“Help! Thief!!

"

A voice rang out through the smoggy streets, turning the heads of every witness. The confounded crowd glanced about wildly for its source, some looking to stay out of the drama, and others hoping for a front row seat. No matter the reason, all eyes searched for the same thing.
 Startled shouts suddenly erupted at all sides as said thief rushed past them, a black and white thing zooming on by. They started murmuring, only to then hear that voice to call out again.



“There! That eight eyed beast, he snatched my things right from my arms!” 



The crowd’s droning chatter grew louder at the mention of eight eyes, more curious than ever. The nosiest ones looked back, and thus first to finally spotting the voice’s owner, a thin-framed human struggling to keep up with the criminal. Thick matted hair jutting beneath a wool hat wrapped around her round face, blue eyes peeking out from the strands, wide with horror. 
As the distance between her and the thief grew, she stopped running, putting her hands on her knees and panting. With a faint hiss beneath her breath, she grabbed onto the shoulders of the nearest person, lips quivering.



More uncertain mumbles spread throughout the crowd. Those who felt pity simply averted their gazes. Others blankly stared, wishing to witness the action rather than get involved with it. The man she grabbed however, a lowly local chef, looked down on her, brows knitted together in concern. 



“Aye.. Are the gangs picking on you, young lady?” He gently asked, “They’ve been giving my family trouble too..”



Hearing this, the girl lifted her head, clinging onto him more with big wet eyes.



“Yes, they are, please sir!” She pleaded again, “It’s a gift for my brother; I can’t bear to lose it!”



The chef gazed at her, contemplating. Soon he turned to a nearby group of young men dressed in garments similar to his own, fire in his eyes as he addressed them.



“Say boys… Who’s up for some huntin’?”




---

All of that led to this moment.



The thief in question now stood pressed against the wall, magenta eyes reflecting the metal head of the javelin embedded inches from his face. His heart raced as fast as his breaths did. He turned towards the bakers that currently flanked, four legs trembling under their hardened stares despite standing at 1-3 feet over them all.

The chef stepped up, gripping a cleaver in his scarred hand.



“Alright son, listen up,” he said, “How about you hand over that girl’s package there? That way, maybe we won’t send you to your boss in pieces. How’s that sound?”



At the mention of a package, the four armed creature clutched the enveloped item tighter against his body. Her package? Yeah right! He slowly shook his head.



“It’s not hers. She’s lying,” his wavering voice tried to retort, “I’m looking for a guy with a flat nose; she doesn’t have that-“



He went dead quiet as one of the younger men raised a second javelin, aiming it right at him. The chef quickly raised a hand, preventing the man from firing right away.



“Drop the act, ya leggy bastard,” the chef growled, “There ain’t nowhere to go. I don’t know which gang you’re shacking up with, but they ain’t here to help. Now hand the thing over!”



The beast flinched. This was not how he imagined this day to go. He didn’t even know what was in this thick envelope, but he had a feeling it was valuable, which was all the more reason to hold on.
He wanted to argue and protest, but the shine of those metal weapons paralyzed his words.…
-But not his body. And contrary to the chef’s threat, he had one way to go.



He bent down, knees tucking beneath his body as he seemed to submissively cower.

Only to leap up and back, right into the wall. All eight limbs sprang out to dig those claws into the stone, chipping off tiny pieces as the abominable arachnoid clambered up as fast as he could.



“HEY!!”



The chef barked first, followed by the dismayed yells of his fellow men. They dashed over and jumped, reaching out in an attempt to grab one of the thief’s legs. By that point however, he had climbed out of their reach. The man with the javelin hurled it as hard as he could, but fired it a bit too high. It sank into the stone above the thief’s head with a loud clang, eliciting a frightened shriek out of him.



He made it onto the roof after that, and yet, he didn’t stop there. He dashed along the rooftop on all limbs, adrenaline firing every muscle he had. When the rooftop ran out, he jumped onto the nearest next one and continued fleeing until he had to jump again. And again. And again…



Eventually he came across one building with a roof he couldn’t reach with a jump. Though he couldn’t hear the men, he feared they were still around. Without another thought, the thief hopped across and started scaling the wall…


The next thing he knew however, a foot went through it, and the rest followed suit in a flash.

