Freedom [Open]

Winter bit at her fingers and cheeks as she leaned against the tree for shield against the brisk breeze. The Frontier was offering good game this early morning, the white orb shining so brightly that one might think the earth was covered in diamonds. Naked trees jutted out like fingers, casting long, thin, black shadows whilst offering paths for squirrel and smaller beasts from the deep snow.

It was quiet, amazingly so, as the snow crunched underneath her boot several layers beneath, the more heavier sheets biting into her hide boots as she trudged onward carefully, crouching low as the woman focused her hearing for anything worth this morning trip. Her stock was getting low, having not enough time to hunt during the fall due to work, so she was making up the losses now.

Crack

She stops, almost dropping behind a collection of fallen logs, raising her rifle and waited... her aim undeniably precise when a sudden notion raises the fine hairs on her arms and neck. Something wasn't right... maybe what she was incidentally hunting wasn't an animal but..

"Who's there?" The voice is hard, commanding, vibrating all around her as she cocked her rifle once more, daring not to move, awaiting a reply.

It was cold, truly cold. For all the sun's bright cheer, the temperature was low enough to send needles stabbing through woolen gloves, and the snow worming its way into her boots had refrozen to ice. Winter, having failed to do her in so many years ago, seemed to be mounting a second effort.

With a frustrated sigh, she straightened from her protective hunch against the wind. This wouldn't do. Boston was still too far to reach in a half-day, and civilization, or at least shelter, would have to be found by nightfall. Cupping gloved hands over her eyes, she allowed them to relax before removing her hands. A familiar dark landscape interspersed with bright flashes of blue and yellow swam into view. Turning in place, she noted the straight line of her own tracks in blue, the potential cover of a shrub in yellow, and... A bright line of footprints trailed away into the distance.

A woodsman or soldier, perhaps? Without livelihood at stake or orders, no-one would be out today.

No, the steps were measured and careful, kicking up a minimum of snow.  

A hunter, then. Someone used to moving unseen and unheard.

It was an unlooked-for piece of luck. A man deliberately out in this weather would likely have a hide nearby. There, Providence willing, she could spend the night before moving on. Worry that it was another kind of hunter, an enemy, materialized quickly, and her mood soured back into caution. Her other options were few and unpleasant, however, so she would chance it. The blade beneath her sleeve was well-concealed, and it had been a long time since she seemed an overt threat.  

A command to identify herself broke through her thoughts, and muscle memory took over. Pivoting to the side, she leaped out from under the overhanging branch, to slide into a defensible position against a tall rock. Her blade was out and raised defensively within seconds. The heavy portion of her pack followed moments later, flung aggressively towards the origin of the voice.

Ayashe steeled herself into action, raising quick to a standing position as her rifle exploded. She hid behind the same area, cursing herself for missing when another noise catches her attention. She throws her first rifle away, cocking the other just as something was flung at her.

The Huntress reacts just as trained, muscle memory making her jerk to the side. The bag only fumps! into the deep snow.

"That's a cheap trick, you know!" Ayashe hollers, the second rifle a little smaller than the first. Was it even human? Of course it was. Whoever that was Ayashe privately praises. Not just anybody can move like that.

"Come on out now and I won't shoot you. I don't want to... hurt you unless-" She cuts herself off, letting the words die in the echo of the trees. It was undeniably silent and it was eerie. Slowly she breathes, forcing herself to remember her father's training. But she's been hunting all morning and her muscles needed rest, visible now as they shook. Come on, come on..

The quick move had cost her. Cornelia's knee had carried the weight of the slide, and the creaky joint now made its displeasure known with a band of pain; it wouldn't do to repeat such a drastic evasion. The injury was minor, but only made ending this fight as quickly as possible more important. The night would have been unpleasant unharmed, but a wound would spell death from exposure. A prolonged fight was out of the question.

I ought to diffuse this.  If I can speak with him...

With two shots fired, she was sure of her opponent's position behind the log pile, and the voice in the meantime -- female, young -- had only confirmed it. But the two rifles and quick movements meant that a simple hunter was unlikely. She didn't know her opponent's side yet, but the ancient conflict apparently meant to pursue her to the end of her days.  Resolved to end things quickly, she ducked her head out from cover, just enough to be visible.

