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Moccau, Zairen

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Moccau, Zairen

Post by Guest on Thu Jan 12, 2012 9:59 pm

CASE FILE: Ex Homunculus/Chimerae

That which does not kill me, will make me stronger.

→ Zairen Moccau

→ 25

→ Male

→ Xi'an, Xing

→ Human: Drachman
→ Wolf

→ Ex Sloth

→ January 29, 1987


→ 6'11"

→ 148 lbs


→ Zairen has a unique sense of style. Whereas one would expect him to find style a bothersome pastime, he in fact finds a clean-cut appearance to be less bothersome than dressing like a slob. Looking important is one of the factors of staying out of trouble and preserving an air of dignity that wards off bothersome people. Therefore, dressing nicely is in fact more helpful than not. Though it takes quite some effort to button all the buttons of his favorite black coat, Zai most certainly feels that is it worth it in the end. He has many sorts of clothes in his wardrobe, but those he most often wears are black. Zairen likes black for one dire reason: it doesn’t attract attention. Black is just the sort of color people overlook. Despite how flashy some of his buckle, button, and strap-adorned clothes are, people will simple look on by due to the fact that he isn’t flaunting it with the introduction of color. When his clothes aren’t sporting black, they are white, gray, or possibly dark blue. Zai isn’t really a colorful person; it just isn’t his thing.

Tight pants are the way to go. That way they never get in the way and endanger one to trip and fall, making the day then bothersome. Walking is already exerting, so why add the problem of trying to avoid tripping over oneself? Zai almost never wears anything besides black jeans, black leather, black corduroy, or a black hakama. Yes, the hakama is indeed considered baggy by most people in the world, but Zai will not label it as such. In fact, he blatantly avoids the subject whenever it is brought up. Clearly, he just doesn’t care about the fact that it may be a bit cumbersome to wear. It just doesn’t concern him it seems.

Boots. Yes, Zai loves tall, zip-up boots. They are easy to put on, they keep out the rain, they have great traction, and best of all: no tying involved. His black boots have no special features beside their shiny texture, pointed toes, and buckle decor. They don’t have a heel and by no means cause any sort of noise upon hitting the ground. If Zairen ever by chance lost his boots, it would take him longer than twenty-four hours to pick out a new pair as conveniently awesome as these.

Scarves! Yes, whether it summer and one-hundred degrees out or not, Zairen will not leave the apartment without a scarf. He ties them in such a way around his neck as to hang down his back. Why? Well, when he ties his hair to the right side, it exposes his neck. He doesn’t really like his neck being exposed and tends to like the feeling of something covering it from the air. Why not just let his hair down? Well, that’s a problem. On windy days, it gets in the way of everything. He could technically cut it, but he hasn’t gotten around to it yet. Zairen’s violet-colored hair hangs long to the middle of his back and rises into shorter layers on the top of his head and around his face. His bangs are rather long and grow longer yet towards his ears where they reach just below his chin.

His eyes are a cold, emotionless steel hue. When light strikes them at certain angles, they emit a strange electric blue color like the flash of moonlight on a blade. His eyes are rather narrow and edgy, always holding a sharp look to them. When they don’t look bored and distant, there is usually a pained, almost misery-induced sheen to them. When undergoing—or more accurately—when convince to undergo battle, Zairen’s eyes will take a vicious gleam like that of a demon from hell. This sort of look sends most people instantly to the grave metaphorically. Zairen does not kill, but his eyes always speak otherwise. Some say he is a descendant of the most blood-thirsty demon clan in hell and refuses to kill for fear of not being able to stop. Zairen ignores these claims as if they never existed.

He has a sword, but it a sword in which is never unsheathed. Well, other than the fact that it is too annoying to actually unsheathe it to do battle, Zai hasn’t a need to make his blade sing. It is a katana fashioned well before his own birth and it has a partner wakazashi. These, he always brings with him as if they are an extension of himself. Carrying them is like carrying his arm so it is in no way a task for him. Along with his sword, he always wears black gloves. They prevent his hands from getting dirty and callused from holding the sword. There are rare occasions when Zairen will unsheathe his sword to cut something dire, or if the fight he is in has such extreme importance that it will eternally impact his life or end someone else’s. He will never strike someone with the blade, and prefers to whack them with the backside or the sheath. Normally, this is enough to obtain victory.


