Dark Souls Multimuse Blog. Independent, OC Friendly, Multiversal. Muses to be introduced, with Solaire of Astora as the main muse. Please read rules before interacting and feel free to ask questions.
oh man sucks to see you haven't updated in 3 yrs, you were always my favorite Souls rper
Hey, thanks for the kudos, it means a lot to hear someone say that.
Admittedly it's been quite a while. I still have the account, obviously, but the group and story that I've been a part of has been put on hold. Things of course come up, and as always life comes first and foremost.
I've still got hope that things will get back in swing one day, even if it's not at the same pace that it once was. Everyone's still in touch but there's been a lot of stuff that's happened and let's be honest is still happening.
I am still around in the meantime. Still enjoying Fromsoft stuff of course. Both Elden Ring and Armored Core 6 were great. Kinda on a Hades 2 binge at the moment with the new content they just pushed out too.
Hope that you and everyone else that I saw around or followed me is doing well.
[Now that sounds interesting. Kind of scary, in a way–given the things that she’s done with her shadow hands, whether it be by her own volition or not, Ichi has a hard time imagining anything stranger.]
[Well, stranger that doesn’t involve her brother.]
Oh… my timing is poor, as it often is. Ichi loses track of time… too much… Nagamasa-sama tends to keep the time for me…
[It isn’t surprising to hear that there’s more people around–and that she knows that, with how scattered she is, comforts her a bit.]
Dankuri-sama is very popular… and warm… so many people flock to her. It sounds as if she’s grown quite a lot since Ichi last saw her…
…
Relieved… Ichi feels relieved…
“I have.”
“There are many things that have been lost to history. The Sengoku Jidai was a tumultuous time; and one more fantastic in the literal sense than most history books seem to attest to now.”
“I would not say that your timing is poor. Simply that it is what it is. There are duties that she undertakes, as any lord has. Hers simply take her more abroad than most.”
That’s a very, down-to-earth, way of looking at it.
“She does indeed have many here who care for her, in both more formal and informal ways. I would consider myself more in that first category.”
[She doesn’t flinch away from his approach–she seems timid, but not quite enough? Her own hand trembles slightly as she reaches to take his hand, still unflinching once she realizes that his hand isn’t flesh-and-blood.]
Oichi… is my name. But… most call me Ichi.
[Ichi moves to her feet, her shadow fading into something more natural, less resembling the demonic aura that had been following her to this point and more like her own shape.]
Wolf-sama… Ichi thanks you. For not… being frightened of me…
Ichi… is frightening… not like Niisama, but… still frightening.
He notes the behaviour of her shadow, but doesn’t seem particularly offput in any sense.
“I’ve seen stranger, if you want an honest answer.”
“Still, you are welcome.”
“You had mentioned the Lord of the house, but she is not currently here. That being said, there are many still about. I arrived more recently than most.”
That, bluntly speaking, is the explanation he provides to not knowing who you are, at least.
“If in the meantime you wish to rest here, I do not believe there would be harm in doing so.”
[He startles her with his sudden appearance, to the point that she stumbles and lands flat on her behind. She’s well and truly out of it, if that’s all it takes to knock her off her feet.]
With… your…?
[That word, accompaniment… it’s formal, and the rest of his words don’t lend her any warmth. But seeing as this is the first person–real person, she’s still not certain he is real–that she’s talked to in what feels like forever…]
[She’s weak. So weak and maudlin, just like he’s always calling her…]
Ichi… is fine with that…
… Ichi has… nowhere left to go… nowhere left to turn but here. It must trouble you… I am sorry…
There’s a tinge of guilt when she falls flat on her ass. Sure, it could all be an act to make him lower his guard, but at this point if it is she deserves some kind of award for it.
He approaches her, cautiously, but not with any hostility, and holds out a hand to help get her back to her feet.
Oh hey, that’s a prosthetic arm.
“Ichi, that is your name then, I take it.”
“Lord Dankuri would not see fit to turn a person in need away, especially if they are a friend.”
“My name is Wolf.”
He might not be divulging any other information for the moment, but the display has at least earned a little bit of sympathy. Honestly, he’s been in her position himself.
[This isn’t good. If she doesn’t respond properly, he could attack… she doesn’t want to fight. But she doesn’t have a say in the matter–her shadow hands will act, with or without her control. And if she hurts someone… in her state, she has no idea what might happen.]
