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Death Watch [non-pnp]

Discussion in 'Role Playing' started by DeranVendar, Mar 11, 2014.

  1. Brother_Draconion Draconion Well-Known Member

    Handbaskets To Your Left

    Eraklion cuts off his internal helmet mike, the better to swear liberally and viciously to let out his frustrations at the way things have been turning out so far without clogging up the squad vox. Swearing has always worked to focus his mind on the task at hand, and lend some extra bloody-minded gusto to his efforts, so swear he does.

    His initial tactical assessment indicates a need for him to help Asvald shore up the left flank, the Dreadnaught relatively lacking in long-range anti-armour capability, and there being relatively poor support for a sally into melee range from friendly lines. Lumbering into motion, he gets on the move, trotting along the front line to get into position to support Asvald. Already thinking ahead, he intends to turn this move into a flanking manoeuvre on the critical Ork targets in the centre of their formation later - if 'formation' can be used to describe the mass of bodies and machines being thrown at them.

    @Grall_Stonefist

    "Venerable Brother - shield up and, on my mark, charge that tank with all you've got! I'll flank it with fire. Once it's killed, fall back to friendly lines and hold them. Get ready...in three...two...one...MARK!"

    Ceaselessly calculating vectors of movement and fire in his genhanced and cybernetically augmented brain, Eraklion stomps to a halt at an oblique angle to Asvald's anticipated line of advance and draws a bead on the looted tank's flank armour, levelling his Lorentz accelerator autocannon to pierce both the engine block and the driver's position, or at least where the driver's position would normally be in a standard Imperial design.

    +++Engage Firing Protocol: Precision Armourkill+++
    +++Firing Protocol: Precision Armourkill Engaged+++
    +++Mode: Direct Fire+++
    +++Firing Rate: Double-tap+++
    +++Muzzle Velocity: Mach 20+++
    +++Shot Dispersion: 0%+++
    +++Select rounds: API+++

    Even as the mighty weapon speaks death in a two-beat shout of flame and thunder, Eraklion is barking out orders in response to the changing face of battle.

    @matt23 @ADDeads

    "Brother Craven, you and Julius get Mathius back on his feet and support the Squat heavy melee troops in their sally. In T-plus-thirty seconds, lead a general fallback in good order to friendly lines and consolidate there. We cannot afford to overextend. Close ranks and break them on the anvil. Counting on you to maintain discipline. Hearthguard Modrin - thanking you in advance for your cooperation in coordinating with our strategy."

    @Vlayden

    "Brother Aldric - seriously require fire on critical targets, starting with those Gauss-wielders. Leave the chaff to the Squats. Suppress and destroy the Gauss-wielders immediately."

    @Colapse

    Glancing at Kormak engaged in his violent brawl with the Ork Warboss, Gurnisson assisting, Eraklion snorts disapprovingly as he realises any orders he issues in that direction will be superfluous at best. Instead, he simply opts to adapt and plan around the inevitable.

    "All points - leave Kormak to do his thing, but prepare to support him should he be isolated and surrounded, or attempt a fallback."

    Simultaneously, a mental flex commands R.O.V.E.R. to zip into the furball and buzz the Warboss, annoying him with movement and pokes from its twin-linked plasma pistols for a couple of seconds before flying off again to buy Kormak the space he needs to rally and fight back effectively.

    All the while, his multifarious limbs are busy defending the space around him, lashing out at targets of opportunity in the case of his ranged mechadendrites, and blocking shots or slapping aside melee attackers in the case of his servo-arms.

    "Eraklion to all points - focus down and eliminate your current targets ASAP. Maintain solid defence on yourselves and your brothers at all times. We have inbound enemy walkers - things are not looking pretty."


    OOC

    Orders


    Asvald: Charge Looted Tank and retreat to friendly lines once target is dead.

    Aldric: Target the Gauss bikers, and any special weapon units after.

    Craven, Mathius, Julius: Support Mathius, help out the Squat melee fighters, then lead a fallback and consolidation on front line.

    Kormak: You do you, boi.