→ Zairen couldn’t care less about his personality. Really now, he sees no significance with analyzing his own way of thought. He is a rather laid back person unless perused upon by another person or object. If done enough times, he will become irked and usually excite some sort of reaction. This reaction can range between anger and possible violence. But the latter is more likely seeing as the act of violence is in fact an act and thus involves effort. Zai isn’t exactly lazy in the sense that he will not pursue his own interests, but if there is a more convenient way of going about it, he’ll positively take that route, no questions asked.

He can seem dull at times and uncaring—maybe heartless—but if someone gets to know him, they find that there is something more to him than just the display he projects. Despite the fact that it can get him into trouble sometimes, Zai does actually care. He cares about a lot and it does affect him and penetrate his strong walls. However, no one needs to know that. He will not openly show his feelings, desires, passions, and the sort. Instead, he will take an aloof outlook to everything.

When he speaks in his deep, velvety voice, it means that he had something he feels important to say. Under no circumstances will he ever say something that isn’t meaningful. The only instance in which Zairen has ever spoken out of turn was when he was tricked into drinking too much. When drunk, not only is Zai violent, but he also turns into chatterbox about the most random unethical things. The only way that anyone found out anything about him was when they got him drunk, and they only gathered bits and pieces here and there. Honestly, Zairen knew what happened, but in all actuality, he just didn’t care. Was it really important anyway? He doesn’t go out of his way to keep his past a secret or himself a mystery; it’s just that way. He lives to his standards and acts according to the way he feels, following his strange morals, and acting on impulse. Whatever happened, happened.

Some people may think he is oddly uptight for a person of the 21st century, but it is obviously not the case. He just tends not to partake in anything that doesn’t interest him and involves a form of effort. He does not necessarily believe that it doesn’t deserve his attention, but rather he just doesn’t have the need to exert the energy needed to pretend like he’s interested. Life isn’t meant to be a euphoria of carefully constructed lies, but rather the cold, hard reality. Maybe then, people would be motivated to actually make the world into a better place.

Selfishness constitutes the world and Zairen merely follows those constructs. He will not go out of his way to confront others on any matter. He is content simply observing from the sidelines. Even if there were something he could do for say a crying girl on the side of the street, he, as a stranger would serve no purpose despite what sweet-nothings he is sure he could conquer up out of his encyclopedia of falsities.

Zairen isn’t one to do much of anything besides follow and protect that which he views as important. He by no means goes through life blankly without no purpose or values. That’s just stupid and ignorant. Zai finds objectives to be an irreplaceable part of existence. And when thwarted or obstructed, he will do anything in his power to break through. In rare instances, Zai maybe become angered if someone he cares about is threatened, injured, or whatnot. But the way in which he becomes angry, is more fearful than if he were to unsheathe his sword and swing wildly at the perpetrator’s neck. Zai has a strange calm anger—a sort of calm before the storm feeling. The air around him is charged—his voice cold and serious. There is no messing with Zairen when he gets like this. He is also unconventionally stubborn; he will not ever let go of what is bothering him; it will linger on and on until eventually resolved. And usually at the time of Zai’s anger, those around him will do anything they can to not calm him down (because he is horrifyingly calm), but they will rid him of that which angered him by using any means at their disposal.

→ Night, Stars, Seeing his breath in winter, Snow, Silence, Mystery, The moon, Shadows, The fleetingness of life, Books, Television, Scarves, Sunglasses, Complaining, Escalators, Elevators, Airplanes, Buses, Trains, Subway, Cars, Mass transit, Thinking

→ Death, Gore, Blood, Murder, Killing, Ignorance, Destruction, Fire, Liars, People, Society, Coexistence, Feigned innocence, Loud noises, Being sneaked up on, Stairs, Bicycles, Scooters, Skateboards, The beach, Heat, The sun, Squinting, Exhaust, Sewers, Government nonsense, Politics, Pruning plants/bushes/trees, Yelling, Working, Cooking, Washing dishes, Doing laundry, Cleaning, Trying to explain something, Being bothered, Tests, Problems, Being annoyed on purpose, Obnoxious people, The false prospect of peace, Doctors, Needles, Homunculi, Alchemy, Sin

→ He won't tell you anything about himself.