Just like that, he suddenly found himself flailing at the empty air as he hurtled down backwards…


-And through the stone-tiled roof of Shade’s Valley Orphanage.

All things considered, it had been a quiet day up until that point. Since his retirement from the business, the subsequent months on the run with his love, the return and hesitant alliance between the family he’d once considered to be some of his closest companions… after all the running, the sensation of slowing down and spending most of his time taking care of the kids while they all recovered from their time on the run was a novel one. He was not as young as he’d once been – years of abuse and neglect for his own person had taken their toll on him, and dark magic ate away at the rest. He was tired. And despite all that, every single idyllic day that passed while he tended to the orphanage, his paranoia grew, every shrinking shadow or every movement in the dark a cause for concern, every visitor a reason to watch over his shoulder.

The mounting stress left him bone-tired and weary. If something did not break soon, then he was sure he would.

Taking care of the kids helped. It gave him purpose, and if nothing else, it occupied his mind and time. When he was not working odd jobs here and there to make coin, spending time with Del, or working to patch his fractured relationship with the Rha’Oriyn family (when he wasn’t working to find a way to bring Zarius back-), Cyran threw himself into work, a shoddy attempt at compartmentalization. In a strange way, helping kids who depended on him in their day to day was a balm on his tired soul. They were rambunctious, but acting as their guardian, in a silly sort of way, was the time Cyran felt most at peace with himself.

And so time carried on.

Before the commotion upstairs, Cyran was preoccupied with cleaning and playing with the little darings, which turned to cooking and then reading in the sitting room while the roast baked, and then –

CCCCCCRRRRRAAAACK!

”MASTER CYRAAAAAAAAN, THERE’S A SPIDER IN OUR ROOM!”

”IT’S GINORMOUS!”

Well. That didn’t sound good.

Cyran was on his feet in an instant, old instincts kicking in as he sprinted up the steps to the second floor and to the room where he’d heard the shout. Cyran threw the door open, unsure what he would find inside. He was only armed with the certainty that any threat to his kids would be dealt with swiftly and surely.

What he found instead made him freeze in his tracks.

“Oh, gods…”

Not because he’d found what he feared most inside – but because the ‘spider’ that the children had found was not truly a spider at all. For one thing, at its full height it would likely be bigger than the elven man, and because the creature’s shape was distinctly humanoid. Based on the decent-sized hole in the ceiling, Cyran could hazard a guess as to how they’d gotten in.

He couldn’t say he hadn’t been expecting some form of trouble for the past few weeks. But the kids were fine and whole, and upon first glance it didn’t seem the creature had posed a threat to them. That was subject to change at any second, so Cyran straightened, ready to intervene if need be.

“Kids, head on downstairs. I’ll take care of the spider.”

“Okay!” They obeyed, hopping off the beds where they’d taken sanctuary and sprinting out the door… before waiting a few moments and peeking their heads back in to watch their guardian, because often the more you warned a child away, the more curious they grew. Perhaps they expected Cyran to swat it or put it in a glass and whisk it outside, but Cyran saw no reason to react with violence when no violence had been done to him. He was not the kind of man who acted with hostility and started conflict for no reason. So when he was well and properly alone, he put his hand on a shoulder – arm – whatever he could reach – and murmured,

“Are you alright, there?”

---

Bringing Pets
Blackberry Cheesecake (Mimic Moth- not against NPC cap)
Captain Peepers (Griffon Songbird – not against NPC cap)
Yeux (vampire bat -counts against pet cap)
Aruna (Water Pixie – counts against pet cap)
Ivrae (Book Wyrm - doesn’t count against NPC cap)
Memory (Ashland’s Jackal – counts against pet cap)

The first thing Cyran may hear was a pained groan. The intruder shifted, cradling his head.
Speaking of such, it reeled in more ways than one. What just happened? One moment he had scaled multiple buildings in his escape and now he was on the floor with quite the headache. Through squeezed eyelids, he barely made out the ceiling above. A simpler one facing the floor saw only darkness. Was he inside…?

Then the screams came. High pitched, like children. Staccato instantly froze, fear springing right back now that he wasn’t alone. Two small eyes near either temple picked up the two silhouettes running amok before they stood still.
Nobody moved until the third voice spoke up.

A man, or rather, a larger silhouette from his left side. He assumed this owned this deeper voice. His thoughts started racing…
Was this man part of those many merchants he ran by earlier? Did he know who chased him? Would he lead them right to him??
What did he want?!

