This is a World Event that details the closing of the final Arc of the Last Light of Athon Saga in the current Chronicle.
“It’s simple, really. Cities rise, and cities fall. The Azure Order, the Covenant, Manaan—each a chapter that comes to an end.
The only constant is that the world keeps turning, with or without them.”
The only constant is that the world keeps turning, with or without them.”
The Unravelled Hope
The world doesn’t end in a blaze of glory or a cataclysmic roar. No. It starts with a whisper. A small and nameless fear, crawling from the dark corners of your mind—quiet, insistent, almost polite. The people of Lunthorpe didn’t know that a breach had opened. They couldn’t yet understand that the whispers weren’t their own, that something else was twisting its way into their world, demanding acknowledgment.
The sun hung low, barely a sliver above the horizon, and the tree at the center of town—a skeletal crown of bare branches—clawed at the sky. By the time the first leaf withered to ash and crumbled, it was already too late. Perhaps you felt it. The itch beneath your skin. The twisting in your gut. The sensation that something had gone wrong, deeply wrong, but you couldn't say what or why. That's how it began in Lunthorpe. The bandits on the outskirts—those unsavory souls accustomed to the weight of dread—felt it first. They threw up shimmering barriers around their camp, a shield to keep the creeping unease at bay. They weren’t fools. Not yet. They just hadn’t heard it. The hum. Low, droning, endless. A vibration, not a sound—a subtle, bone-deep quiver that reached beneath the skin, winding itself around sinew and marrow, searching for something to devour.
A sickness settled over Lunthorpe, the kind you can’t name. It started subtly, like an itch you couldn’t scratch. It twisted in their guts, cresting in nauseous waves that almost drowned the senses. It made teeth ache and left the tang of metal on the tongue. The birds fled, the crickets grew silent. The sky went still, the light turned flat—a dull, metallic sheen that cast no warmth, only a hollow kind of illumination that seemed wrong. And then came the silence. Not peace, but oppression—an air stripped bare of anything comforting, replaced by something old, something unknowable.
The tree—do you remember the tree? The great oak that had stood for generations at the heart of Lunthorpe, its roots twisting deep beneath cobblestone and soil, its branches sheltering children and lovers alike. It began to warp. It twisted upon itself, its gnarled limbs buckling as if under a weight unseen. Its bark darkened, turning a pallid shade, as though it had drunk deeply from the poison seeping across the land. And it wasn’t just the sight—it was the smell. A thick, acrid scent of decay and rot. It clung to the skin, a reminder that something vital had been stolen from this world.
And then someone screamed. The first scream. Perhaps you’ve heard that scream before—the sound of someone realizing, too late, that there is no hope left. The sun dipped below the horizon, and the great tree imploded, collapsing in on itself as if a void had opened within it, swallowing all that life and love into something empty. It wasn’t an explosion. It was a gasp—a deep, hollow sound, like the world itself taking a breath only to find its lungs filled with rot. And from the void rose a pylon, dark and thrumming with sinister energy. Its deep purple glow painted the walls and paths in a spectral hue, ghostly shadows creeping across windows and alleyways. The earth around it trembled—a subtle, uneasy motion, as if the land beneath their feet had begun to buckle.
Darkness spread across the sky, ink-like, tendrils of luminescence waving like ribbons caught in a tempest. It was more than nightfall—it was as though the universe had turned away, as though something vast and incomprehensible had drawn a curtain across the world and allowed something else to step in. The Covenant. They moved at the edges of the light, indistinct shapes just beyond comprehension. They had torn through the boundary, and the world seemed to draw inward, to shrink, leaving only Lunthorpe beneath the gaze of something insatiable.
Fear. That was what they fed on. Not for hunger, not for sustenance—but for worship. They fed the Naalka, the great terror that lay beneath everything, breathing through nightmares, knowing no end. They hadn’t come to conquer; they’d come to teach. To make Lunthorpe understand the nature of helplessness. To strip away hope until nothing was left but the bare bones of terror. Every scream was a prayer. Every sob a hymn. The Covenant watched from the shadows, unseen but felt, pressing down like a weight on the chest, making every breath an effort.