    Action Summary


    1.) All-Out Action: All-Out Attack @ Looted Tank w/Lorentz Autocannon, API rounds

    2.) Standard Action: Attack @ closest Butcha-Bika w/Flamer

    3.) Standard Action: Attack @ closest Butcha-Bika w/Plasma Cutter

    4.) Standard Action: Defence @ Self w/Servo-Arm #1

    5.) Standard Action: Defence @ Self w/Servo-Arm #2

    R.O.V.E.R.: Diversionary attack @ Warboss

    Explosives: 2 x Krak grenades
    Special Ammo: Kraken rounds (bolt pistol)
    Other gear: Combat shield (?)
    R.O.V.E.R.: 2 x plasma pistols
  2. Colapse Colapse Forum Beta Tester

    As his helmet's lenses burst out, Warboss would see a blood-shot eyes staring back at him, not unlike his own, filled with murderous intent. However that focus was broken momentarily as Kormak spotted the third figure jumping on the bike, the Blackshield grunting in disapproval.

    "Piss off, the alien is mine," marine spat out before elbowing the squat to the side in order to grab hold of his own chain axe and rip it out of Warboss' body. The mania which hounded him since forever returned as his face contorted in uncontrolled anger.

    Not entirely human howl escaped Kormak's lips and despite the disadvantage he had against the monster, such trivial things wouldn't stop him from continuing with the relentless assault, swinging his axe to exploit the wound he created moments earlier.

    OOC 1 attack with chain axe against Warboss, 1 defense on myself.
  3. Though it is too late to stop the battlecannon that just scored a direct hit on him, Asvald still raised his shield to ward against it, you could never know with ork weaponery, and these orks seemed to have quiet capable meks, so missfires properbly would be far in between, by ork standards. Though then Asvald also aimed his harpoon cannon towards the looted Leman Russ, what a great slight towards his primarch that the tank had even been allowed to fall into filthy ork hands, to destroy it would be a mercy to the tanks spirit, but he needed it in striking range first.
    While he aimed his harpoon at the tank he also used his underslung flamer to fire into the advancing ork horde, he couldent use his sword in the same broad swings while his shield was to remain static
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  4. DeranVendar DeranVendar Subordinate

    Dawnfall
    ~Attention, Dawnbringers. This is Brother-Librarians Feridoun and Alto of the Deathwatch. Help is at hand. We have come to extract you, and recover the geneseed of your fallen brothers. Please appraise us of your situation.~

    Several bodies jumped at the intrusion into their thoughts: each of them clad in bandaging, sutures and the drab carapace armor of Neophytes. Young men just on the cusp of receiving their black carapace huddle in the depths of a sterile vault sealed within what passes for the outpost's Apothecarion. Together they look more like a pack of savage warriors, hiding away from some malevolent shadow stalking the Quriq jungles of Zeussar. Among them linger less than a handful of Astartes: a single Techmarine, fresh from tutelage on Mars before his assignment to Nunc and lost in a medical coma that barely keeps him on the mortal coil, an Apothecary who has dutifully maintained his station watching over the younger chapter specialist in spite of own metaphorical green horns, and the Ancient.

    It is to the Ancient that these young men and even full fledged marine look. A living legend wrapped in a casket of ceramite and adamantine, wielding a spear so large it seemed worthy of one of the storied Primarchs themselves. Within the Contemptor pattern shell Elpidius Theodosius the First and the Last looks back, it seems the response to the Death Watch is entirely in his hands.

    @Vlayden
  5. Akerath Vlayden Well-Known Member

    The titanic individual stood deathly still in the vault, its polearm held fast as it kept itself tall, staring forward at nothing in particular. Yet again, the Ancient's mind was set into limbo as memories flooded him, as they did when any sense of peace.

    "Like a good and proper Son Of Dorn. Maybe you'd like to pose a little more incase we have some civilians nearby?" - flashes of his youth, seeing jovial recruits banter at one another, a grizzled sergeant giving brief scoldings.
    The sounds of orcish cries of glee, of bolter fire and explosions.
    "I'm on it," a confident Astartes bursting to the heavens with a bloodied axe in hand.

    Bloodstained gauntlets, a gifted brother at his feet, his hearts still.


    Artillery cannons booming, Iron and black soldiers thundering through hallways.

    "Deploy. Pacify all hostile targets, all dissidents. All traitors."
    Why must our kin do this?

    Thunderous explosions, mortal rebels exploding, the cries of the innocent. Weeping for the fallen. Chain weapons revving.

