Graverobber141
[Insert Clever Line Here]
I’m Graverobber, Grave, or whatever you wish to call me; I’ll respond to a surprisingly lot. I’m a college student who enjoys writing, gaming, and a lot of geeky things. Feel free to nerd out with me. Before I get into the interesting stuff, here’s a bit about me as a writer, and what I’m looking for in return:
- DETAIL: First and foremost, I love detail in a post. My average post probably sits anywhere around 300-500 words, but I’ve been known to go around 1000+, depending on the scene and how many characters are involved. I’m not going to say I want someone who matches my length, as I firmly believe quality is greater than quantity, but I would prefer to write with someone who loves taking their time with a post and pouring thought into it.
- I’ll provide a sample of my writing, so you can see if our styles match, and I would appreciate if you did the same.
- CHARACTERS AND WORLD-BUILDING: What’s that saying? Every story has already been told, but it’s the characters that make each one unique. I’m into character-driven roleplays. I love writing with complex, deep, individual characters, and development is a must for me in a roleplay. While I mainly play male main characters, I will play a small zoo of NPCs of both genders from a variety of backgrounds and give them just as much thought. I love a world that seems alive within a roleplay and will do all I can to make that the case for ours.
- I also enjoy world-building. If we want to make our own setting together, I will spend an extraordinary amount of time coming up with lore. It’s something I enjoy doing. However, I’m not against playing in pre-established worlds: either fandoms, mine, or yours.
- ROMANCE: I enjoy romance and relationships between characters, yet it’s something that must develop naturally, and I will never force it. As stated above, I usually roleplay as male characters, and what gender I’m willing to play against will be determined by the orientation of the character I’m writing.
- COMMUNICATION: I’m perfectly fine with, even enjoy, OOC chatter. Also, as with all human interactions, I believe communication is needed for smooth sailing. Not having fun? Did something make you uncomfortable? Did you not understand something in my post, or did I accidentally misunderstand yours? Got an interesting idea to add to the story? Let me know! I’ll always more than willing to work things out.
- ACTIVITY: To be honest, my activity can be sporadic. I can promise around two posts a week but will try for more. Anything less than a post a week, I tend to lose interest. I understand that real life comes first, and if you need to take a break, let me know. I’ll do the same for you.
Here are my current ideas and cravings:
[My Role x Your Role]
Main Pairing:
Sasuke x Sakura
Side Pairings:
Suggest! I'm open to non-canon pairings, even Canon x OC (selectively), as long as you indulge me in Sasuke x Sakura.
Characters I Can Play:
Kakashi
Naruto
Sai
Shikamaru
Ino
Suigetsu
Karin
Juugo
Gaara
Kankuro
Temari
Yamato/Tenzo
Kiba
Rock Lee
If we want to add some more divergence to canon:
Neji
Asuma
Deidara
Itachi
Shisui
Hidan
Kakuzu
Sasori
Kisame
*Feel free to ask about others; I probably forgot some.*
After the last great war, peace did not come easily. With the shinobi forces in shambles, mistrust is starting to once again brew between the nations; with two superpowers to call upon, the Leaf is regarded with wariness. And now Orochimaru, a powerful sannin with many secrets, has ascended to the new Kage of the Sound, yet even after his efforts in the war, Kakashi is not quick to accept his intentions, especially when outlying villages, particularly those rumored to be harboring those with rare bloodline jutsus, are suffering from vicious attacks from rogue ninjas. The Hokage suspects foul play, even Orochimaru's involvement, but one wrong step could spark another war.
That's where his former student, Uchiha Sasuke, comes in. Wandering the world in a quest of redemption and self-reflection, he seeks to aid these villages under siege, and has been tracking those responsible, feeding information secretly back to Kakashi. Traveling cloak-and-dagger, Sasuke finally gains a lead in Rain, where he defends off an attack, only to fall to a poisoned shuriken. On his deathbed, taken in by the villagers, Sasuke bitterly muses this is a damned, ironic way for him to go.
Enter Haruno Sakura: a renowned medical ninja and a student of the great Tsunade. The last few years she has been establishing hospitals and offering relief to the various nations, particularly Rain, which has suffered from the constant battling and change of leadership. By some stroke of luck or fate, she just happens to be traveling through the country when she hears of the attack on a nearby village, and stumbles into a shack, finding a man who left her standing outside Konoha's gate two years ago.