The Covenant were not yet visible, but their presence soaked into the bones of Lunthorpe. It twisted the earth beneath them, turned the dirt dark and acrid as the pylon pulsed and breathed, filling the air with that terrible, rhythmic hum. People ran, but where could they run to? The streets twisted, their familiar paths now ending in jagged walls of darkness that defied logic. Doors that once opened to warmth and safety now led nowhere, or worse—into depths filled with that pulsing dark that seemed to see without eyes, to know without knowing. The world was unraveling, and the Covenant had not needed to lift a single blade. They let the fear do their work for them, let it seep into every crack, every crevice, let it drown the hearts of Lunthorpe.
The town fell into chaos. Families locked their doors, barricading themselves inside their homes, hiding from something they could not name. Children cried, their voices thin and afraid, the sound echoing through empty hallways. They looked to their parents for answers, but there were none. How do you explain the feeling that something vast and unseen is watching, that everything familiar has become twisted, foreign? The streets outside were dark, the pylon’s purple glow flickering across walls, casting strange, undulating shadows that seemed almost alive. The air itself felt heavier, thick with an unnatural pressure that pushed down, making every movement sluggish, every breath a struggle. The fear became a living thing, growing with every passing second, feeding on their helplessness.
Winter had always been harsh in Falkenstein. The kind of cold that finds its way into your bones, that settles deep and refuses to leave. But this? This was different. The mist rolled in off the sea, thick and iron-heavy, curling around the old, worn doorways, slithering along the cobbled streets, clinging to boats lying dormant at the harbor. The air felt sharper, the cold more vicious, more intent—digging beneath the skin, peeling you from the inside out. Lanterns flickered along the streets, their lights swallowed whole by the creeping fog. And within that fog, something moved. You’ve seen it. That flicker in the mist, that shadow just at the edge of your vision. Not a person. Not an animal. Something else.
It began quietly. A slow rhythm of disappearance. One by one—first the butcher’s wife, then the carpenter’s apprentice. No bodies, no blood. Just pieces left behind. Torn fabric snagged on a branch, tools scattered across frozen ground. The silence grew. A silence that wasn’t calm, but taut, like the whole town was holding its breath. As though waiting for something terrible to happen. It pressed in, heavy against the eardrums. Every creak of timber, every rustle of cloth seemed amplified, every noise a reminder of what had been lost.
The Covenant had learned from Lunthorpe. In Falkenstein, they were patient. They savored the fear, drew it out like a painter with a brush, careful strokes meant to create something beautiful in its horror. The fear became a living thing, growing, filling the empty spaces of the town, creeping into the homes, making every shadow an enemy. It began with mist. It ended in ice—a storm of glacial spires that tore through the heart of Falkenstein, freezing everything in place. The mist wrapped itself around those frozen remnants, and the cold whispered through the ruins, alive and unrelenting.
The defenders fought. They fought against the dark, against the cold, against that gnawing despair. They pulled the lost and frightened from the wreckage, dragged them from the icy grasp of the Covenant’s magic. The streets became a battleground, littered with the shattered remnants of what had once been homes, lives. The mist thickened, swirling through the ruins, hiding the jagged spires of ice that erupted from the ground, cold and sharp, a reminder of what had been lost. They fought, but there was no winning. Not against something like this. The Covenant hadn’t come to kill them all. Not yet. They wanted something left behind. A scar. A memory. A reminder of what had happened here, of what was coming. And as the mist settled over the ruins, those who survived waited. The fear settled in their bones, a whisper that spoke of what had been, and what would come again.
The shadow of the Covenant moved quietly, but it grew longer, reaching out far beyond Lunthorpe and Falkenstein. The stories spread, whispered from town to town. The people of Manaan heard, but they did not listen. The warnings, the disappearances, the strange occurrences—they weren’t enough to break the heart’s hope. People always believe that the darkness will pass. That it has before, that it always will. They dismissed the stories as exaggerated ramblings, cautionary tales from those who had seen too much.
But hope is fragile. It doesn’t shatter all at once. It cracks, piece by piece, until finally, there is nothing left but despair. The Covenant counted on that. They needed people to believe—to hold onto that fragile hope right until the moment it shattered. They would wait. They were patient. They would let them hold onto that hope until it was stripped from them, piece by piece, until nothing remained but despair. The darkness would spread, creeping through every crack, every crevice, until there was nowhere left to run, nowhere left to hide. And when that moment came, they would be there, watching. Waiting. Feeding the Naalka with every broken promise, every shattered dream, until there was nothing left but the darkness, and the cold realization that hope had never been enough.