[Think, Ichi. She’s been here before, hasn’t she? Yes, she’s visited–along with…]
… Ichi remembers… the One-Eyed Dragon… stays here. He, and his Right Eye…
The Demon King… as well…
… and… the kind woman… Dankuri-sama…
It’s been so long… Ichi… wonders if she’s been forgotten…
Dammit all.
She names the lord of the house. Because of course she does. The one that happens to be unavailable for various world saving reasons. One of the other people she names? Oh right the sword that she keeps by her side and has of course taken with her.
The demon king? Doesn’t ring a bell for him at least. Bit after his time and a bit wibbly wobbly with his history.
Still, there are considerations that have to be made. She hasn’t snuck in here as much as she has wandered in very much in a stupor from the looks of it. Upon questioning she’s answered sincerely enough when it would have been easy to lie or attempt to flee.
Can he trust her completely? No. Can he dismiss her as a potential threat? No.
But.
He jumps down from his vantage point.
“I won’t exactly extend a formal welcome to you at this point, discourteous as it is. But you’ve at least proven that you’ve come into contact with some individuals here before.”
“If you wish to enter the grounds, it will be with my accompaniment. If you take issue with such then you are free to leave without quarrel.”
It’s perhaps the most magnanimous offer he can make, all things considered.
[She slows to a stop, swaying where she stands. What is her business here, indeed. Oichi has no business here–but then again, she doesn’t have any business anywhere. Her brother doesn’t need her, her husband isn’t with her, and as far as she can tell at the moment, she hasn’t got a friend in the world.]
… not sure…
This place… feels nice… Ichi feels like… she’s been here before.
Her behaviour is baffling to him to some extent. She doesn’t seem like a spirit; but the way she’s acting certainly reminds him of of the few he’s had encounters with.
He’s still incredibly suspect. At the same time if she’s some sort of enemy why just wander aimlessly into enemy territory and then act confused upon being discovered?
Assuming that she’s not lying, he’s never seen her before. Granted it’s not like he can claim to know the myriad of people that inhabit this gigantic place. There are those that have come and gone every day that he still likely could not put a name to after all.
“If that’s the case then can you name anyone here that would vouch for you?”
[She’s not sure when she started wandering again–she’s not sure how long ago it was, or how much time has passed, or even if any time has passed. It’s hard for her to tell, harder now that she’s wandered away from her brother and his vassals.]
[Her footsteps are heavy, dragging. She’s made her way back into a haunt that is familiar to her, but it’s been so long, she’s having trouble remembering why.]
[Her dark aura bites at her heels, as it always does. It makes for an eerie sight.]
It doesn’t take long for her presence to draw attention, although she might not realize it yet.
For his part, he almost, almost mistook her for Minamoto no Raikou at a glance. But something felt, off. Once he focused his attention and noticed exactly what it became less of a curiosity and more of a potential problem.
She’s wandered in here, seemingly without hostile intent. Seemingly. That’s probably the only reason he hasn’t moved to attempt to slit her throat before she even realizes he’s there. Not that he’s aware of how poorly that would go for everyone involved.
But this isn’t something he’s willing to just abide by without getting an answer.
“You there. Halt. What’s your business here?”
His voice echoes, but it’s hard to spot him. Somewhere above, maybe?
Being overlooked was never too much of a burden for them. After all, they were the youngest child of Gwyn, and one born to what most would have admitted was an, odd lot.
It’s not to say that they feel that way now. Other servants here are friendly enough, and there are some familiar, friendly faces - with perhaps a notable exception, but they choose not to dwell - they’re hardly lonely. And although they haven’t really been afield yet, that doesn’t seem to be much of an issue, either.
That being said.
Observation is something that comes naturally to them. They almost can’t help it. Paying attention, piecing things together. It’s what kept them occupied when they were alive in their early years. With little else to do they became very good at it.
And of course, there are certain things that they can’t help but notice.
It’s all so ... familiar to them.
This man, this ... what was the term. Ah, yes. This pharaoh. Granted, he was a hard one to miss regardless. Very, energetic that one. But what caught their interest was the feeling. More than the words, more than the actions. It was - is - like being in the presence of family again.
Thankfully not their father. Complex though some of those feelings are. But, of their two siblings, it’s odd that there’s a mixture that they can see.