    "I am not a murderer." - The sounds of power weapons deactivating.
    "I will not purge innocents."

    "If I meet your family, I'll do what they wouldn't. I'll think of you when I kill them. I promise."

    Iron Father - forgive me for going against you. But I cannot stand for this, and I pray that you find redemption.

    Bolter shots. The booming sound of explosions in halls, the deafening cracks of ceramite plating being broken and split open. Power weapons swinging through the air. Blades clashing against battleplate, blood glistening a combat knife's edge.
    Melta fire searing power armour. Revving of chain weapons, the halls dented with craters. A youth surrendering to reason, the mad being gunned down.

    The skies rain metal and death, the holy world's populace forever drowning in terror and carnage. Titans battling titans, Imperial Knights batting aside monstrous daemons.

    How did it come to this..?

    A chaplain covered in litanies, maul parrying mace, plate scratched and chipped away. Faith against Faith.


    Only men can kill monsters: we must be men to deal with such things.

    I am...

    ~Attention, Dawnbringers. This is Brother-Librarians Feridoun and Alto of the Deathwatch. Help is at hand. We have come to extract you, and recover the geneseed of your fallen brothers. Please appraise us of your situation.~

    The titanic Contemptor turned its gaze towards the neophytes within the room. The chassis itself was a heroic build, with tassels hanging around the 'waist', plates sectioned together in a manner that reminded one of the Legiones' Astartes ancient Centurions. Golden filigree that swept out in the Aquila upon his 'breastplate', contrasting against the crimson of their Chapters' colour scheme. Dark grey was countered by more gold and white with the countless symbols and medals of his service career, yet all contrasted even more by the grim looking helm. Where a contemptor's helm would stand akin to their legion, this was more of a death's head, its colouration turned silver with veridian eyes in the sockets.
    He stood silent for a moment as he took in their naive looks. Children, the lot of them. Even amongst them the few true Astartes, seemed to look to him for guidance. He was used to it, by now. Many decades of being looked to for guidance had taken their toll finally, and he accepted his role in such leadership.
    The massive polearm was soon tapped against the floor, before he turned to stare upwards.
    I am Marcus, of Olympia. The First, and The Last.



    ~This is The First & The Last of the Dawnbringers. We still yet live, as the Emperor demands of us, yet we are few. Neophytes are among us, and our Techmarine requires extensive medical assistance. We do not have the supplies nor servitors to aid in extensive surgical operations upon him. Tell me: how do the Squats fare? We have not been capable of establishing communications with our companions, and we fear the worst.
    Ammunition is low, but plentiful enough lest the Warboss himself comes to greet us. Our faith keeps us strong. How soon until extraction? Courage & Honour, Librarians.~

    Thule, oh how you would be amused at how the Imperium has become.
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  6. Imperius matt23 Curator

    Mathius was not one to take kindly to being bested in anything, let alone combat. A spark ignited with him, of pure rage, as his eyes locked onto the nob. However, this battle was far greater than him and despite the rage, Mathius did not lose sight of that. All around waves of orks poured onto the defenders and it was clear that the enemies numbers could overwhelm with the correct push and support. And the support was his focus, as his first leap into battle, though aimed at an enemy, was truely meant to cut into the distance between himself and the enemy mortars.

    Quickly getting back to his feet, Mathius engaged his jump pack to try and reach the ork mortar support. Once there, Mathius would attempt to attack the mortar team with his chainsword to keep them occupied long enough for the defense to gain so breathing room. But he knew he was stranded, so to speak and kept his chainsword at the ready to defend against the orks. It may not be a glorious job, but the time it may buy would be precious as enemy reinforcements were beginning to pour in.

    OOC: Jump pack to mortals. Balanced. One attack with chainsword and one defense with chainsword.

    Craven, though he heard Eraklion, knew this order was not feasible at the current time. Craven was being targeted by a great many enemies and could not break away with the pace he had in his heavy armor. But while he could not assist Mathius, he knew he could continue the battle and effect the success of the mission.

    Looking at the warboss as the most potent and intelligent threat, Craven put some of his focus on him first. Waiting for the warboss to ride in close, Craven would attempt to crush the warboss' bike and render it ineffective. Craven knew he could gain a quick advantage if he could ground the xeno's leader. Craven's focus on the warboss would not make him tunnel vision, and he would use his heavy flamer to defend himself from the other circling riders.