Notes:
- Please feel free to offer suggestions to change any of the above, or add anything in. I'm always open to new ideas.
- I would like a partner who's willing to help me fill out the world with characters, both canons and select OCs where applicable.
- I would like to scale down both Sasuke and Naruto's powers. We can discuss how, but I really don't like playing overpowered characters, and it's hard to throw actual challenges at these characters when they're basically gods.
I believe that’s all I have at the moment. If interested at all in indulging this craving, let me know! Send me a PM.
And here’s a few writing samples so you can judge if our styles match:
This is a comical post from a dinner scene I enjoyed. For context, there was a cake left in Sasuke's oven that I, the writer, forgot about, and my partner punished me severely by having it almost burn down the kitchen:
So, in this more serious one, Orochimaru rules the Sound Village as a Kage, and has requested Sasuke's presence during negotiations. Yamato and Kakashi had a disagreement about whether if crap went down, if Sasuke should rinnegan Kakashi (the current Hokage) out of there. Kakashi said no, then Yamato sought Sasuke out to tell him to do it anyways:
During a time travel arc, my swordman, Satoru, ends up battling his former sensei, Takeshi, otherwise known as the Swordsman of Sand, in defense of Kakashi:
Arm pulling Sakura tighter against him, Sasuke kept that smile of his on his lips exclusively for her, planting a soft kiss against her forehead. Eyes trailing down to take in that picture--they all were happy, leaning into each other, while in the first they had taken together, Naruto and Sasuke had practically been attempting to murder each other with glares--he had the thought that it would go quite nicely next to the other one, a reminder every day he came home.
"Er, sure, Sakura-chan..." Naruto was nervous laughing. "I'm sure Hinata will find something for you to do in the kitchen..."
Perhaps he had been too enthralled to notice before, but Sasuke's eyes snapped toward the kitchen at Kakashi's words, the smell of smoke, and his eyes widened in disbelief.
The battle against Madara had been nothing. If one wanted to see a display of ninja excellency and talent, they needed to be in Uchiha Sasuke's house at that exact moment. The Great Shinobi Kitchen War was about to begin, and there would be no mercy.
"Ah, shit," the curse fell from Sasuke's lips sharply, and removing his arm from Sakura, after giving her knee an apologetic pat, he was gone. A spoon tumbled into his empty seat in his place.
There was a cascade of more curses from the kitchen, the sound of windows quickly being slid opened, the battling and slinging of a pan, followed by a more colorful array of curses. Naruto blinked from the dining table, before literally falling and rolling over in booming, cackling laughter. "Cooking is not that much of a piece of cake, is it Sasuke?"
"Shut up, Naruto!"
"What, Sasuke? If you can't handle the heat, you should stay out of the kitchen!"
A piece of the silverware disappeared from the table, and Sasuke landed crouched in its place, mismatched gaze starring down with the full force of the sharingan at Naruto, one of those death glares expertly wielded by only Uchiha Sasuke. The clone he landed next to jumped in surprise, falling onto the floor with a heavily thud, disappearing in a cloud of smoke.
Snorting, Naruto managed to get to his feet, swaying a bit, hand clutching the back of a chair to help steady himself, as the chuckles kept on coming out. "You seem to have a little something caked across your face, Sasuke."
There was, indeed, traces of black smoke stains smudged across his cheeks and nose, but Sasuke looked rather unamused at the continuous use of puns. With a growl, he grabbed Naruto non-too-gently by his mop of blond hair, and jumping off the table, unceremoniously dragged him to the kitchen archway, jerked him upright, and grabbed his hand, his sharingan still activated, as he used the idiot's fingers to form a few hand signs, ending in the serpent, and cast a stolen jutsu using Naruto's wind nature; the gust of wind contained the smoke by pushing it back into the kitchen, spreading to carry it out of the opened windows, so that after a few moments only the smell lingered and a weakening thickness of burnt air.
"If you wanted to hold my hand--" Naruto wasn't allowed to finished the sentence, interrupted by a forceful smack to the top of his head. Not phased in the least, the blond joyfully followed Sasuke back to the table, declaring to the rest of Team 7, "Don't worry. When I host, I'll refrain from burning us out."