Most of the time, they’re reminded of their brother. There’s a certain bravado, a weight to the way that they carry themselves. It can be almost overwhelming, they find. They remember happier days, before things became complicated. Their brother was always a jovial sort, even in the face of dower situations. It was the kind of charisma that cannot help but draw people in. That of a natural leader.
Where they became well and truly interested though, is that side of this man, that reminds them of their sister.
It’s not a side of him that they’ve seen so often. They don’t believe he goes to lengths to hide it. But it isn’t something called upon as much as his other facets it seems. But there’s an undeniable warmth there at times. An understanding built upon the weight of lineage, the burden of knowing what kind of life one must lead.
A gentleness that makes their heart both joyful and sorrowful at once.
It would be so easy to reach out, wouldn’t it?
But they’ve always hesitated at that last moment.
The moon, it is said, only reflects the light of the sun. Only shines because it can steal the glory of something greater than itself.
They would like to think they don’t believe such things.
Yet.
Yet.
Yet they content themselves, simply to be in the light of reminiscence.
Every day that he’s in Chaldea he has to walk by her office.
Every day that he walks by her office, he glances at the door.
He doesn’t stop. He never stops.
Does he want to stop?
The truth of the matter is that it’s a complicated question.
A lot of people would say that he needs a therapist. Truck’s said it a few times to his face, before he takes the loud-mouthed Chosen Undead and tosses them through the nearest wall or ceiling.
It’s routine. It’s just want they do. It’s just an easy way for him to avoid the issue.
Because as much as he hates to admit it, and he absolutely does hate to admit it, even to himself, Truck has a point.
He’s got no idea how old he is, centuries at least, before he became a servant. It was pointless to count after certain thresholds.
Plenty of baggage. Spiritual scar tissue built up, calloused, and scarred over again. How many layers? Hard to say, he never considered. Ignorance was bliss.
Bliss was what she sought, what she seeks.
If anyone asked, his response would be that he’s disgusted by her vulgarity, that he hates her.
Hate is the wrong word. Because hate is simple. Hate is easy. He’s an Avenger for Abyss’ sake. It’s what he does.
What he feels in regards to her is anything but simple.
At first blush, it should be open and shut. She took what he felt at the time was rightfully his. The fire, the Chosen, his victory. In his conceit he would never, could never admit how badly he was outmatched. Not just by her, but by so many here. His fire-addled mind seemingly stuck between variants of ‘hit more’ and ‘hit harder’.
But when she snuffed out that fire, like it was nothing, something inside him in that moment of realization broke. Broke just enough and in just the right way for him to do something that he never would have otherwise.
Inflicting misery onto others was second nature to him by that point; but never at a cost to himself. What surfaced in his roiling, fettered mind was only one thing:
“Cause suffering, damn the price. Pay it in blood of necessary. Yours. Hers. The whole world’s. It doesn’t matter.”
In that one moment, the leash slipped just enough, that it would eventually break entirely.
Rage red raw enough to send him screaming into enemy territory without a second hesitance or thought, to command as if he had any authority to be sent to meet her, to stand before her, his best efforts amounting to nothing.
To speak an unspeakable word.
And in that moment.
Well.
He doesn’t know if anyone else would consider the shared experience of a horrifying soul-flaying agony to be ‘intimate’. And he’s never asked her. He doesn’t want to know her answer, regardless of what it is.
What he does know, though, is that in that moment while he gazed at her. She gazed back.
And she saw him, for what he truly was. She saw all of it come back to him. His past, his reckonings, his shame, his sorrow, his lost, his self-revulsion.
He does not know what played across his face in that moment, staring at her in that agonizing eternity.
She does.
And that thought scares him beyond all comprehension.
He can’t hate her. That would be too simple. Too easy.
He can’t pity her; just as he cannot pity himself. Monsters all, monsters still.
He can’t even bring himself to fear her, even as he fears what she witnessed of him. Has she told another soul? Could he stop her if she wanted to? Does it even matter?
He doesn’t know. He can’t know. He won’t know.
Every day that he’s in Chaldea he has to walk by her office.
Every day that he walks by her office, he glances at the door.
He doesn’t stop. He never stops.
Even if he had a command seal used on him, all he would say on the matter, straining against his own better judgment.