    OOC: Attempting to crush warboss's big with crozius. Using heavy flamer to keep other riders at a distance.
  7. Brother_Draconion Draconion Well-Known Member

    Feridoun

    @Vlayden

    When Marcus' surface thoughts reply to Feridoun's telepathic probe, the ancient Blackshield is struck by sense of antiquity, the sheer, fatiguing weight of ages apparent in the touch of the other Marine's mind.

    Yet another one of us, it seems. How many of us yet linger? What do we cling to, to stave off madness? Duty? Faith? Hope? Old grudges, and vendettas that have outlived the millennia?

    ~Emperor be praised, Venerable Brother. With your Chapter keep a radioactive crater, we had thought ourselves too late. The Squats live still, but are heavily pressed by the Orks. The majority of our team has deployed directly to the battle to assist. We do have an Apothecary on hand to spare, however. Extraction will depend on how navigable the path to your location is. We are reading extreme levels of rad contamination - any attempts to pass through will be hazardous in the extreme. Is there any way around ?~
  8. Akerath Vlayden Well-Known Member

    Falling to one knee, the Iron Angel gave off a mild grunt -- though he cared little for that otherwise, bringing his assault cannon back up to fire. A high-pitched whine was followed by a deafening roar as he opened fire at the blasted greenskin that had fired at him.

    All out attack on the fucker that rode into me
  9. Fox Vulpas Well-Known Member

    Alto had kept his mind calm as he felt the ancinets mind, Ancient, Foreign, and strange to him, Even by the alto's knowledge of his own chapter he knew of no living marine in his chapter of similiar age, and only one dreadnought that could have possibly matched or even attempted to be old as this one. Alto could hear echoes of his current thoughts and could only assume that he was in a current fight. They would need to act fast if though carefully if they could save the ancinet and those still alive dawnbringers. Though to begin that mission they would need to get as much information as they could before deploying. Keeping his mind focussed he focused and kept his mind on the ancient. ready to hear any usefull info he could.
  10. DeranVendar DeranVendar Subordinate

    Got Ninety Nine Thousand Grudges and the Orks Are One....Thousand
    The toll of thunderous guns still rings in the ears of the combatants when the long guns on either side unleash yet more deafening retorts like angry gods bellowing at one another across the killing fields. The last of the Thudd Guns supporting the center line churns out three rounds towards the tesla toting Lootas, greasing five and leaving a sixth stunned with a finger on his weapon’s kustom trigger. Looted Necron weapon sparks and begins to shudder like the miniature zzap gun that it is, culminating in an explosive outflow of electricity that fries the wielder, his neighbor and leaves their guns as smoking twists of gubbins on the ground.

    Ork mortars prepare to return, the affectionately termed Lobbas looking like long bodied cauldrons brewing up black powder and whatever shells are at hand.Several Grots stare up towards the sky in the midst of loading.

    “Oiy bozz, why is -” The Grot’s head is stuffed into the slavering maw of a Squig, the Bully in charge of the crews cracking his whip with force enough to send another of the tiny greenskins flying.

    “Less lollygaggin’ an more DAKKA!” The roar of the jetpack is the last thing he hears, turning into a descending chainsword. Mathius beheads the Ork in one momentous blow and carries the sweep through the snacking Squig. Ball of tooth and tummy flies away split halfway through its center, and sword keeps going until it shatters the rickety wheel carriage and dumps mortar barrel flat on the ground. The second mortar crew book it out of there, no Orks nearby to keep them or the guns in working order, especially with the Blood Angel in the thick of things.

    “SCARED GROT!” The Butcha Biker that Mathius left in the acrid burning dust of his ascent whips around and decides he’d do some good bullying Eraklion. He gets about three seconds into the thought, and twice as many steps, before a gout of flame spills forth from the Salamander’s servo-harness. Flailing through the flames, Nob dies when plasma cores out his chest and allows the fires to cook him both inside and out. Eraklion need not spare more than the half second of thought to activate his harness on the kill. Then lightning joins the neverending thunder and his world goes white.