"Hold up! I'm a not prey, nor an enemy. Put down that musket before we put each others' eyes out, will you," she pacified, although the request was spoken as a command.

Cornelia eased further out from the rock, arms held away from her sides and hands demonstratively, if not actually, empty. If the woman proved a Templar, she would have seconds at best to throw the smoke bomb and evade the returning shot.

Doesn't wish to hurt me? I would be reassured if I hadn't heard that so many times before.  Although a reassurance after a pistol-shot is a novelty.

Tensed despite her outward calm, she waited for the standoff the break.

The Native glares at the woman before her, instantly seemingly ready to open fire until the barrel drops.

"Damn it." She inwardly curses, "Fine." She drops it entirely, raising both hands. Nothing is on her wrists or was any sign of that being a Templar. Hopefully the woman concluded that Ayashe was just highly trained.

"I apologize for earlier: for shorting at you. When I said I didn't want to harm you I meant it. Unless you give me reason too. Truce?"

The seconds stretched out as they confronted each other, the stillness of the woods all the more deafening after the brief gunfire. Finally, the weapon lowered, and Cornelia eased her finger out of the bomb's trigger loop.

"There is no need for apology; our meeting has been rather less than fortunate, and I am equally at fault."

Cornelia dipped her head slightly in place of a curtsy. She doubted stepping forward to shake hands would end well, although the Native woman's mode of dress indicated at least passing familiarity with Colonial customs.

"Mrs. Cornelia Vollmer. I travel for Boston harbor and the market there, and seek shelter in the meantime. Whose acquaintance am I making?"

"Ayashe." her reply short and hard. Suddenly she snorts, "You're a long way from Boston yet. At least three days on horseback, Cornelia." Ayashe tested the name in her head three times. It was getting slighter warmer now and she was getting hungry.

Inwardly she shrugs, not knowing how to really continue, "Perhaps some lunch?"

"A long way indeed."

Long habit keeping her from turning her back, she moved over to her fallen pack, pleased to see that that the fastenings had held and that its contents remained safely inside. The ache in her knee was fading, and would be gone in hours. A brief rest, especially with the promise of a fire, sounded good, though the possibly of a real enemy attacking pricked at her conscience.

Ayashe was plenty competent -- the exchange had thoroughly proven that -- but went against her nature to bring danger down on anyone else, especially someone who was apparently unconnected to either side. A glance at the unappetizing flour cakes crumbling at the bottom of her pack, however, made up her mind. It would be better to travel well-rested and well-fed, and Ayashe likely knew a good deal about the best route to Boston. Not for the first time, she missed Robert's meticulously detailed maps, but that relationship was over -- she'd ended it herself.

"I have nothing to add save frozen molasses and dry biscuits," she replied, "but I would happily share them."

The Native watched the woman, relaxing instinctively like a wolf among other wolves. She knew an Assassin when she's one. The iconic blade and the way they carried themselves at times. Cornelia reminded her of someone else long far from here, farther than Boston, anyhow.

Briefly she waited until the Assassin retrieved her pack, picking up her own weapons and strapping them over her weary shoulder. Trekking through the snow was tiring at best, but looking for fresh meat and fur to trade was taxing.

At the meager offer of biscuits and molasses Ayashe involuntarily shudders. She looks at her almost with pity.

"I made a small camp nearby. Follow me. It looks like you need other food in you, anyway." She begins her trek, following her trail in the dense shrub, "Biscuits..." she seems to laugh.

Pleased to see that her initial hunch about a camp had proven correct, not to mention sharing the woman's opinion of her own supplies, she followed. As Ayshe padded near-silently away, Cornelia briefly considered following with deliberate clumsiness before discarding the idea.

I've already revealed my blade --there would be time to berate herself for that incaution later-- even if she overlooked it during the fight, I know what that assessing look just now meant

She nevered bothered to look back: Ayashe was convinced that if the woman was an Assassin (she couldn't seem to make up her mind yet) that endurance she will possess. By walking this far to catch the Huntress off guard, well, not many ordinary people can do that.

Nearly two hours pass and the near complete silence is nearly driving Ayashe crazy. The duo had come across a trail, easily recognizable by the fresh tracks of two riders. She stopped for a moment to asess the situation. The native merely shrugs and continues.

Another hour goes by and they would find themselves at a well concealed entrance. Or perhaps to others a wall of ice from a small creek simply frozen over, bushes leaning against the small rock face.