While he struggled to get his bearings, he felt it. An unexpected touch on his shoulder. Pain from the fall and fear of the hunt reacted before his common sense did. Like a wounded animal, he whipped his head around and snapped at the hand that touched him.

As his lips flared, so did his fangs. Between those sat a set of short pointy teeth.
If Cyran’s reflexes were too slow, this would be unpleasant to say the least.
 (Staccato does have poison so if Cyran is bit, it’s gonna hurt)
Whether the outcome came out to be, Staccato moved regardless, rolling into a stumbling crawl. Rather than lashing out at Cyran or the hiding kids though, the arachnoid beast instead scrambled to the closest bed, and surprisingly managed to squeeze himself underneath.

With some hurried adjustments, he now stared out from the darkness with six magenta pupilless eyes, with the largest central ones squinting. He made no other sounds besides unsteady breaths.
Now that he had some cover, he could observe his current situation a bit better.

…Where in the world was he? A home? It appeared cozy like a home. Two beds, nice lighting, rugs, and-
The big eyes widened again as he now got a clear look at the other people in the room, his gaze soon locking on Cyran in particular.

Another dark elf…? No, this one had pale skin and dark hair. The dark ones had the opposite.
But he had to be an elf of some sort, so was he one of those other ones? The names wouldn’t come to him, but they existed-
Ugh, so confusing!

The beast grunted and narrowed his eyes at Cyran, but remained still. Seems he didn't want a fight either. Instead he mumbled something that only sensitive ears could pick up:

”…What are you?”

It was the quiet sound of pain that gave Cyran pause.

He’d had unsavory visitors within the walls of his orphanage in the past. People who meant harm to him and his - mad cultists who’d taken his fiancé, fair folk hellbent on scaring the kids. They’d been through so much… it was natural for Cyran to feel guarded about strangers who entered his property. And one that had crashed through the ceiling of one of the kids’ rooms, no less.

Yet it was the wounded sigh that softened his heart; like a child, a wounded animal. If this was someone that needed help, then Cyran couldn’t find it within himself to turn that stranger away. As he put his hand on the spider - person… the young arachnidfolk’s shoulder, he spared another glance through the hole, assessing the damage. They were definitely going to need to take care of that before Del could take a look at it - Cyran had proven time and time again he should in no way wield a hammer.

His musings were interrupted by something shifting below.

The arachnidfolk’s head swiveled around at a near-imperceptible blur. It was only the ex-assassin’s reflexes that allowed him to pull away, yanking his hand as if burned, in time before venomous fangs grabbed skin. They clamped down on air instead; everything went to hell all at once. The kids started screaming from behind the door, immediately abandoning ant pretense that they weren’t watching. Survival instinct kicked in and the Man who was once the Specter put distance between himself and his attacker…

But no second blow came.

Rather than advance, the figure retreated, rolling away and finding solace under one of the childrens’ beds. It was a tight fit given the stranger’s sheer size and the small distance between the floor and the bedframe, but they managed to squeeze in, until all that was visible was a set of magenta eyes, fearfully taking in their surroundings.

And then all fell still once more.

Cyran paused, tension uncurling from his shoulders. What had just happened? The stranger was the one to lash out, but from the way they were acting, they were prey - not predator.

Vicious monsters did not hide.

Slowly, as if to promise that he posed no threat, Cyran pulled himself into a low crouch atop the colorful rug. On his knees, he moved to unhook Wraithsbane - the cold iron dagger, a gift from his beloved - from where it hung on his belt, and set it on the floor while the figure could see. Once unarmed, he held his hands in the air, palms splayed.

“Hey, it’s okay.” He murmured, voice gentle, laced with an undercurrent of concern. The fact that the creature had fallen through his roof seemed nothing more than a distant thought, now. Things could be fixed. People were priceless. And right now, the kids were okay, and he had a frightened visitor on his hands. That was the upmost priority. “You are safe here, I promise. This is my home, and no harm will come to you under my roof.”

The reply was so quiet he almost missed it.

Cyran tilted his head, only somewhat surprised the stranger could speak. The elven man had never met someone of this stranger’s ilk, but he had been alive long enough to know that people came in all forms. As far as he was concerned, this was just a scared kid. One who meant no harm.