→ No one.


→ An ash-ridden sky poured gray light through the barred window as eyes the same color gazed dully into the recess of a world only imagined. What lay beyond that window was an unknown calamity he could only dream about. Stone surrounded the boy on all sides—cold, damp stone that had a sweet smell. Whenever it rained, it fell down the sides in small drips, making the floor slick. But he knew nothing else. All he knew—all he ever learned were from the books he was given. All his life, the boy was rendered into believing that words were meant to be read, not spoken. How he had learned to read, was still a mystery to him—long forgotten in the confines of his childhood memory.

The boy knew but a few things about himself: his name was Zairen, he could read, and he didn’t have parents. In the books he read, he learned that everyone had parents—a mother and a father. But Zairen didn’t have either and he wondered why. The only other human he had ever seen was a man with a beard and bony arms whose elbows jutted out at weird angles. This man enjoyed talking. It seemed he liked talking more than reading and would try and get Zairen to respond no matter what. The scraggly purple-haired boy couldn’t comprehend why this was. But either way the man named ‘Yairen’ was the one that brought him food to live on and books to occupy him. The boy never counted how many he had gone through or how many times he had gone through them, but they taught him all he knew. And most of all…they taught him of something called freedom.

Beyond the barred window, through the lines of rusted metal was a different place. He watched birds at seldom times and over the years gained their trust. A rather tall one with silky gray feathers liked to sit on the stone ledge, looking into the cage where the boy sat. Zairen always felt himself smile, listening to its song. Was that freedom perhaps? The wing beat taught him longing. He clung to his sole wish, dreaming of thrusting into the sky, surrounded by nothing but air and choices. Here, everything was handed to him. That was just the way it was.

Time passed only by the redundant ticking of a clock nearby. He was never able to see what it looked like, nor could he imagine it very well, but he assumed it had numbers on it that counted something relative. Time had no meaning to him and thus ceased to exist altogether. Sometimes it felt like he was living in an illusion created by someone else. He struggled at the metal bars surrounding him, but only succeeded in watching them rust with age. The ticking would have driven any normal person insane with its constant rhythm, but to him… it sounded like home.

Freedom was something like time: ungraspable. He would reach out to the sunlight slanting through the barred window and never touch it. Vaguely, he would wonder what it was like to stand under the sky instead of under the stone ceiling of the basement. Then sullen memories would flood his mind, reminding him that once, a long time ago, he had been able to touch the grass. The memory was faded now, worn from overuse, and crackling with age.

He grew up like this, only aware of the change when he was given new clothes one day. He didn’t know how to change or put them on and it was so hard to hold them that he broke several of his extremely long nails. They curled at the ends, and looked very interesting when held up to the sunlight. As he was doing this, a loud bang echoed, shaking the entire building. Yairen, who had been trying to teach the teenage boy how to put his shirt on, shrieked suddenly, clinging to the bars like Zairen would imagine a monkey. The boy laughed—completely unaware of the danger. But large, white orbs of horror silenced him immediately. With wonder at a new expression he had never seen, the boy inched closer to see. That was when Yairen grabbed hold of him, the touch of skin sending out jolts of electricity. He was stunned—paralyzed in both mind and body from shock. Zairen had never been touched before.

I have to get you out of here,” Yairen chanted over and over again as he fiddled with long metal objects that held strange shapes on the ends. They jingled like a bird’s song, melodic in the boy’s head, but like death tones in the old man’s. Once the object was turned, a click sounded, but nothing followed. Violently, Yairen smashed his foot into the gate until it flew open with a frustrated clank. Before the boy was only space, his eyes unadjusted to seeing so far without looking through the bars. He gasped, unsure of what to do, so Yairen told him. “Run. Get as far away from here as you can. Find someone—anyone—to take care of you. Don’t let them try it on you too!!