"Er, sure, Sakura-chan..." Naruto was nervous laughing. "I'm sure Hinata will find something for you to do in the kitchen..."
Perhaps he had been too enthralled to notice before, but Sasuke's eyes snapped toward the kitchen at Kakashi's words, the smell of smoke, and his eyes widened in disbelief.
The battle against Madara had been nothing. If one wanted to see a display of ninja excellency and talent, they needed to be in Uchiha Sasuke's house at that exact moment. The Great Shinobi Kitchen War was about to begin, and there would be no mercy.
"Ah, shit," the curse fell from Sasuke's lips sharply, and removing his arm from Sakura, after giving her knee an apologetic pat, he was gone. A spoon tumbled into his empty seat in his place.
There was a cascade of more curses from the kitchen, the sound of windows quickly being slid opened, the battling and slinging of a pan, followed by a more colorful array of curses. Naruto blinked from the dining table, before literally falling and rolling over in booming, cackling laughter. "Cooking is not that much of a piece of cake, is it Sasuke?"
"Shut up, Naruto!"
"What, Sasuke? If you can't handle the heat, you should stay out of the kitchen!"
A piece of the silverware disappeared from the table, and Sasuke landed crouched in its place, mismatched gaze starring down with the full force of the sharingan at Naruto, one of those death glares expertly wielded by only Uchiha Sasuke. The clone he landed next to jumped in surprise, falling onto the floor with a heavily thud, disappearing in a cloud of smoke.
Snorting, Naruto managed to get to his feet, swaying a bit, hand clutching the back of a chair to help steady himself, as the chuckles kept on coming out. "You seem to have a little something caked across your face, Sasuke."
There was, indeed, traces of black smoke stains smudged across his cheeks and nose, but Sasuke looked rather unamused at the continuous use of puns. With a growl, he grabbed Naruto non-too-gently by his mop of blond hair, and jumping off the table, unceremoniously dragged him to the kitchen archway, jerked him upright, and grabbed his hand, his sharingan still activated, as he used the idiot's fingers to form a few hand signs, ending in the serpent, and cast a stolen jutsu using Naruto's wind nature; the gust of wind contained the smoke by pushing it back into the kitchen, spreading to carry it out of the opened windows, so that after a few moments only the smell lingered and a weakening thickness of burnt air.
"If you wanted to hold my hand--" Naruto wasn't allowed to finished the sentence, interrupted by a forceful smack to the top of his head. Not phased in the least, the blond joyfully followed Sasuke back to the table, declaring to the rest of Team 7, "Don't worry. When I host, I'll refrain from burning us out."
At the thanks, Sasuke firmly nodded once, though he found it to be entirely unnecessary. If what they were discussing did unfold, Yamato would be one of the soldiers left behind. Satoru, as well, a thought that made him want to laugh bitterly at the irony. Perhaps he would be able to make it back onto the battlefield to offer relief, perhaps not. In the end, the decision wasn't about morality, but simple numbers; they could save a lot more tomorrow by sacrificing a few today.
For some odd reason he thought of Itachi, and his grip on his mug tightened for a moment, before relaxing, and his eyes, which had drifted off, found their way back to the wood-style user, taking in his question.
Strange was certainly not the right word to describe what he was feeling and he let go a hard, almost searing exhalation of air, buying more time by taking another sip from his cup. Before now, he hadn't lingered on the thought, but Yamato was another one of Orochimaru's--the muscle in Sasuke's jaw flexed--former playthings (for that was certainly how the snake sannin saw them), and because of that, they shared experience that no one else could quite understand. He wondered what prompted this question: was he trying to reach out, find common ground, or simply test the waters of Sasuke's loyalty?
Closing his eyes for a moment, Sasuke set his tea onto the tabletop with a quiet clank. Placing his palm next to it, splayed upon the wood, his fingers curled into a loose fist, and his dark gaze trailed over his knuckles. "He made the request because he wants to get under my skin: a feeble attempt to exert control over me once more." Turning his hand, one of his knuckles tapped restlessly against the mug. "For the sake of Konoha, I can swallow my own anger at the audacity of it and stomach his presence."
Another pause, another tap. "But I also agreed to prove to myself that he no longer has any power over me."
For some odd reason he thought of Itachi, and his grip on his mug tightened for a moment, before relaxing, and his eyes, which had drifted off, found their way back to the wood-style user, taking in his question.