What are you. Not who are you. Cyran was not certain why that distinction mattered, but it did.

Cyran chose his words carefully, his tone as slow and gentle as it had been before. He remained crouched; neither coming closer nor retreating, giving the kid room to breathe without feeling like they were cornered.

“I am the owner of this place.” That was the simplest answer. But what were they looking for? Something they could trust, something to know they could be safe? There was no magical answer that could ever assuage one’s fears. All Cyran could do was be honest. “You’ve fallen into Shade’s Valley Orphanage… my name is Cyran. I’m an elf. What’s your name?”

As he remained tucked beneath the bed frame, the eight limbed beast’s thoughts started to recollect and recompose.
Okay. He wasn’t attacked. Not yet. This other person seemed just as confused as he was. Did he not know what went on out there?
And those men, Staccato heard nothing from yet since he crashed here, but as far as he knew, they were still out there. They didn’t follow him, did they…? Surely he would’ve known by now if they had. Yes, they weren’t a problem now. Good…
Just as he started to relax some, wraithsbane caught his attention as Cyran disarmed himself.

A suppressed gasp, in the form of a sharp breath, came out as Staccato’s eyes widened and instantly locked on the blade, its glint making the beast’s heart skip a beat. Claws scratched the wood as he hurriedly shifted from beneath the bed, trying to squeeze himself into the corner opposite of that knife. His frantic movements and large size moved the bed itself, its wooden feet noisily scuffing the floor for an inch or two.

Nope. NOPE. He didn’t like that knife. Not at all. Even with no one wielding it, he felt unsafe.
He still turned his gaze to Cyran, albeit slowly, and kept a small eye on the blade. In that eye’s vision, it mostly appeared as a slightly darker shape against the slightly lighter background, with the light reflected off the metal appearing as a bright line.
If someone picked it up though, he’d know.

Now he could address the elf in question. Though it took some willpower just to pry his attention away from Wraithsbane, he eventually succeeded, keeping his hands balled tight while he resisted the urge to bolt. Two different lines of thought clashed and gave him pause while he filtered them out.

Run! You’re in danger! Get out!
Stay calm, don’t scare him. He won’t attack if you don’t. Don't move.

What was the elf’s reply? Man, the scare scattered his thoughts, uhhhhhh-
Oh right, the place-

“Shadewood valley what?” Staccato shakily repeated, “S-So this is… your home then..?”

Weird name for a house, unless it was a store instead…? The term “Orphanage” rang only the faintest of bells, telling him he may have heard it somewhere in the unknown past.
If he had one…

Ugh. Best not to think on that. Shake it off. Focus on the elf.

“So you are an elf? But you look different…” he added, eyes squinting, “Your skin is light and your hair is dark…”

The others had just the opposite, and he’d found no exceptions so far. Hm. Perhaps this one- Cyran -was one of those… light elves? Was that it? Yeah it was-

“Is it just you and-“

He craned his head to the side to look towards the door for the kids, only to see an empty doorframe instead.


“-Oh… Okay…”

Another sigh came from the bed, an arm peeking out as he readjusted his position. They reminded him of the chicks… How he missed them already.
So far, despite the screaming and the weapons, nothing had actually come to hurt him. If anything, he tried to hurt them…
His eyelids squinted and furrowed around his eyes as guilt took hold.

“Did I scare them…?”

A tip of a nose peeked out into the light as he tried to get a better look at the doorway.
Shoot… the one piece of advice he was given, he’d already forgotten it, and now look what happened!

Uneasy peace was broken by a startled gasp, a hiss – the rattling of a bedframe and the scraping of bedposts against wood. The stranger drew in upon themselves, eyes glowing in the dim as their movement shook the frame. Cyran could just barely make him out in the shadows, keen eyes adjusting to the shapes painted in broad strokes where he’d curled in on himself, where he had his eye on the blade –

The blade.

Cyran’s efforts to disarm himself, the knife left on the floor next to him, had only agitated the stranger more.

One had to wonder how many blades the kid had seen in his life to garner such a horrified reaction.

“The knife?” Cyran murmured, gaze flicking towards Wraithsbane. If the mere sight of it agitated the kid, then he should dispel it… but the last thing he wanted to do was touch it and send the stranger into a spiral. He was just frightened; in a foreign place, with screaming children and a man armed. And his first thought was that he was going to be hurt.

As always, Cyran’s heart ached.

What an injustice.

“Hey, don’t worry about it.” Keeping his hands up, Cyran stood, kicking the knife to the other side of the wall, under the bed opposite the one that the young stranger had taken refuge under. Out of sight… hopefully out of mind, but given the tension still coiled in the young man’s frame, far from out of mind. “All gone, see? I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”

He meant every word.

The young man relaxed just enough to speak, though Cyran could still hear the tremor in his voice.

“Yes, Shade’s Valley Orphanage.” Cyran repeated. “And yes… of sorts. I take care of the foster children here, and I live here with my fiancé.” Was he a local? Most street folk that lived nearby knew the name… knew that if they begged hard enough there was a chance that they might earn a warm meal for it. Knew to bring troubled kids here for a night with a roof over their head, where they could forget their troubles even for just a bit. Knew that powerful figures flocked here, that Shade’s Valley was under the protection – or watch – of someone very influential in the city.

If the young man hadn’t heard of it, it was possible that he was from out of town, or lived so far underground that the name meant nothing to him.

“You fell through my roof.” Cyran carefully did not ask why. There would be plenty of time for questions later, assuming he could coax the young man out from under the bed. Cyran needed to assess his injuries, make sure he didn’t have a concussion –

The next question gave him pause.

Cyran tilted his head, momentarily confused by the query. The young man spoke slowly and carefully, partially out of fear, but partially because he was speaking about common knowledge like they were distant concepts he ought to be able to grasp. He was… partially a creature, was he not? Cyran had barely caught a glimpse of him but he’d been able to note the arachnid-like limbs, and the multiple, softly luminescent eyes. With a start he realized it was entirely possible that this young man hadn’t even been raised in civilization at all.

“I’m a moon elf.” Cyran explained, as patient as he would a child learning these concepts for the first time. “What you’re describing is a dark elf… they’re similar, but different families. Like cousins.”

The next question came, soft and quiet.

”Did I scare them?”

Cyran turned around, noting that the doorway was empty. It seemed the kids had finally decided to give Cyran some space, possibly off to find Oriole or Andromeda. He could hear floorboards shifting, likely heavier footfalls attempting to conceal themselves. Likely one of the apprentices coming to investigate the noise.

“They’re a little shaken, but they’ll be alright.” They hadn’t been harmed, which was the important part. Loathe as Cyran was to admit it, they’d all been through worse scrapes before. Strong kids, each and every one of them. All forced to grow up a little too fast, deprived of their homes, until they learned how to adapt. They’d lived through the destruction of Shade’s Valley and all the rottenness that came with Cyran’s life. They would be okay. “If anything, they’re only going to be curious. It’s not every day we entertain a guest who’s arrived in such a… unique way.” He added that last part with a small chuckle.

“…Okay.”

Staccato finally took his eyes off the blade to turn towards Cyran’s calming voice. The other elves didn’t sound this kind, save for that lute lady.
No, this moon elf, as he called himself, sounded much more like his earlier friends…

His throat tightened at the thought of them. He regretted parting with them so soon. At the time, he truly believed he could start finding his own path and leave them to continue their own. How wrong he was…

Not wanting Cyran to catch on though (as futile as that was), he swallowed back the grief and simply nodded, the best he could do.

The question remained though. How was he find new companions if he kept scaring them off? He had to come out at some point…
At least Cyran seemed willing to let him go. Were the kids the same way…?

The thought drew his attention to the door again, frowning at the children’s absence until he heard Cyran’s explanation, to which he too chuckled at the mention of his unusual entrance.

“Oh. I didn’t mean to go through the ceiling. It just happened,” he told Cyran, “My head still hurts from it…”

And it would remain that way unless he did something about it. With this in mind, Staccato found the courage to shift forward, out from beneath the bed-

“Ow!”

…Only to hit his head. Pain shot through the already tender skull. With a hurt grunt, the two largest eyes disappeared into the shadows again.
However, he soon moved again, going for a different approach. He slowly rolled onto his belly and slid out from beneath the bed with no further issues.

Now Cyran had a better look at him.