The boy was dragged out of his home and pushed to stairs he had never climbed. It was work, but he learned quickly. He heard voices with loud bangs and saw sleeping people—behind him he left red footsteps. How strange this other world was. Not only that, but no matter where he turned, he chose which direction to take. It seemed though that Yairen didn’t want him to go near the voices. He was supposed to get out…to get out… How? He looked up and felt his pupils shrink to nothing, focusing on the bright light that burst through a gaping hole in the wall. Wind tore through his body, whipping at his bare chest and the new pair of pants he had been given. What an odd feeling…this moving air. He felt…almost as if he could fly. He had his eyes closed and his arms open when he heard angry voices somewhere behind him. Without thinking, he darted out the hole, tripping over rubble and excess stones.

Just as he burst out the door, he felt something cold and round slam into the middle of his spine. He turned his head without moving his torso to possibly see the source. Blinking silver eyes at a tall, burly man, he tried to question him the right way: without words.

A fireball of lead burst through his flesh—so cold. The world stopped, frozen still like a false reality. He had never felt pain. Then he registered it—a loud boom like all the others he had heard before. It resounded through his entire being and he hardly knew that he was swaying until he fell, touching the grass.

* * *

Zairen jolted awake from where he lay on the sunny veranda, his eyes snapping open through sweaty, violet bangs. He panted, trying to remind himself that it was just a dream—just a nightmare from the past. Just that same dream again… He sat up, his attention drawing to the old man who appeared to have stopped in the middle of reading a book. That was ten years ago, Zairen, you would think it would stop haunting you by now.

It was true, Zairen’s subconscious couldn’t let go of his childhood. It seemed that the memories would always haunt him… He had spent the last ten years of his life practicing the legendary Tennen Rishin Ryu swords style under a renowned sensei by the name of Taishi Moccau. The old man had found the boy floating in a river just outside the Xingese capital in the clutches of death. He then took him in as his own, adopting him into the Moccau family permanently. Ten years went by so fast…

It was autumn of that same year that Taishi passed away from pneumonia. He was buried in an ancestral graveyard down the road at the local shrine. Zairen visited it every day until the time came when he had to take over Taishi’s dojo. A few months dragged by and winter fell in heavy snowflakes over the frozen ground of Xing. Zairen moved through life quickly, paying mind to nothing but his nagging students. None of them were able to understand the true concept of Aerugese bushidou and soon dropped out. In this time and age, few people could grasp such heavy meaning, and thus weren’t worthy of holding a real sword.

Sometime later, in the dead of winter, a strong wind blew in, carrying a boy only a year younger than Zairen himself. He stepped up the hill and through the wooden gate without falter. Face to face they met: brown eyes and gray, though different seemed to blend together with the white falling down around them. Zairen stepped aside and the boy known as Jiang Ce stepped inside. That begun their long and unending relationship. Zairen began teaching Jiang the way of the sword, refining the technique into something that held beautiful innocence—a new style completely. Zairen, on the other hand, would carry the Tennen Rishin Ryu with him until he died. The two of them became fast friends, the first in which Zairen had ever known. Soon, they weren’t teacher and student, but a couple of kids trying to find their way through the economic crisis. Food was scarce and money only growing slimmer. Xing’s economy had been at a downward spiral over the past ten years and now finally reached its lowest point.

War broke out among the dynasty princes, dividing the country into many sections. It seemed the emperor and his wife were assassinated, leaving the throne unoccupied by Sakuya Aeries or Saeji Aeries. The deceased Emperor's many brothers did not come to a consensus. One supported a certain governmental ideal that constricted the freedom of the people, and the others opposed them. The shock that freedom may not exist in his country sent Zairen to his feet, remembering his past of captivity. It wasn’t the same thing, of course, but the idea of being stripped of rights…just wasn’t just. Ignoring Jiang’s warnings, the Xingese modern day samurai left Taishi’s dojo and joined the ranks of the military. It was a crisp autumn day.

I rather fight for what I believe in using what I’ve been taught than watch as it gathers cobwebs.