"Best we go inside: I want to keep this place, well... concealed." She doesn't wait, instead, ducks her head and seemingly disappears within the tunnel.

The journey to Ayashe's hide was long, but not unpleasant. The sun's steady climb had raised the temperatures to no longer be as bitterly cold, and the trees did their part in blunting the cut of the wind. More than that, was solid reassurance of a competent companion. Ayashe's presence had lifted the constant, exhausting vigilance of the previous days, although Cornelia doubted she would ever fully relax -- that was simply the nature of her work.

It wasn't exactly that she was lonely, either. She was used to long solitary vigils, the wait for her husband to return and later the wait for news and reports, but there had always been other people. And the iron-clad certainty of her fellows' support...

Enough you sentimental old woman! You left, and for good cause. Do not sully that with pointless regrets.

The tracks were enough to sober her thoughts. Riding through woodland was a dangerous exercise, rarely undertaken by those not inexperienced or extremely driven. The tracks were straight and well-controlled, however, so the first was unlikely. Uneasiness settled over her at the prospect of unknown parties also about. It was with a sense of relief, then, that she stopped behind Ayashe at what was presumably her hide, though she could see only ice and scrub.

"This is handily done," she said, genuinely impressed, "it would be easy to walk by unawares, even if one were to search."

((OOC: btw, how do you say Ayashe's name? i've been saying ay-ah-shee))

(It's Ah-yah-shay ]

"Good. Now inside, I'm starving." Ayashe moved, almost squeezed, through the entrance with ease, dropping her small packs of gunpowder and bullets. She was getting low, which wasn't good, which meant Ayashe would have to go to a city soon to re-supply her stock. Goods like food, condiments, even fabrics of cotton. This winter was longer than usual.

Then again she's been only here for a couple of years. The Frontier wasn't exactly as challenging as the north. Deeper snow, solder temperatures, not to mention the price of which traders lived to get by. The thought alone was exhausting as she dropped by a blackened pit.

Immediately she gets to work, shedding off the first layer of clothing into a neat pile. Kindling goes first with some dry shrub. She strikes to rocks hard enough to create sparks. She cups the little flame, blowing it gently, encouraging the fire to grow and eat.

With more light the cave revealed to be a good size. Able to fit five people at least. In this case, Ayashe had filled with stores of dried meat, and rolled up pieces of animal hide. One might think this was a secondary storage unit, in case something happened to befall her original camp.

"If I was by myself I would normally travel back by the Diamond Basin but-" she looks up at Cornelia, "You looked like you could use a meal. Well, for supper there's.. Well, I can cook up some fresh meat. Maybe with some potatoes and carrots if I have any left." She ponders, looking about the cave.

(( thanks ))
Once inside, Cornelia straightened carefully. She wasn't tall by any measure, but the entrance had been narrow even for her. It wasn't necessary; Ayashe's hide, no, her dwelling was large and supplies were placed so as to leave the center -- and an escape route -- unobstructed.

Her initial impression of the woman had been of meticulous efficiency, which the carefully-constructed dwelling only confirmed. Their association was likely to end soon -- Ayashe's offer of food had been pure generosity on her part -- and Cornelia would never involve her host in her own troubles, but it would have been a pleasure to work with her.

As her host set to work building a fire with the ease of long experience, Cornelia realized with a prick of shame that she was doing nothing to help. Considering the disgusted look the biscuits had garnered earlier, it was likely best to leave them in her pack. She set the small jug of molasses to warm by the new fire. It wasn't much, but at least she was no longer imposing completely.

Duties as a guest temporarily, though unsatisfactorily, accomplished, her mind turned to more serious matters: the two riders. Politeness would suggest that she at least make small talk before broaching the subject, but Cornelia was rather given to the direct approach.

"Ayashe," she said turning to face her host, "You know this area well. Who might have had cause to ride through wooded parts at such speed, and what might be their errand?"

Ayashe studied the woman longingly, as if trying to figure something out despite her hands busy at the raw meat, fingertips coating in dark blood of yesterday's kill. A simple hare, plump and enough to feed two people with something on the side. The native works naturally, skinning it with a sharp knife, cutting where needed. After that she scooped the guts with her bare hands, placing the gooey mess into a satchel, tieing it up before shoving it away.