Strange was certainly not the right word to describe what he was feeling and he let go a hard, almost searing exhalation of air, buying more time by taking another sip from his cup. Before now, he hadn't lingered on the thought, but Yamato was another one of Orochimaru's--the muscle in Sasuke's jaw flexed--former playthings (for that was certainly how the snake sannin saw them), and because of that, they shared experience that no one else could quite understand. He wondered what prompted this question: was he trying to reach out, find common ground, or simply test the waters of Sasuke's loyalty?
Closing his eyes for a moment, Sasuke set his tea onto the tabletop with a quiet clank. Placing his palm next to it, splayed upon the wood, his fingers curled into a loose fist, and his dark gaze trailed over his knuckles. "He made the request because he wants to get under my skin: a feeble attempt to exert control over me once more." Turning his hand, one of his knuckles tapped restlessly against the mug. "For the sake of Konoha, I can swallow my own anger at the audacity of it and stomach his presence."
Another pause, another tap. "But I also agreed to prove to myself that he no longer has any power over me."
There was little time for detailed thought, and that fact was considerably irritating, because there were things Satoru needed to sort out before he engaged his sensei in a life-or-death battle: consequences for one, because if this wasn't an elaborate genjutsu, and if he had really been sent back in time, then killing Takeshi now, failing to defend Kakashi, could mean royally fucking up the future. He needed to plan, predict, and all he could do, feeling the wind pause in its pursuit at their heels, hearing the earth lifting behind him, and watching Kakashi take off to engage, was react.
"Fuck," he snarled, the only word that could encompass how much he vehemently hated being put in this position, and how utterly unhelpful that muttered command of his companion's had been: Get the eye.
His body was already moving without explicit direction. Channeling chakra in his feet, he went up the wall instead of around, drawing his chokuto with a wicked slink of metal scrapping against the inside of the leather sheath, and slammed his other hand around the grip of the sword to grasp it in between the seal of the serpent. Wind flowed through him, this jutsu he had inherited from the man on the opposite side of this wall, and moving with a renewed speed, he was at its top in a blink of an eye, peering down to catch what was happening below him.
A paper bomb was exploding, the kunai it was attached to slicing through Takeshi's weapons pouch--there was the clattering sound of metal hitting rock, but it was drowned out a split second later by the shaking boom--and the flames ate hungrily at the wind chakra, climbing and devouring, and for a moment, heart drumming wildly in his chest, eyes widening, Satoru thought--
(not again, not fucking again)
--But Takeshi was far from dead. Skidding up the wall--hair singed, vest scorched, blood dripping down his right arm, and his face and exposed skin burnt nastily--like a revenant, he launched himself off, blade raised to quickly finish off the vulnerable silver-haired man below him.
Satoru was already moving, propelling down, blade meeting blade as his feet landed in front of Kakashi, forcing Takeshi's downward; hardened amber eyes locked with guarded grey ones, and the air whirled to life around the two swordsmen, forceful enough to make the leaves and branches of the trees around the clearing tremble violently.
('Dead,' Takeshi grunted, blade of his chokuto resting against the young boy's throat. Grasping the fabric of his shirt, he pushed the grey-eyed kid into the dirt, skidding his own feet back and snapping his sword into a readied position. 'Patience. Watch me, boy. Closely. Predict, do not react.')
With a jerk of his hand, Takeshi was scraping metal against metal, jerking the two swords up to disengage. They parted, circling the clearing, before they were rushing to meet each other again. It was an elegant dance, precise and timed. Ethereal, in the way their forms flickered at the speed they moved, practically incoherent to the normal eye, how their blades met with enough force to cause sparks, a constant ringing of block and strike.
Seconds turned into minutes, and with his body humming with adrenaline, his mind cleared with one, narrow focus of his current engagement, Satoru lost track of how long this fight lasted, but keeping the chakra flooding his body to merely keep up with his sensei was a strain on his muscles and stamina, and he was starting to slow: an insignificant amount to the normal shinobi, but to one who relied on speed--
Takeshi dodged Satoru's attack, and instead of moving to retaliate, danced backwards to create distant; the gust of forceful wind sent in his direction kept Satoru from immediately pursuing, and he was forced to summon a second gale to rush out to meet it, or risk loosing his footing. While his grip was loosened around his sword to clasp his hands into the serpent, that's when it happened: a sharp tug. The chokuto was pulled from him, the chakra-infused wind carrying the blade to snap into his sensei's waiting hand.