But a samurai on a current battle field, regardless of how strong, cannot face rapid gun fire. Zairen eventually collapsed from exhaustion. He had downed countless men, but his sword, the kikuichimonji, wasn’t drenched with a single drop of blood: he didn’t believe in killing, but around him—joining him in the red grass lay so many… The dead, blank eyes of the fallen, stared at him through his closed eyelids as he was carried off writhing in pain. When he awoke, he coughed up blood for the first time. He was then taken to a medical center far from Taishi’s dojo in Xi’an. Even weeks later, he still couldn’t catch his breath; it was as if he were under water, trying to breach the surface that only pushed him under further. His breathing was raspy, his coughing becoming more and more frequent. On October 13, Zairen Moccau was diagnosed with tuberculosis. Even after surviving the war, he was still going to die…

At the time, there was no cure, and his fate was handed to him by the cold hands of death himself. The doctor recommended he go to a special hospital to be treated, and Zairen signed over his life without thought. He lost contact with Jiang then and faced the autumn leaves fluttering down from the barren branches. So life was over…that easily? He reached a large medical building a few days later, and was escorted to a personal room with his name neatly transcribed on the door. This was like a prison, he thought. Just like before…

One day, he was staring blankly out the large window, touching the cold glass when suddenly it broke. His bleary mind tried to understand and he turned to look at his sword where it sat on a rack. Why his eyes were drawn to it, he didn’t understand. Maybe…it was the pullings of danger before he understood the situation. Regardless, men in black suits climbed through the broken glass and surrounded him in torrents like rain. What… But all that found him was darkness as a cloth was pressed tightly over his mouth.

When he awoke, he found himself in a science branch of the military that was studying how to create chimerae successfully. was the same place he had grown up in. It was the same basement--the same stench--that same window. The chains sliced into his wrists from trying to break free, his voice carrying to the far reaches of forever. Just kill me!! Anything was better than returning to the same place. Yairen... If only that bullet then had killed him. The Tennen Rishin Ryu would be dead now, but it would have been a beautiful death. At this point, he had avoided the radar, having seen many others like himself taken away from their own cells. Zai began to notice that they never returned. He was content with staying in this cage if he didn’t have to be dragged away to be experimented on. A small part of him then began to wish that he had just died a warrior’s death on the battlefield…it would be better to have died than to live with boredom and anticipation eating away at his mind. It began to drive him insane, but he clung to the strings of sanity that ushered him toward freedom. If only someone had heard him screaming and ended his misery…

A month or so after that first week, Zairen became a hardened shell of his true self. His cage had become his shelter once more and the grubby hands that handed him food had now become the enemy. The dark, florescent lights above started to have the intensity of sunlight pouring down all twenty-four hours. Night became day, day became night, and time dragged on unrecorded for there was no clock to count by. Eventually Zairen’s time came, when most of the test subjects were already gone. He didn’t want to know what had happened to them, but now that he was being dragged down the hall like they once were, he very much wanted to know what had become of them. Fear struck him and his head was reeling with the icy touch of the darkness he was marching into.

The rest of his existence in the laboratory was spent in between consciousness, straddling pain and the prospect of never waking up again. He didn’t bother clutching to life and, instead when he could speak, demanded his demise. Through the various experiments and agonizing pain, came a moment of clarity. Zairen awoke to see a creature staring him in the face. The animal’s snout and basic body shape resembled that of a black dog, but it was just too large. He couldn’t exactly grasp what it was until he heard a voice whisper in his ear with a tickle of hot breath. A wolf—he's about to become a part of you. Creepy. Zairen would have shivered except he realized with a shock that he couldn’t feel his body at all. Glancing down at himself, an unexplainable horror faced him. His entire body, head to foot, was stuck entirely with needles that were injecting something into him. He felt it now, the cool stream of liquid passing through his veins. His breathing seemed to catch suddenly as if not enough air could pass into his lungs. A glowing circle surrounded him. Alchemy—human alchemy. They were trying to make that animal become a part of him…

The first thing that happened when he opened his eyes was a long coughing fit. All he could taste was the blood from it. Spitting out a mouthful, Zairen realized with shock that he was alive, but no longer human. Blinking back the shivers running up and down his spine, he reached a needled hand to his mouth and they came back bloodied. After thoroughly inspecting himself, he found with horror that his physical appearance had changed. Atop his head were a pair of black wolf ears that tended to move according to his mood... In way, they felt like eyebrows, except they allowed him to hear every little sound. Zairen forced his weakened body to sit up. Ugh. Looking around, he noted the fact that he was alone, and began pulling out the needles and wires that covered his entire body one by one. Stumbling to shaking legs, he felt like he was on drugs as he walked in a rounded zig-zag to the only door, peering through the small window before opening it. That was when a loud ear-piercing ringing sound penetrated his head. Clutching down his wolf ears, Zairen obeyed to his instincts, which seemed mildly stronger now and much more demanding. He then raced down the hall and through a cloud of smoke. It seemed an experiment had gone wrong and a chimera…like himself now…had gone on a rampage killing everyone. Why…did everything have to do with killing, he wondered?