Being here has given him time to think. Much more time than he was ever afforded when he was flesh and blood. He’s no philosopher, but he’s also not a person that prefers to linger in ignorance either.
He’s learned a lot from his interactions with other servants, although said meetings have always been curt and precise. Not exactly a conversationalist by nature.
But while seeing certain things through with servants has been interesting, observing and learning more about the swords here has been ... elucidating.
It’s true that to anyone making note of such meetings that on a surface level there’s not that much of a difference from any of his other ones. But that’s true only on the surface level.
Deeper, he’s come to a rather strange conclusion. They’re not so different, he and them.
There are those, himself at earlier points in his life among them, that would call a blade as merely such. A weapon, a tool to be used in a way that befits it.
Surely though, could the same not be said of him?
His earliest memories are of gunpowder, blood, and starvation. A blade cutting flesh, his own. Once, without choice; the second time, because what other does he have?
“... Fascinating. Will you join me, starving wolf?”
His father loved him. Of that he is sure. He is also sure that such love was utilitarian in nature, clinical and deliberate.
Such love can be called love still. It is the love that Souza Samonji so abhors; one loved by his later masters for his ornamentation, for what he represents.
It is the same degree of love, the love of a tool that is precise and efficient. The kind of love that Sayo Samonji, the younger brother of sorts of Souza, might have received, when he was used to kill.
These are types of love. Yes. But....
The heat of an inferno. The pressure of the timber on his body, the feeling of his blood, his life, leaving him.
Then, a hand. So much smaller than his, yet no hesitance to reach out to him.
“You fought bravely on my behalf.”
“I cannot throw away such loyalty.”
“Loyal Wolf. Take my blood, and live again.”
Perhaps it is only that once one receives love that is not given out of utility. A love that is given, a bond formed without expectation of necessary reciprocity because both parties know that such things are simply to be exchanged.
Perhaps it is then that these swords stopped being simply swords, and became something more.
Perhaps it was then, that he stopped being what he was, and became something more. Not due to the Dragons Lineage. But because....
Rigors, tests, strain. Paths troden, disregarded, doubled-back upon. The narrowing of the infinite realm of possibility in exchange for the ever steadily increasing chance that it will produce something tangible.
That it will actually produce the desired effect.
He is tired. Tired in the only way that a being that does not need rest can be tired. But is that even true? Is it that he is fatigued, or would a better word be
haunted?
It hasn’t happened again.
Did it even happen the first time? In any way that could be expressed without being stymieing esoteric?
His first instinct was not perhaps fear, but panic. Hadn’t this happened to him before? But it was different. No outside compulsion. No loss of self. What is there now to compel such a thing even? He can count such things on one hand, with fingers to spare.
His Master, currently spiritually away in spacetime further than one would assume a command seal could reach, even if the need were desperate and utter.
A dismal thought.
That leaves his family. And yet. Something that he desperately wants to push away forces itself to the forefront of his mind: if not in the past countless centuries .... millennia even .... then surely not now.
Physically the distance has never been as short as it is under current circumstances. Mentally, spiritually, though? She is stunted, perhaps even now permanently so. Frozen like the works she so delicately puts to canvases. And him?
The opposite problem. He’s grown, too much, too wildly, too explosively. Does the same blood even truly flow through his veins? Clinically and coldly the answer is already no. But metaphorically?
He doesn’t know how to answer the question. No. That’s not right. He probably wouldn’t like the answer, which means he already knows it anyways.
A quiet click as his jaw sets, his vision focuses, he gazes at the strokes he’s made over and over mid sentence.
This is getting him nowhere.
He needs to get somewhere. The sudden urge, not wanderlust, something more Mauldin.
Consideration.
He doesn’t know the why of it, but he knows how at least. For someone like him at least, it’s startlingly easy. Not even a word is needed, only a thought. One moment standing in his secluded sanctuary, and the next.
That which is underfoot is more grey than white. Soft, warm, but not inviting.
What compels him here? To a place that he has visited enough, but that is here foreign to him? A bustling community across the threshold, here it is a silent monument, like the rest of the burnt world.
Infinite choices, infinite possibilities. The series chosen in this specific instance and sequence lead to this.
‘For want of a nail’, as he understands they refer to it. A strange proverb, but not inaccurate.
So now those left behind fight, she fights. So many others fight. For the sake of being that nail.
This is his fight too.
Is it not?
If he were asked, certainly he would agree. Those few precious things left to him are threatened by the existence of the enemy at the gates. That many would argue is a good enough reason to consider it his fight.
But it’s also something else.
[Because you think you can make amends?]
Is it really that simple? Is that really all there is to it? A clean hand washes the dirty one?
Even in the times time that he was consumed by the madness and the fire, he wouldn’t have held a belief so utterly naive.
Nor does he now.
So he thinks.
This place is cold, empty, and dead.
It is too familiar. Too much like....
His feet carry him through the ash covered streets. Not too far away. Where he goes registers in the back of his mind, but he doesn’t stop himself.
When he arrives he can hear the waves, lapping against the remains of the docks. This too has been claimed.
It is, and is not, this exact spot.
An odd thing, a unique thing. To remember so clearly the circumstances of his death. His first death of many. The fight. The aftermath. The encroaching darkness.
And yet, what he cannot remember, is how he felt.
Did he feel? In that moment?
Should he ... not feel something now?
Anger?
Grief?
Relief?
Anything?
Other than nothing?
There’s no movement, only the wind gently blowing the ash of a dead world. There’s no sound, no screaming, no tears, no laughter. Not even the sound of breathing. Not from those gone.
Not from the one here.
Another thought, and outside world is left empty once again.
It might be easy to consider him to be callous. He’s aware of what’s going on in the singularity. But that’s a closed loop that he cannot enter easily, if at all. Maybe his talents would have been of some use. But from what he understands....
Time is a luxury that he likely doesn’t have.
After the work is done, once the final wound in the history of that parallel is clear, then they’ll have - weeks? Days? Hours? Until the inevitable response.
One doesn’t kick the hornet’s nest and not expect to be stung.
And so he works as fast and diligently as he can. He has the means, now he just needs the method.
So he works. Models and calculations and theoreticals that stymie the mind and churn the psyche after too much effort. Time after time, failure after failure. But each failure a small, inconceivably small step towards a state that, well, success is a strong word. ‘Not failure’ works for now.
And so does he.
But there are prices to be paid.
He gazes at it, the way that he can tell the energy in it convulses and strains, even though it remains outwardly calm. A caged animal: wild, furious.
He blinks.
And he’s not where he was a moment ago.
He blinks again.
And the scene does not shift back.
Another person might panic. But he recognizes this place, even as changed as it is.
The bottom of the ravine. The frozen lake he used to play upon, between the mating seasons of the ice crabs.
Only now, it’s unfrozen. Only now, it’s uncanny.
He moves forward, then hesitates.
Nothing good can come of this.
Is he sure that he wouldn’t rather just turn back?
Are you sure that you wouldn’t rather just turn back?
He moves forward.
His feet meet solid ground, as if the ice was still there. Unnerving as that is if it’s the worst of it he’ll be grateful.
Step by step, to the center of the lake. Only the dark, still water underneath his feet.
But he’s not alone.
[All this time and all these miles, and here you stand. How can you have come so far, seen and done so much, and accomplished so little.]
A voice. His voice.
His gaze sinks into the abyss of the lake.
The wax covered face that stares back betrays nothing. The corpse of the drowned man floats in a sort of vulgar serenity.
[Well, maybe I need to amend that. You’ve accomplished so little good.]
His eyes narrow, and a sneer crosses his lips, but before he can even respond.
[What, you’re going to shot me that cross look? Have I offended you, mighty Pontiff?]
The laughter tears into him like a jagged blade.
[Successes. Failures. Does it even really matter? What have you left in your wake, my boy?]
[A lot of words could apply. Pain. Misery. Suffering. But I think that maybe the most fitting is simply.]
[Desolation.]
[Maybe you had a different path once. Longer ago now that you or I or anyone else can even be assed to remember. But if there was, then whatever was written in the stars got an eraser taken to it. Script revised my boy. Your roll now?]
[You. End. Things.]
[Lives. Worlds. Happiness.]
[Doesn’t matter. You’re an equal opportunity shit wrecker my boy.]
He moves to object.
The words catch in his throat.
No. More than just the words. He can’t breathe. His eye widen in panic as nothing but brackish water escapes his lips as he parts them.
[Now now. No need for words. We’re on a much more fundamental level of understanding here after all.]