    Day briefly darkens to night near Mathius, the Zzap cannon unleashing an arc of lightning thicker than his torso across the field. Shot grounds itself in the Salamander, all the grounding in the world cannot save him from mad Ork tek, and entire harness briefly goes offline. In spite of this he remains standing, even if the ground around him has been cratered around a small pair of hills that reach the height of his boots. Experience was enough to foul up whatever shot he had planned with his own cannon.

    Aldric’s own cannon faces no such complications. Fueled by frustration born of means beyond his own awareness, he floods the space between him and the offending rider with solid shot. Several Orks disintegrate as they try to assault through the line of bullets, Butcha boy and his ride not far behind. A cloak of redundant mufflers and smog spewers cease to be and soon the Nob beyond them follows. Bike falls apart and biker topples from his seat. Aldric turns to find new prey… just as the Nob gets up and starts to charge despite both arse and everything above it looking like moldy hamburger. One of the Hearthguard steps in, power axe equivalent of a dead arm lopping the xeno in half at his waist before an Exo-armored boot flattens the skull.

    Bikes ramping off of a destroyed trukk’s flatbed descend on both Aldric and his guardian. Dakkaguns weighted across the bikes’ frames unleashing a fusillade to make a guardsman blush as every single one follow their boss into the heart of the fight and attempt to punch a hole in the Squat’s center force. Sheer volume of fire ensures that both the Hearthguard, Aldric and suppressed Brotherhoods are hit; and sheer number of hits ensures that there is blood.

    “Grundus! Harkey! Blast ‘em all!” Modrin, deciding the best way to get the lads back into the fight is to show them how it’s done, calls his remaining fellows in bulbous adamantine egg shell armor into the fray. One Hearthguard levels a plasma gun into the horde and sends streaks of sun like heat given form into the horde. Chains of wrecked vehicles do as much damage as any marksquatsship. Another braces a storm bolter in his other hand, letting loose with enough shots to make any git proud. When the bikers inevitably close ranks they are met with power axes and mauls that slay greenskin and demolish vehicles with equal ease. Modrin himself racks up five engine and rider kills with a plasma grenade and hacking battle axe alone.

    Gearjaw watches the big gits go from dead ‘ard to just dead and starts slinking back from the front lines. Spanna choppa in one hand, he gives a loota some thumps over the head, yells in garbled Gearjaw fashion, points at the Hearthguard, then caps it all off by using half a dozen stikkbombs as a screen while he retreats. Even with one being a dud and the rest being mere frag equivalents, there are more than enough to shake things up for even the stout folk and their heavy armor. Far worse is the following lightning storm that wracks the whole lot of them, blasting Grundus hard enough to leave his suit sagging while pilot stands their in a total daze.

    For the Kill Team’s efforts thus far, things seem uncertain for both sides. The alien barbarians feel the hurt, but there are more than enough to keep on suffering and dish it back. The Squats numbers dwindle, guns going quiet where melee is joined, and voices dying down with their owners’ pulses. Thudd Gun and its crewing Squat die, a Squig covered in spines and wrapped up in primitive explosives waddling through the battle and detonating right in front of the multi-barreled mortar. The Berzerkers counter-charge stalls, ferocious attacks finding more bodies than they can manage swings in the heated close quarters combat. Their ranks thin in bodies while increasing in distance from one another, the angry little abhumans lost to the fight and trying to support their less able kin in the front line Brotherhoods wherever possible. Even for their efforts choppas still find their way into man flesh.

    Yet few outside of the Imperial Fist and the rest of Dorn’s blood can boast of such stubborness as possessed by the Squats. Bayonets hack open green bodies, las-guns discharge even in the heart of chaotic melees, and heavier weapons still pound out a drum beat played into and through xeno skulls. The line holds, if only just. In the shadow of Asvald it holds firmest.

    Dreadnought’s blade may be held at bay, but his flamer still hunts among the enemy. Sheets of fire descend on the horde, bleeding the enemy for packing so many bodies into so little space. Harpoon sails over head, striking true and burying itself in the looted tank- only to tear free with a section of loose plating that had not actually been contributing to much of anything. It answers the shot with another of its own, another HE shot slamming into his shield and carrying around the bulwark. The flesh form inside walker’s coffin swears the bones in his arms must be on the verge of snapping, if only he were so alive! Sponson shootas waste their energy straight into his shield or the area around him, failing to make an impact even when they connect.