The whispers had already begun—echoes of what had happened in Lunthorpe, in Falkenstein. The rumors drifted in, carried on the cold wind, stories of a creeping darkness, of shadows that watched from the edges of sight, of something vast and unseen moving beneath the surface. The people heard, but they didn’t listen. They went about their days, their routines unchanged, their laughter still echoing down the narrow streets. They held onto that hope. They believed, just as those before them had believed, that the darkness would pass them by. That it was someone else's problem. That it would leave them untouched.
But the Covenant was patient. They had time. The pylon in Lunthorpe still thrummed with dark energy, pulsing with each beat of fear that flowed through the town, a beacon that called to something far beyond comprehension. The mist still hung heavy over Falkenstein, the frozen remnants of what had once been a town a silent monument to what fear could do. And as the whispers grew louder, as the stories spread, the shadow of the Covenant moved closer. They would watch. They would wait. And when Manaan's hope finally shattered, when the laughter turned to screams, they would be there.
Watching. Waiting. Feeding.
Rain came down in sheets, a relentless drumming against rooftops and cobblestones, and it seemed to bring more than water. The streets of Imperialis, the city of a thousand windows, were drowning—not just in rain but in the creeping, inevitable weight of something far worse. The floodwaters lapped at the docks, pushing forward, gnawing at the edges of stone, as if they were trying to pull the entire island into the sea. Fog rolled in from the bay, an unnatural density that refused to lift, swallowing the town whole in a dismal grey that matched the frightened whispers carried on the wind. Did they know what was happening? Could they sense it in the strange flickering of lanterns, in the shadows that twisted with something beyond the rain, beyond the storm?
Figures moved within the mist—creatures with gnarled limbs and glowing amber eyes, crawling over the rain-slick cobblestones, dragging themselves out of the fog and into the narrow alleyways. The monsters moved in a procession, an unstoppable tide of claw and sinew, slithering and skulking, all unseen purpose and terrible certainty. The citizens of Imperialis, a place that had stood tall with its commerce and its finery, now saw their beloved halls, their grand boulevards, overtaken by these unearthly invaders. They were creatures of salt and storm, birthed from the waves that had begun to claw their way toward the center of town, and their howls—low, guttural snarls—merged with the thunder that boomed from above.
And through it all, hidden in the shadows and in the alleys, there were the robed figures, the cultists whose hands wove patterns beneath the storm, fingers moving like dancers lost in a trance, calling to something beyond the world. They whispered words that were never meant to be spoken aloud, and those words carried in the storm, mixed with the salt of the sea. They were summoning something, weren’t they? But what? And for whom? The people of Imperialis saw the signs, but they could not know. They watched as the tides rose, as the sea itself turned on them—hungry, determined, an unstoppable wall of force. They watched, helpless, as the water swept into their homes, dragging furniture, belongings, entire lives out into the unending storm. The island quaked, and those whispers—those terrible words—grew louder, a chorus that demanded more.
The great wave came just before dawn, a wall of dark water rising above the rooftops, blotting out the sky. The cultists had vanished by then, their work complete, their task fulfilled, leaving nothing but the echo of their words hanging in the heavy air. The sea moved as though it had taken on a will of its own, a violent, unrelenting force that swept through the island, engulfing everything in its path. The palace, with its marble columns and gilded halls, fell beneath the weight of the ocean, swallowed whole. The lanterns that lined the streets flickered once, twice, and then darkness consumed the city as the waters raged. The Countess of New Sansretour, pulled from her chambers at the last moment, looked back as her city was taken by the wave, her eyes filled with the kind of sorrow that has no words. They saved her, didn’t they? The defenders carved a path through the chaos, through the creatures that clawed and bit, through the storm that threatened to pull them under. But what had they saved her for, when there was nothing left to return to?
The city lay in ruin by the time dawn broke, the first weak rays of sunlight filtering through the clouds to reveal a landscape transformed. Half of Imperialis was gone, reclaimed by the hungry waves. What remained was broken, fractured—stone walls crumbled, the streets buried beneath silt and debris, the remnants of lives shattered and scattered across the waterlogged ground. The smell of salt and decay hung heavy in the air, the cries of seagulls the only sound in the silence that followed. Those who had survived gathered at the edges of what was left, their eyes turned toward the sea, toward the horizon, searching for something that might make sense of it all. But there was nothing. Nothing but the endless waves, and the feeling that something vast and terrible had moved just beyond their reach.
