”

Another explosion shook the ground.

Master Kenzo’s branches trembled.

“You are carrying me forward.”

The gardener pressed the cutting to his chest.

And ran.

The world erupted in blue light.

⸻

We were back.

I was sitting on the stone path.

Tara was beside me.

The bonsai terrace stood exactly as it had before.

Five little trees.

And Master Kenzo.

Tiny.

Crooked.

Stubborn.

Alive.

For several seconds, neither of us spoke.

Then Tara quietly said:

“He wasn’t shaped that way because somebody wanted him to look interesting.”

“No.”

Every bend in the little trunk suddenly made sense.

Storm damage.

Fire.

Regrowth.

Years of being cut back.

Years of surviving.

The cherry bonsai whispered:

“He never tells that part.”

The maple said:

“He says it sounds dramatic.”

Master Kenzo grumbled.

“It is dramatic.”

“You were on fire,” I said.

“A minor inconvenience.”

“YOU WERE A GIANT TREE IN A BURNING CITY.”

“I’ve had worse Tuesdays.”

I liked him.

Immediately.

Tara crouched beside him.

“So that’s why the other bonsai remember you.”

Master Kenzo’s tiny branches shifted.

The pine answered for him.

“No.”

We both looked over.

The pine continued.

“We remember him because after the fire, when he was only a cutting, he refused to grow as the gardeners expected.”

The juniper laughed.

“They tried to straighten him.”

“He bent.”

“They trimmed him.”

“He grew sideways.”

“They tied him.”

“He broke the wire.”

Master Kenzo sounded pleased.

“It was cheap wire.”

The cherry tree whispered:

“They wanted perfection.”

The maple finished:

“Kenzo preferred survival.”

For once, Tara had nothing sarcastic to say.

Neither did I.

The lesson was annoyingly beautiful.

Which meant the Mystery House was about to ruin it.

A bell chimed.

Four times.

Tara’s eyes widened.

“No.”

I grabbed my phone.

4:07 PM.

I stared at her.

“The mochi.”

“Maybe they’ll hold our table.”

Another bell rang.

Then another.

From somewhere deep inside the garden came the sound of dozens of tiny voices shouting.

Master Kenzo sighed.

“Oh dear.”

Tara slowly turned.

“What?”

The bonsai looked toward the far end of the garden.

A stone gate had appeared where no gate had been before.

Beyond it glowed hundreds of lanterns.

And beneath those lanterns—

Hundreds of bonsai.

Arguing.

Shouting.

Waving branches.

One tiny maple was standing on a rock screaming:

“I HAVE SURVIVED THREE HAILSTORMS AND A GOAT!”

Another yelled:

“THE GOAT STORY HAS NEVER BEEN VERIFIED!”

A flowering bonsai shouted:

“ORDER! ORDER!”

Master Kenzo groaned.

“The annual debate.”

I looked at Tara.

“No.”

She looked at the magical gate.

Then at me.

Then at the clock.

Then back at the gate.

“DeNae…”

“No.”

“They might need help.”

“No.”

“There could be a mystery.”

“No.”

Master Kenzo said:

“Someone has stolen the First Lantern.”

I closed my eyes.

Of course they had.

Tara smiled.

I pointed at her.

“Don’t.”

She smiled wider.

“Absolutely not.”

She stood.

“We’ll be quick.”

I stared at her.

Behind us, somewhere very far away, six varieties of mochi were disappearing from our lives.

And because apparently I have learned nothing from every adventure we have ever had—

I followed her through the gate.

🌿✨ To be continued…

Отредактировано DeNae (2026-10-04 04:21:19)

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Guild: Double D’s