A foreboding chill assaulted Satoru's spine.
Takeshi spared the not-quite-so-new weapon a narrowed glance, brows scrunched together, one Satoru knew as angry confusion, but then he was on the offensive.
The next dance was a lot less graceful. Panicked and desperate, Satoru was dodging, putting footwork to use, summoning up scythes of wind to repel blows that now came from two swords instead of one, and his chakra was draining quickly. His mind was racing for a solution, but he simply didn't have time. Guard broken, a slice to his lower leg sent him tumbling to the ground. Knees digging into earth, he saw the sun glint against the metal of the blade as it came for him.
An eternity in a infinitesimal span of time.
He knew he was going to die. This is how it ended, and he thought--heart in his mouth, a strange absence of fear overwhelming him, an acceptance of this moment--of all the regrets he still had riding his consciousness.
Then he felt a sharp pain, the cool metal of the chokuto pressed against the artery of his neck, digging enough into his skin to draw a line of blood. And Takeshi was staring him down, jaw rigidly set, the other chokuto still held in his free hand.
"Who are you, boy?" The Swordsman of the Sand rumbled in an demand for an answer.
The sword was rather simple, unadorned, without much that separated it from any other of its kind, except for the engraving near its hilt: the symbol of the forgotten Minamoto clan, the chakra-infused blade that made it powerful, unique. How foolish had it been, Satoru thought, gazing up at the man who seemed like a god in this moment, to fight his master with his own blade.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he simply answered, voice barely a whisper.
"You think you're clever?" Takeshi insisted, pushing the sword harder against his neck, forcing another line of blood to drip down sweat-slicked skin.
"Not clever enough." He couldn't help the ironic smile that tugged at his lips, the desperate humor that sunk into the weightless air that tumbled from his mouth.
Amber eyes guarded, the Swordsman stared down at this enigma he had stumbled upon, and with a frustrated grunt, withdrew the blade before infusing it with his chakra, then threw it.
White, searing pain. Gritting his teeth, the chokuto impaled through Satoru's shoulder, striking into the ground, leaving him pinned. Blood seeped into his vest, and he tried to fight through the haze invading his mind, tried to plan.
Takeshi left him there, walking toward Kakashi, shadow cast before him like a giant, moving statue. Reaching the ANBU operative, he kneeled down before him, twisting his sword around in his hand--shuriken flew through the air, and he simply deflected them with his blade, not even throwing a glance at the struggling Satoru--before jerking the young man's head up so he could look upon his face before delivering the final blow--
A blow that did not come. Chokuto stabbing into the ground, Takeshi stared at Kakashi's face, as if he were confirming something within his mind, something unreadable, yet compelling with his amber irises.
"I remember you, Hatake."
"Fuck," he snarled, the only word that could encompass how much he vehemently hated being put in this position, and how utterly unhelpful that muttered command of his companion's had been: Get the eye.
His body was already moving without explicit direction. Channeling chakra in his feet, he went up the wall instead of around, drawing his chokuto with a wicked slink of metal scrapping against the inside of the leather sheath, and slammed his other hand around the grip of the sword to grasp it in between the seal of the serpent. Wind flowed through him, this jutsu he had inherited from the man on the opposite side of this wall, and moving with a renewed speed, he was at its top in a blink of an eye, peering down to catch what was happening below him.
A paper bomb was exploding, the kunai it was attached to slicing through Takeshi's weapons pouch--there was the clattering sound of metal hitting rock, but it was drowned out a split second later by the shaking boom--and the flames ate hungrily at the wind chakra, climbing and devouring, and for a moment, heart drumming wildly in his chest, eyes widening, Satoru thought--
(not again, not fucking again)
--But Takeshi was far from dead. Skidding up the wall--hair singed, vest scorched, blood dripping down his right arm, and his face and exposed skin burnt nastily--like a revenant, he launched himself off, blade raised to quickly finish off the vulnerable silver-haired man below him.
Satoru was already moving, propelling down, blade meeting blade as his feet landed in front of Kakashi, forcing Takeshi's downward; hardened amber eyes locked with guarded grey ones, and the air whirled to life around the two swordsmen, forceful enough to make the leaves and branches of the trees around the clearing tremble violently.