    The grinding of heavier treads and the squeaking of poorly oiled wheels close through the orchestra of war. A Deff Dread mounted on the track units of a Chimera surges toward Asvald, all four limbs capped in an assortment of rotary saws, phase dri-- Necron Phase Drills, and even a good ol fashioned burna just to keep things grounded. To say the pair of buggy bodied Killa Kans zipping past its flanks are underwhelming, with rokkit launchas and mundane power klaws, is an understatement. These reinforcements may be the ones to truly make or break the battle though. For the warboss’ life appears to hang in precarious balance!

    “Go fuck yerself with yer standard space marine!” Half naked Squat roars at back at Kormak, meeting him swing for swing, and after a few seconds more snarling, outpacing the Blackshield. Kormak’s axe hews open chest wound all the wider, Gruesomebam’s gruesome gargantuan heart looking set to beat right out of the cavity. Gurnisson slaps the warboss with the flat of an axe, turning his head enough that second falls and shears off a tusk on jutting lower jaw. Squat hacks again, taking a bit off the chin, again to remove an ear, and again to carve a deep ravine in the Ork’s skull and out an eye socket. Gruesomebam roars and raises Respekt for another lesson in pain, only for both hatchets to scissor in on his throat. All three wild riders lurch as the trike hits a ditch and catapults them from the seat.

    Kormak slams onto his back, snapping the spine of some unfortunate greenskins. Gurnisson goes and goes until he tumbles in ball through several meters of trench. Both find their feet with similar speed, both realize the shadow falling over them is not all Ork.

    “NOW DIZ IS SOME REAL RESPEKT ‘ERE!” Kormak turns right into the swing. Gruesomebam whollops him with the central body of his wrecked trike, ceramite shattering as easily as the skulls. A loose wheel flies off the repurposed vehicle, Blackshield off his feet once more until he lands in the trench. A foot lands on his arm, Gurnisson laying back into the fray without a shred of fear. Lugging the trike onto a shoulder Gruesomebam draws his sawn off and unloads both barrels into the abhuman, flipping him back yet again in a hail of lead and blood spatter.

    Craven witnesses the feat of strength and soon to be murder taking place. Chaplain has seen more absurd things pulled off by the xeno before, but this one is no less effective than the others in its ability to kill if not put to an end. Flamer and crozius hoisted high he begins a lumbering charge to intervene.

    “NOPE.” Gauss fire punches half his helmet from existence, Lamenters exposed face force fed rubber moments later as the last of the Nob Butcha Bikerz pops a wheelie and rides right into him. Helmet starts to crumble the rest of the way from the tire riding against his head, Ork cackling all the while as he discharges slugga into his chest plate at near point blank range, mostly for laughs seeing as the basic slugs were fit to do everything but pierce armor.


    Tides of War :
    Squats and Death Watch (Modrin/Eraklion) VS. Warband Gruesomebam (Warboss Gruesomebam) - Neutral - No Battle Event

    Imperium:
    Eraklion: 28 Kormak: 13 Craven: 31 Mathius: 17 Aldric: 14 Asvald:10 Warrior Brotherhoods: 15 Berzerkers: 13 Gurnisson: 8 Hearthguard: 8/9/16 Hearthguard Modrin: 26
    Conditions: Aldric has 4 charges of Urgency. While Hearthguard Modrin is alive the Squats are unbreakable. The Thunderhawk has been heavily damaged and will only provide fire support if ordered, doing so puts it at risk of destruction. Kormak and Gurnisson have Disadvantage on attacks against Gruesomebam next turn. Hearthguard 2 is Stunned (2). The risk of destruction for the Thunderhawk has been reduced.


    Orks:
    Warboss Gruesomebam: 20 Butcha Bikerz:15(2) Ork Bikerz: 8 Boyz Mob: 33 Big Guns: 1 (Zz) Looted Tank: 7 Lil Mek Gearjaw: 8 Zzap Lootas: 5 Kill Fasta Kans: 3/3 Trakk Dredd: 8
    Conditions: Zz= Zzap Gun. Butcha Biker 3 attacked Craven.Gearjaw is retreating!

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