Zairen was able to escape once he reached the upper levels of the building. There, he found his sword in one of the supply rooms and stole it back. He emerged through a doorway in the middle of Xi’an, squinting through the piercing sunlight of spring. He dragged himself to the trunk of a cherry blossom and collapsed beneath it, coughing until he could breathe no more… Soft pink petals fell lightly atop his violet hair, piling over his body like a blanket of snow. Blue eyes creaked open to a world filled with light. A tap came lightly on his shoulder and he turned to see the new Emperor of Xing himself standing over him, his shadow drawing the light away into a clearer picture of the world.

Zairen never died of his tuberculosis. In way, the experiment had in fact saved his life. But later on in the exploits of his career as a Xingese militant, he became possessed with the sin of Father called Sloth. Why or how such a being entered him, Zai couldn't even guess. It did, however, fuse into his very soul and recreate his body into something fast and durable. In those months, he became even more lethargic, barely leaving his apartment to do much of anything. Ace grew worried and took him to Amestris with him. There, he met a girl named Millie...and instantly fell for her. It hadn't been Ace's intentions, but it was something that just happened. The Festival they went to ended in chaos and the next morning when he woke up, Sloth vanished. Just as the sin had come, it had gone. But something told him that it hadn't gone of its own accord. Because blood was strewn about her entire apartment. When he looked down at himself, he found that it was his own blood. Someone had snuck in while Millie was in the shower during his nap and stole Sloth from him? At first, he felt a curiosity to know who...yet that soon faded. If someone wanted to carry the sin and immortality instead of him, they could. Zairen wanted to live his life with Millie and die beside her like a normal person. In a sense, he was glad to have had the burden lifted.

A call came on his phone: a direct order from Ace to return to Xing. Zai ran to the bathroom door and called in to her, saying that he had to go back to Xing and not to freak out because of the blood everywhere. He'd mail her money to compensate for the cleaning costs or whatnot, expecting maybe never to see her again. It was clear she didn't care about the blood, and instead... Smiling through the sound of falling water, Zairen said that he would meet her at the airport in Xing should she decide to come...


→ His skin is strangely tough and many things cannot penetrate it. Zai's first ability is his astonishing trajectory that allows him to move with incredible speed rivaled only by the real Sloth. That is coupled with his insane strength that can nearly lift cars. Though along with that, he is terribly lazy and tends to find the simplest things like washing dishes a bothersome task. Even despite the fact that he wash them with lightning speed, the mere act of exerting himself never seems worth it. However, inspiration is key. If Zai is hyped up enough using manipulation techniques or bribes, he'll pretty much do anything.


→ He has never killed anyone.
→ He is irked easily.
→ He loves reading and watching Television.
→ He is nocturnal.
→ He is claustrophobic.
→ He is a master at tuning things out.
→ His emotional response is very limited.
→ He insists on not walking anywhere.
→ He has a strange fear of water.
→ He has a form of tuberculosis, but cannot die from it.
→ His hearing can reach further than normal humans.
→ He is a lazy good-for-nothing that must be motivated.
→ He doesn't typically wear shoes.
→ He is fluent in Amestrian and Xingese.


→ Aki

→ Reila, Spade, Aurelius, Celesto, Fran, Elastor, Toss, Makoto, Tsune

→ Get your tall, dark, and handsome on.

[b]Saitou Hajime[/b]/[i]Hakuouki Shinsengumi Kitan[/i]



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Re: Moccau, Zairen

Post by Dai on Fri Jan 13, 2012 8:28 pm


Loving it~ <3

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Re: Moccau, Zairen

Post by Dai on Fri Jan 13, 2012 8:39 pm

Rank Roll~

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Re: Moccau, Zairen

Post by Dai on Fri Jan 13, 2012 8:39 pm

The member 'Dai' has done the following action : Rank Roll

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Re: Moccau, Zairen

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