"It's wartime." She replies, "There could be a several reasons why: or all at once. Deliver parcel: letters, plans, etc. Maybe someone else with a different agenda. I hear the patriots have lost Breed's Hill. Washington isn't doing too good, either."

It'll be just like home, Ayashe remembers. The constant nations of the French, English, and Indigneous warring... Ayashe shoves the invasive doubt aside.

"You're an Assassin, aren't you? Nobody goes to place as desperately unless it's a personal vendetta or a mission." Her one brow arches quizzically at Cornelia. She raises both hands up, smiling some, "Don't worry, I'm not an enemy."

That was it, then; the cards were on the table. Considering the effort she had gone to to shed ties and hide her former affiliation, relief was an odd emotion to feel at the (correct) guess. Then again, lengthy charades had always wearied her. As with all things, an uncomfortable truth was always preferable to a safe lie. She wouldn't pretend continued affiliation.

"A mission, indeed, but not at the Assassins' bequest. I cannot be accomplice to so flippant a waste of lives for ends only to the benefit of the Brotherhood."

The image of a smiling boy delighted to receive the same blade that now sat on her wrist like a shackle appeared before her eyes before she shoved it roughly it away.

Voice quieter, she continued, " I don't know what the old man and his protege are planning up in his manor, nor do I wish to. If you look for a fellow, try Boston -- I wasn't aware of Breed's Hill, but I'm sure they're involved somehow," she finished bitterly.

The battle was news, but her destination wouldn't change much. New widows wouldn't cease giving birth now that their children were deprived of fathers, and she would help the survivors any way she could, danger be dammed! There were likely no new supplies in Boston harbor that hadn't been commandeered by British forces anyway.

Her eyes snap up to Cornelia, "Old man Achilles? Then-" she bites her lip, huffing with a shake of her head. Still she listens until the Assassin is to finished. Today was strange, the circumstances stranger. She knew who Cornelia was talking about. Yet she couldn't help but feel empathetic to both parties yet ready to openly accuse them.

Ayashe never killed unless absolutely necessary. She even had several heated arguments with the Assassin duo and that was why she was out here and not at the Davenport Homestead. She had her own problems to deal with.

"Achilles... and Connor." Ayashe mused aloud, leaving them to silence as another hour passes. The native cleans her hands and station, pulling out two wooden bowls for the stew now ready to be devoured. She scoops two hefty spoonfuls into Cornelia's and passes it over, offering a sort of bread that slowly baked atop the fire. The cave was warm now and Ayashe, while eating, sank comfortably against the stone wall, enjoying the meat that melts in her mouth, the soft mush of potatoes and the different textures of carrots and celery. It wasn't much but it'll do.

While mulling over the meal Ayashe was pondering of heading back into town. Maybe she could help with Cornelia, especially their poor greeting in the woods. She was glad to have missed: otherwise Ayashe would've been still out there, scrounging up frozen kills, shivering until the extreme chill of the night persuaded her for warmth and food. Was she still angry over the Assassins at Homestead? Possibly. Yet she missed them and their banters.

"I think—" she starts, slurping the cooked blood with a final smack of her lips, "I will come with you to Boston. That is, if you don't mind. During this time of war it's safer to walk with someone than alone."

There was a flash in her eyes: A few days back Ayashe almost ran into a battalion of Redcoats in their camp. How? A mix up or rather chasing false rumours. Apparently she was wanted. No matter now it was dealt with. She wished for that never to happen again.

Ayashe awaits her reply by cleaning slowly, even scourging Cornelia to eat more.

To treat fever, heat had to be applied until the illness broke. Often, Cornelia had wrapped a patient from head to foot in cloths soaked in hot water to raise the body's temperature. It was more effective, she had found, than simple closeness to a fire. She wasn't ill and her clothes were thankfully mostly dry, but as she soaked in the heat of the fire, letting it warm her in stages, Cornelia imagined the feeling was somewhat similar. The fire had also done wonders for her cold and age-stiffened joints. When she stretched experimentally, the pain in her knee was gone.

That Ayashe hadn't kicked her out of the hide when she realized that her guest wasn't the fellow Assassin she thought she was harboring was surprising and spoke well for her. And she was clearly an Assassin, one in recent contact with the Mentor. She'd recognized the him by description only -- there were many old men in the frontier.