A definite humanoid, even if his torso stretched beyond typical proportions just to fit his extra limbs, which too extended far. He easily hit 7 feet at standing height…
Some things were recognizable to Cyran. Forward facing eyes (four to be exact), a scrunched nose, a wide set of lips, and even some head hair.
His first set of arms also maintained some semblance to humanoid anatomy, though his hand ended in three clawed fingers rather than five. The same applied to his legs, with the addition of backward bending knees…

Then the arachnid qualities… His eight limbs were the most glaring detail. Four arms, two legs, and a mysterious stubby pair of limbs along his waist. All of these had hard chitinous plates and scales scattered along them.

Then came the fangs as Cyran saw earlier. They required a larger jaw to accommodate them, and wider lips to stretch over them. Even then, the tips still peeked out from the top lip.
Cyran could also now count six eyes total, as the remaining two sat near his temples. All of them were a solid magenta, lacking both an iris and pupil. It seemed only the biggest two had eyelids to close though, as they were squinted shut from the still fresh pain.

All along his limbs, waist, and sides grew long, coarse hairs like one would see on a tarantula. Black, just like his hair, though glimpses of purple could be spotted on his back and hands.

Only his chest and head remained bald (save for the head hair), exposing ghostly pale skin already discolored with bruises and scapes thanks to his earlier fall. His temple especially had an ugly blackened patch. A few others appeared on his shoulders.

Overall, it was easy to understand why the inexperienced folk would be horrified with just a glance. He was not a common creature of this world.

Now that he was free, Staccato sat up and dipped his head to cradle it in his hands with a pitiful groan. The fading adrenaline no longer blocked the dizzying ache.

This didn’t stop him from tensing at the sound of the approaching footsteps though, warily turning an eye towards the doorway.
.

hat he believed Cyran would not hurt him. He smiled, but the young arachnidfolk did not crawl out from under the bed. Only the quiet sound of ambient shuffling indicated he was still there, still listening. Cyran crossed his legs, assuming a more comfortable position. No longer kneeling, but at eye level. As inviting as he could manage.

“Oh, it’s quite alright.” He waved a hand at the young man’s admission. “I figured as much.” He hardly had visitors lining to throw themselves through his roof at such great injury to their person. Not to mention the way he was more convinced that Cyran would hurt him rather than the other way around. “Would you like me to look at it? Just to make sure you don’t have a concussion…”

It seemed the kid had the same idea as him, though, as he finally decided to crawl out from under the bed. He hissed in pain, rubbing at his head while he pulled himself to his full height.

Cyran drew in a breath.

The inhale was sharp, surprised - he composed himself, though it not difficult to tell that he was momentarily taken aback by the sheer size of the arachnidfolk. The elven man had gotten some sense of it earlier, but it was different when looking down at him rather than up. Cyran was only six feet tall, and he’d never seen a creature quite like this. A patchwork of many limbs and eyes and teeth impossibly too big for his mouth, like something had forced all these additions onto a human framework. The molding was not seamless. In fact, Cyran had to wonder if this existence was painful.

“Oh, dear…” He hummed, clicking his tongue while he took in the mottled bruises along patchwork skin - or what he could only assume were bruises. It was unclear whether he was lamenting the young man’s injury or… this.

Staccato was not something to be scared of. By Cyran’s estimation, he just needed help.

Cyran procured a cloth from seemingly thin air, getting on his toes and gently moving to examine the head injury for any blood or bumps; anything that might necessitate greater medical attention than he could provide. “Let me get a look at this.” His tone was gentle, if not a bit sad.

The young man tensed - for a moment, Cyran wondered if he’d overstepped his bounds, before he heard the creaking of floorboards that spoke of a less-practiced assassin, and a distant presence. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s just Andromeda. She works for me here. She won’t hurt you.”

She was surly, but she’d gotten much better at curbing her temper over the past few years.

After Cyran finished speaking, Andromeda cracked open the door. “Is everything okay, Master Cyran-“

Her eyes widened when she spotted Staccato, only a fraction, before Cyran waved her to stand down. “Yes, everything’s fine. We’ve just got a new guest for the evening. Why don’t you take the kids down to the kitchen and get dinner started? And see if you can’t get Oriole to bring me the first aid kit.” He paused, tilting his head. “… And a blanket.”

Andromeda nodded her assent before whisking her way downstairs, leaving Cyran to turn his attention back to the young man. "See? She's just here to help."