The fall of the Azure Order was not like Imperialis, nor like Falkenstein, nor like Lunthorpe. It was quiet. A slow unraveling, like a thread pulled from the weave until nothing was left but an empty frame. The scholars of the Order had felt something—a disturbance, a ripple that ran through the halls of their tower, a sense that the world had shifted slightly out of place. They paused in their studies, pens held above parchment, their eyes turning to the windows as if expecting to see something there. But there was nothing. Just the sky, just the mountains, just the quiet that filled the tower, a quiet that seemed to grow with each passing second.
One by one, the lights began to dim. The enchanted sconces that lined the halls flickered, their glow fading, the light unraveling into darkness as if the very idea of illumination had been forgotten. The scrolls that had floated in midair slowly descended, their magic spent, the parchment falling to the floor with a soft, whispering rustle. The great library, with its towering shelves and ancient tomes, grew dark, the colors of the stained glass windows draining away, leaving behind only a pale, empty reflection of what had been. The Azure Tower sighed, a long, low exhalation, as if the world itself had grown weary of holding form.
Gravity faltered, just for a moment. The scholars found themselves floating, untethered, drifting upward as though the laws that held them to the earth had forgotten their purpose. But then gravity returned, pulling them back down—gently, almost kindly, as though to apologize for its lapse. Stones shifted in the arches above, a cascade of dust falling as the magic that held the tower together began to fail, began to unravel. And through it all, there was no sound. No roar, no explosion. Just a deep, pervasive silence that filled the halls, that seemed to absorb all noise, all life, all magic.
The evacuation was hurried, frantic, a rush of feet on stone, robes trailing behind as the scholars fled through the portal at the base of the tower. There was no time for questions, no time to understand what was happening. They left behind their books, their scrolls, their history—all that they had built, all that they had protected. And as the last of them crossed the threshold, the portal flickered, then collapsed, the stone archway crumbling into dust, leaving nothing behind but a gaping emptiness. The tower stood, but it was no longer a place of knowledge, no longer a sanctuary. It had become something else—an Empty.
What had happened to the Azure Order? Was it the Covenant? Was it something else, something older, something deeper? No one knew. No one could say for certain. All they knew was that the tower had become a wound in the world, a place where the laws of reality had ceased to hold sway. Magic did not work there. Life did not flourish there. The air was still, heavy, thick with the sense that something vital had been lost, that something sacred had been taken. The scholars spoke of it in hushed tones, their voices trembling as they described the Empty—a place where the flow of all things had ceased, where time itself seemed to hesitate, to falter.
The people of Elsar heard of the fall of the Azure Order, and they felt the weight of it settle over them like a shroud. Lunthorpe had fallen. Falkenstein had frozen. Imperialis had drowned. And now the Azure Order, the great bastion of knowledge, had become an Empty, a place where even the light had fled. They spoke of it in whispers, their eyes turning toward the horizon, toward Manaan. Was it next? Would the darkness come for them, too? The fear grew, spreading like a sickness, a shadow that crept into every corner, every thought. They began to prepare, to gather what they could, to make plans for what might come.
Dokvig Mendelov met with Tideguard Captain Emilia Sen in a small, dimly lit room within the barracks of Manaan. The air was thick with the scent of damp wood and the sea, the sound of waves crashing against the harbor walls echoing faintly in the distance. Emilia stood hunched over a table, her eyes scanning the reports scattered before her, her fingers tracing the lines of ink as if searching for answers that weren’t there. Dokvig watched her, his eyes narrowed, his expression grim. They spoke in low voices, their words heavy with the weight of what was coming. They spoke of the disappearances, of the rumors, of the whispers that had grown louder with each passing day. They spoke of the Covenant, of the fear that had settled over Manaan like a storm cloud.
And then they came. The figures in dark silver armor, their helmets crowned with vibrant purple plumes, moving through the streets of Manaan with the kind of confidence that came from knowing they were needed. They were the Exalted Legion, the defenders from beyond the borders, summoned to stand against whatever was coming. Their presence was both a comfort and a reminder—a comfort that someone was there to protect, a reminder that there was something to be protected from. The people watched them, their eyes following the silver-clad warriors as they moved through the market, through the narrow alleyways, their armor glinting in the fading light.