Connor? Connor Davenport is now an Assassin?

The irony of that drew a bleak smile.

Let us see if you are so quick to risk your own flesh and blood, shall we? I do wonder whether this will finally impress upon you the value of what we endanger.

Silence stretched while the meal cooked. Having nothing to do, and unwilling to pick up the previous topic of discussion, Cornelia resorted to her usual nervous tics, extending her hidden blade over and over to test the mechanism. She frowned at the grating click that worsened with each repetition of the motion, and produced a small pot of grease from her overcoat to oil the leather and metal. Her blade has served well since her departure, but was clearly getting old. It was another worry for her pile of such, and Cornelia shelved it in favor of the much more pleasing matter at hand: food.

It was delicious. Whether it was the warmth, fresh meat after days of dry provender, or something else, Cornelia had to force herself to eat slowly. Bread, infinitely superior to her justifiability-maligned biscuits, was offered and she accepted with a murmur of thanks. More comfortable than she had been for days, Cornelia placed her empty bowl in her lap. It was with a jolt, therefore, that she heard the offer of companionship, instantly rejecting it.

"I mind. You've been extraordinarily generous, Ayashe," she said with a gesture to the fire and stew, "And I shan't repay that by dragging you to danger. Boston is at war; there will be no safety there."

She straightened sharply from her relaxed posture to meet the woman's eyes.

"The colonists will not be kind to someone with your features," she continued, "If the accusation is not "spy" then it will simply be "outsider." And that is enough to mark you an enemy these days."

Ayashe meets her gaze with equal vigor, "I am well aware of that. I've been to Boston, New York, Philedalphia and all the other towns here in the Frontier so I know what I'm doing. Besides, most people are too busy with the war rather than stare at a savage woman." She implies the word, gesturing even a slow motion of her finger.

"—and I have errands to do. I'm running low on gunpowder so I'm coming with you whether you like it or not." The native reaches over and takes the bowl right from Cornelia's lap. She puts away the dishes for later, wraps the bread in a clean cloth then stuffs it into a travelling pack. The rest of the stew would be a brief breakfast for the morning but right now, Ayashe grudgingly remembers, one last trapping line needs tending to.

She slips into her outer wear: a fur lined jacket, gloves, hood, and scarf. "I just remembered something: I need to check my last trap line by the river before it gets too dark. You can stay here or—" she pauses, tackling the last satchel of gunpowder to her belt.

"Do whatever you want."

And she slips out of the warmth of the cave and into the soft snowfall of the frontier.

Two men walked along a river. One of them was slightly hunched over, walking a bit slow with a cane, the other straight-backed and patientky following the other. Damian was the older of the two, wearing warm fur clothes and simple gloves, with quite gray hair - Timothy was the youngest, just varely twenty. Looking over to Damian, Timothy merely said "Alway's loved this sort of weather. Cold, but not bitter. Don' know why I even wore these gloves,", as he looked down at his hands. Damian merely chuckled, and said, "Oh, if you lived s good time in the Florida Keys after comin' from Scotland like I, this would be-" "-as cold as the arctic on Christmas. You've told me before, Grandfather. I understand.". Instead of retorting back, Damian merely lsughed at this unexpected response.

Cornelia stayed seated for a long moment after Ayashe had disappeared through the mouth of the cave. The beginnings of regret were setting in, despite her rationalizations. Apparently, she had missed good company more than she thought.

Rising without her usual stiffness, she placed her empty bowl near the fire, and glanced around for some way to thank her host. Though few, there were coins in her pack, but it would be insulting to offer payment for something freely given. Selecting a piece of charcoal from the fringes of the fire, she scrawled a note on a length of birchbark from inside her pack. The thanks still seemed inadequate.

Ayashe, thank you for your kindness this day. I regret that we did not part on better terms. Yours in Friendship, Cornelia.
- - -
The weather had warmed considerably, Cornelia noted with relief, and the wind had finally grown tired of its howling. In fact, the muted crunch of her feet along the riverbank was now the loudest sound to be heard. Something prickled at the edge of her hearing, and she stopped with a frown. Her breath hung in clouds as she waited for -- there it was again! Louder now, and clearly a voice, no voices.

It would have been sensible to avoid strangers so near a battlefield, but desire for company won out.

Soldiers would ignore me at any rate. I doubt I shall meet a second Assassin, and there may be someone in need of my help.