[Even assuming that you could argue, what is there to say? You told that skittish kid something once.]
“I haven’t asked for forgiveness. I have no right to. Nor do I expect any.”
The words echo, an unappealing emptiness to them.
[And so what makes you think you have any right to change your mind now?]
[Because you pruned a branch off of a rotting tree?]
[Because you think you can make amends?]
[Because someone gives a shit about whether you live or die?]
[You think that even if your grand plan - one needless to mention involved the pruning of said branch in service to your own bruised ego more than anything else - works. You think that even if whatever local equivalent to a God puts their thumb on the scales for you that you’ll get balanced?]
The feeling of drowning stops, the water stops. He says nothing.
[Good answer.]
[Time to get back to work.]
A series of blinks, and he’s back, staring at the latest formulae and equations.
His mouth tastes like rot, and salt.
He says nothing. Does nothing.
The silence, and the stillness, speak louder than any words or actions can.
-She gives a small shrug but does start to snicker at the whole sludge vorefriend thing. Still kind of true.-
Thanks, though? I hope I’m pretty chill, all things considered? I’ve heard a lot about former Masters out there and? I think we all know at this point how just utterly garbage mages apparently are.
Like, I can’t fathom it sometimes. No offence, but they’d kind of fit in with some of the stories you’ve told about Lordran. Like Old Man, but, like… significantly more malicious and significantly less crab texture.
“Hunh, never really thought of it like that, but yeah, I can see it.”
“I’ve met some oddballs, Old Man notwithstanding. Some of the sorcerers I’ve met have been kinda stuck up, but they’re mostly just quirky.”
“If anything, the attitude reminds me of what I’ve heard of the Lords, the guys like Artorias and Gwyn and their ilk. Like don’t misunderstand my Artorias is a good guy and everything, but even he would admit that his own arrogance got him in over his head. And you only really need to ask Gwyndolyn about their dad to get an idea of what the old man got up to.”
“At the end of the day it really seems more than anything about placing little value, little regard for others. There are exceptions of course, but the exceptions make the rules in a lot of these cases. Pretty sure the gaming noodle man made of stress is one of the ones that isn’t a complete and utter asshole, but so far as I can tell he’s the only one I’ve met thus far that isn’t.”
I mean, I guess I always have options since who knows what the future holds and stuff. But it’s still sort of stressful waiting for it.
And! I don’t mind the expansion of the ServantDex or whatever, I just mean that the Chaldea staff is having to take time, I think, to handle the nuts and bolts of… other dimensional stuff? I don’t know if you’re part of that since you’ve been here for so long…?
But I’m definitely touched I have this draw and that everyone, so far, has been happy to be here…
“I guess I have been here a while. Still, Lordran is probably more, I dunno ‘earth adjacent’ than anything. Frankly it’s the kind of shit that I leave to Sulyvahn to figure out, presumably now with less getting his silly ass vored by slime ex-boyfriend or whatever.”
“Some people, like big bird, might whine about it a little from time to time, but I think the long and short of it is that being here is nice, and you’re chill n’ stuff. I’ve heard some of the other servants talk about their former masters and some of them seem like absolute dongs, if not just maniacs.”
I think it’s that, coupled with whatever might come after, that’s sort of stressful to think about and consider.
Plus I know that Romani and da Vinci have also had to work on classifying and handling the diverse range of Servants that have been summoned.
But I kind of wouldn’t be opposed to just some traditional throwdown fights, admittedly, at this point.
“After, hunh.”
“That’s really always the question, ain’t it?”
“I think that some of it might honestly depend on what exactly you want to do, you know?”
“You’ve got options. Just, don’t get bogged down in them.”
“As for the weirdo-servants. Of which I’m pretty sure I’m one the last time I checked. I know it’s a pain in the ass, Pokedex wise, but I think the one resonating factor is that we’re all here for you.”
“Not to get mushy or anything. Just, like, that’s kinda how this whole shebang works.”
Training? I didn’t know Spirit Origins could be strengthened that way.
… you really think that might work?
‘I don’t see why it couldn’t.”
“There are regular methods, I believe adding ‘embers’ to the graph. But even regular training can help sharpen the body and mind.”
“At least, I don’t see the harm in trying it. I am told by many that the circumstances here are unique. Not akin to a regular summoning at all. So due to that there tends to be more leeway.”