Manaan waited. The people held their breath, their hearts pounding in their chests, their eyes turned to the horizon, to the darkening sky. They waited, and they feared, and they hoped—hopelessly, desperately—that they might be spared. But they knew, didn’t they? Deep down, they knew that this city, too, would fall. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But the shadow had stretched over Manaan, and no one—not Emilia, not Dokvig, not the Exalted Legion—could hope to stop it.
The darkness was coming. And it was patient. It would watch. It would wait. And when the time was right, it would fall, just as it had fallen on all the others before.
The week leading to Manaan's fall was not a week but an eternity stretched thin, a twilight that refused to surrender to dawn. The Azure Order was gone—an empty space where their bastion once stood, as though the world had sighed and given up trying. Lunthorpe was a scar, a bare patch of earth shunned by the very concept of life, a pylon humming where children once played. Falkenstein was an alabaster graveyard, mist-laden and timeless, and Imperialis had been swallowed by the sea, half the city lost to the crushing depths. And Manaan? Manaan had waited, trembling on the cusp of despair, hope faltering beneath the weight of inevitability. Rumors had poured in, whispers of graveyard thefts, empty streets, traitorous Tideguards. It had all been held together by the fraying threads of fear—a fear that had now begun to unravel.
It started with explosions—a tearing, deafening roar that shuddered through the bones of the city. The Golden Chalice erupted into chaos, the survivors stumbling into the streets, faces marked by shock and a knowing resignation. The traitors had come—Tideguard turned against their own, along with Nelking beasts summoned from nightmares. But there were defenders, still. Lorien of the Exalted Legion, Dokvig of the Black Iron Wolves—they moved like men who had seen the world end before, who understood that survival was not a matter of courage but of necessity. The survivors joined them, Atticus Highwind among them, his bar reduced to rubble but his will intact, a cudgel swinging through the air with a kind of grim finality.
Markus Chang, a mutant, moved through the chaos with a bestial grace, taking down a Tideguard with an almost lazy efficiency, his blade sinking deep. Rachel Spring, her eyes shining faintly with the Essence of Sygaldry, whispered words into the air that twisted it—and a summoned Nelking crumpled, its very breath stolen away by her hand. Ganion Windgrog, a Dwumar that had seen more than its fair share, swung with a roar that echoed above the din—he was not a man to be quiet when the world was falling apart. The hand fell, and a Tideguard fell with it, their chitin buckling under the force. Lady Shadow, an indistinct blur moving between bodies, danced through the fray, a flicker at the edge of sight—a knife at the throat of those who thought they could claim Manaan.
The base of the harbor angel statue exploded—stone cracking, groaning—and the survivors ran. Led by Lorien and the Legionnaire, they moved as one through the burning streets, the ground shaking beneath them as more explosions tore through Manaan. Captain Emilia was with them now, her face a mask of determination, the kind that left no room for doubt. Lucian Aurelianus carved a path through the Tideguard, his blade glowing a dull orange, hot from the Black Iron of its craft, the tang of burnt metal thick in the air. Igon, silent and swift, moved beside him, each strike precise, every movement deliberate—a man who had turned survival into an art.
And then they saw it—the docks, the flash-freeze of ice spreading like a disease, the ships shattering beneath its weight. All but one. The SS Harrowgate stood defiant, a shield shimmering around it, erected by figures robed in colors that spoke of forgotten truths—black, gold, white, blue, purple, red. The multicolored wheel emblazoned on their backs glinted in the firelight as they held back the ice, their magic a barrier against the end.
Juniper Drakewood, her lantern held high, hurled it at a Nelking—the glass shattering, flames licking up the creature's fur. It roared, staggered, and fell, and she moved on, her gait steady, her eyes sharp. Aleister Ironcrow, the former ruler of Falkenstein, staggered but unyielding, leaned heavily on his cane as he struck down a Tideguard with unholy efficiency, the crack of bone lost in the cacophony. Tale-Leiko Maleia, just a child, slipped through the chaos, her small form unnoticed, her eyes wide but her steps unwavering as she followed the others.