('Dead,' Takeshi grunted, blade of his chokuto resting against the young boy's throat. Grasping the fabric of his shirt, he pushed the grey-eyed kid into the dirt, skidding his own feet back and snapping his sword into a readied position. 'Patience. Watch me, boy. Closely. Predict, do not react.')
With a jerk of his hand, Takeshi was scraping metal against metal, jerking the two swords up to disengage. They parted, circling the clearing, before they were rushing to meet each other again. It was an elegant dance, precise and timed. Ethereal, in the way their forms flickered at the speed they moved, practically incoherent to the normal eye, how their blades met with enough force to cause sparks, a constant ringing of block and strike.
Seconds turned into minutes, and with his body humming with adrenaline, his mind cleared with one, narrow focus of his current engagement, Satoru lost track of how long this fight lasted, but keeping the chakra flooding his body to merely keep up with his sensei was a strain on his muscles and stamina, and he was starting to slow: an insignificant amount to the normal shinobi, but to one who relied on speed--
Takeshi dodged Satoru's attack, and instead of moving to retaliate, danced backwards to create distant; the gust of forceful wind sent in his direction kept Satoru from immediately pursuing, and he was forced to summon a second gale to rush out to meet it, or risk loosing his footing. While his grip was loosened around his sword to clasp his hands into the serpent, that's when it happened: a sharp tug. The chokuto was pulled from him, the chakra-infused wind carrying the blade to snap into his sensei's waiting hand.
A foreboding chill assaulted Satoru's spine.
Takeshi spared the not-quite-so-new weapon a narrowed glance, brows scrunched together, one Satoru knew as angry confusion, but then he was on the offensive.
The next dance was a lot less graceful. Panicked and desperate, Satoru was dodging, putting footwork to use, summoning up scythes of wind to repel blows that now came from two swords instead of one, and his chakra was draining quickly. His mind was racing for a solution, but he simply didn't have time. Guard broken, a slice to his lower leg sent him tumbling to the ground. Knees digging into earth, he saw the sun glint against the metal of the blade as it came for him.
An eternity in a infinitesimal span of time.
He knew he was going to die. This is how it ended, and he thought--heart in his mouth, a strange absence of fear overwhelming him, an acceptance of this moment--of all the regrets he still had riding his consciousness.
Then he felt a sharp pain, the cool metal of the chokuto pressed against the artery of his neck, digging enough into his skin to draw a line of blood. And Takeshi was staring him down, jaw rigidly set, the other chokuto still held in his free hand.
"Who are you, boy?" The Swordsman of the Sand rumbled in an demand for an answer.
The sword was rather simple, unadorned, without much that separated it from any other of its kind, except for the engraving near its hilt: the symbol of the forgotten Minamoto clan, the chakra-infused blade that made it powerful, unique. How foolish had it been, Satoru thought, gazing up at the man who seemed like a god in this moment, to fight his master with his own blade.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he simply answered, voice barely a whisper.
"You think you're clever?" Takeshi insisted, pushing the sword harder against his neck, forcing another line of blood to drip down sweat-slicked skin.
"Not clever enough." He couldn't help the ironic smile that tugged at his lips, the desperate humor that sunk into the weightless air that tumbled from his mouth.
Amber eyes guarded, the Swordsman stared down at this enigma he had stumbled upon, and with a frustrated grunt, withdrew the blade before infusing it with his chakra, then threw it.
White, searing pain. Gritting his teeth, the chokuto impaled through Satoru's shoulder, striking into the ground, leaving him pinned. Blood seeped into his vest, and he tried to fight through the haze invading his mind, tried to plan.
Takeshi left him there, walking toward Kakashi, shadow cast before him like a giant, moving statue. Reaching the ANBU operative, he kneeled down before him, twisting his sword around in his hand--shuriken flew through the air, and he simply deflected them with his blade, not even throwing a glance at the struggling Satoru--before jerking the young man's head up so he could look upon his face before delivering the final blow--
A blow that did not come. Chokuto stabbing into the ground, Takeshi stared at Kakashi's face, as if he were confirming something within his mind, something unreadable, yet compelling with his amber irises.
"I remember you, Hatake."
Thanks for your time!
~Your friendly Neighborhood Graverobber