Still moving quietly, she hurried in the direction of voices. Eventually, their owners -- two men, one old and one young -- came into view behind a white bluff. Deliberately changing her stride to make more noise, she stepped out behind them, one hand raised in greeting.

"A good day to you both! Do you also travel for Boston? "

The younger one turned around first, Damian being quick to follow. They didn't expect anyone else to be out here. After pausing a bit, Timothy said, "Yes, actually - in fact, we were actually just enjoying a nice little sound. I take it you either need assistance getting there, or just want others to ride with?". He said this a bit stiffly - he hadn't expected to meet anyone else around here now. Damian merely chuckled, and said, "Ah, lighten up a bit, lad," with a heavy hint of a Scottish accent in his voice. "'is name's Timothy, my grandson, and I be Damian - Damian Butcher, to be precise. What's yer name?", he continued, tapping his Grandson's arm with the back of his hands a bit.

Upon further inspection, it could be noted that these two were actually quite tall. Timothy was a good few inches over six feet, Damian himself sizing up to him, just barely taller than him too. Damian also had a smile on his face, Timothy a slight one as he glanced quickly over to his grandfather, but stopped as he looked back over to the woman who they just met.

(Sorry it's short - extremely busy.)

At the greeting, Cornelia relaxed somewhat; the younger man's stiff manner had been born of protectiveness for his grandfather, not involvement in some plot or ambush. Wariness assuaged, she replied easily,

"Cornelia Vollmer. And I am after company: the aged, " she turned to Damien with a smile, "ought to stick together, should we not?"

The cheerful mood was unusual for her, but not unexpected: she had encountered two sets of more-or-less friendly travelers after days of solitary travel. She still regretted parting from Ayashe, but it had been necessary: she would have been drawing her to a war zone. Damien and his grandson were at least already involved, although her conscience did not seem entirely convinced.

Give it a rest,she berated herself, you'll be in Boston soon enough, and tire of every mother's son asking something of you soon thereafter

Damian merely chuckled a bit, and said, "Well, nice to meet ya, Cornellia - And, I guess you would be quite right. Still am in good contact with a nice lass I met in my late 20s.". He smiled a bit fondly, then shook himself out of it.

Damian then turned quickly to Timothy and nodded briefly. Timothy merely nodded back, and said, "Well, we ourselves don't actually live that far from here. I'd say it's just a nice 20 minute walk 'till we get there, then we can grab some horses. Follow us, if you please.". He then motioned for her to follow him and his grandfather, and the two then turned back around, heading the direction in which they were heading previously.

Damian had a good feeling about this lady - he felt she could be easily trusted. But, still, he was also a bit wary. Timothy felt the same as well. Timothy adjusted something on his left wrist blade - a slit sliver of silver was very briefly seen before he did this, slightly illuminated by the moonlight.

This meeting, in contrast the the last, was positively civil: she had not been fired at, and there had been no armed standoff. Perhaps Providence felt that she was owed a respite?

At the mention of horses, she immediately revised that opinion with an internal groan. In all her long years, she had yet to experience a ride that did not end with either a swift descent to the ground, or a clinging feeling of nausea. The size, age, gender or temperament of the steed in question unfortunately made no difference; riding was a trial.

Horrid things. I wish quick travel was possible without the beasts.

Be that as it may, her opinion of mounted travel was no fault of her hosts, and Cornelia groped for a suitable change of topic. Before she could launch into a discussion of anything non-equine, a worryingly familiar motion drew her eye. Damien's grandson had just fiddled with something beneath his sleeve. It could have been anything -- scratching an itch or adjusting a cuff -- but Cornelia hadn't survived dozens of encounters with Templars through hoping for the best. In defiance of the rules of chance, it seemed that she had encountered members of the conflict once again.

The familiar clarity of a concrete mission settled over her, and the way forward became simple. She would follow these men to Boston, and watch their deportment. If their actions revealed cruelty or malice, their affiliation would be clear, and, if needs must, she would carry out the logical conclusion. First, though, information would have to be gathered.

"In Boston I intend to help the common folk in the wake of the battle," Cornelia kept her tone light and unsuspicious, "But there are few who would make directly for a war zone without cause. Is there a matter that draws you to the city?"

((sorry for the slowed replies. I have a full time job now that makes things difficult))