The statue fell—a great splash, a wave that surged across the collapsing docks, knocking people off balance. The clocktower groaned, stone giving way, and they ran across it as it fell, their feet pounding on crumbling rock, the air filled with dust and the scent of destruction. Rytoya Kuzumi, swift as the wind, pulled Xiana Jiang up as they stumbled, their hands clasping tightly for a moment before they continued, the docks giving way beneath them.
And the portal—the Azure Order's last gift—exploded, the singularity collapsing in on itself, the mountain above beginning to crumble. They made it through, into the Underpass, just as the mountain fell, blocking the entrance behind them. The air was thick with dust, the weight of the world pressing down, and they ran, their breaths ragged, their hearts pounding, the Underpass echoing with the sound of their flight.
On the other side, the coast stretched out before them, the SS Harrowgate waiting, the water churning as if it, too, was desperate to escape. Lorien stayed behind, two Legionnaires at his side, their faces set with the resolve of those who knew their fate. They held the line, their blades flashing, their voices lost in the roar of the oncoming wave of enemies—traitorous Tideguards, Nelkings, shadows that moved with an unnatural grace. The survivors embarked, led by the Navarch, Kalyrie Eltalor, the ship's deck trembling beneath their feet as they set sail, the journey ahead long, uncertain—eight months to Vaelyn, eight months to whatever waited beyond the horizon.
The voyage was not just a crossing of the sea but a journey through the heart of despair. The waves were restless, the sky often painted in colors that seemed to echo the turmoil in their hearts—steel grey, stormy blue, a deep, unsettling violet. The survivors moved through their days with the weight of Manaan heavy on their minds, the scent of smoke and salt clinging to their memories. There were moments when silence stretched across the deck, broken only by the creaking of the ship and the distant crash of waves, each soul lost in their thoughts—in the faces they had left behind, in the home that was no longer theirs.
But amidst the despair, there were whispers of hope. The Legionnaires, ever watchful, spoke of Vaelyn in the evenings, their voices carrying across the deck. They spoke of the city's high walls, of its warmth, its safety—a place untouched by the horrors they had seen. And the cloaked figures, the Seekers of the Wheel, with their robes of many colors, spoke fondly of Vaelyn as well. They spoke of new beginnings, of a chance to rebuild, to start anew where the past could not reach them. There was something in their voices, a kind of hope that felt genuine, that burgeoned in the hearts of those who listened.
As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, the mood on the ship began to shift. The fear that had gripped them slowly loosened its hold, replaced by something more fragile, but infinitely more powerful—hope. The sight of Vaelyn on the horizon, its high walls bathed in the light of the rising sun, brought a cheer that echoed across the deck. The survivors, battered and weary, allowed themselves to smile, to embrace one another. For once, the future did not seem like an impossible dream, but something real, something within reach.
They were not yet safe, not yet home, but for the first time since the fall of Manaan, they believed they could be.
“But it’s not about the world. It’s about the people who lived there, the ones who watched it fall and decided—against all logic—to try again.
That’s what makes the story worth telling, isn’t it? Not the fall, but the rise.”
That’s what makes the story worth telling, isn’t it? Not the fall, but the rise.”
This World Event Post is a summary of the series of events that led up to the Transition from Elsar to Vaelyn. I want to provide a huge thank you to all players who took part in the events as well as the Staff who contributed to the development of the story. Creating four major events and then connecting them seamlessly into a final, fifth event which said goodbye to all that came before and hello to the new world is no easy feat- either to achieve or to participate.
The names of the people who participated in The Dying Light event are mentioned directly- though I will preface and state that I had to take some creative liberty in some of the actions taken by your characters. This section of the World Event Summary is not as fleshed out as I would have wanted it to be as I lost many of my screenshots I took of the RP that took place during the event and I’ve been unable to recover them. I hope, with the limited knowledge I possess regarding your characters, that I did you justice.
Screenshot taken by @Wartov
The names of the people who participated in The Dying Light event are mentioned directly- though I will preface and state that I had to take some creative liberty in some of the actions taken by your characters. This section of the World Event Summary is not as fleshed out as I would have wanted it to be as I lost many of my screenshots I took of the RP that took place during the event and I’ve been unable to recover them. I hope, with the limited knowledge I possess regarding your characters, that I did you justice.
Screenshot taken by @Wartov
Last edited: