4
8th Uktar, 1369
Five days ago I was happy. Now, I'm not, but I'm not as unhappy as I was.
Four days ago my foster father died.
I look down at those few lines on a folded piece of parchment, and can't decide whether to laugh or cry. I settle for a hiccup.
I say "foster" because that's technically true, but Gorion is my father, in all but blood.
I blink, then scratch out "is" and replace it with "was".
A soft knock on the door. "Di?"
I look up. I'm sitting on my bed in the room Imoen and I shared last night. The walls are stone and the beds are at least a foot away from them on all sides, with extra-thick blankets.
Imoen stands in the doorway, already in purple. I think she's got three or four of those suits, and this one doesn't have stains at the knees—it's clean. All of my clothes were soaked and muddy. Good thing Gorion had the coins he did. He'd planned on something, definitely, and had enough in his coin purse to keep us well up for several weeks.
Where were we going to go?
I don't know if I'll ever know, and now with Imoen standing there, I'm sure I'm not going to be able to finish this entry. As if I was getting anywhere. The sun is rising, and Khalid and Jaheira will probably be throwing their gear into their own packs. In a few minutes they'll be at the door, demanding to know why I'm not ready.
I don't quite understand them. Maybe it's because I have so little experience with life on the road. Imoen's obviously had more than me; even after four days she still bounces on her feet. But then, Imoen never stops smiling. As for me, my feet ache with burst and raw blisters, and my back still aches from where I caught that flaming dart, though it has begun to fade. I'm glad my pack is pretty light.
Feet in boots clomp down the hallway, and Khalid's voice sounds, even more nervous than usual. "Uh, uh, Imoen?"
She turns into the hallway. "Yeah?"
"Is…is Diana up?"
"Yeah."
A pause. "Is she, uh," and I can literally hear Khalid turn pink. "Dressed?" he finishes, almost on a squeak.
"Yeah," says Imoen, barely repressing a giggle.
Feet clomp. Khalid steps into the doorway. "Sorry, Imoen," he says as he brushes past her. "Fair morn, Diana."
"Morn, Khalid. Maybe fair."
He smiles. He has a surprisingly nice smile. "Jaheira wants to be ready in fifteen minutes."
"I'll be. Actually, I am. What about mornfest?"
"Downstairs," says Khalid, and Imoen and I follow him down the hall.
He looks different this morning, probably because he now has on a thick padded coat designed to cushion the weight of his armor, which is still in his room. Even with my limited knowledge, I can see why he wouldn't want to wear it until he had to—Jondalar and I trained in mail for several weeks and I got bruises along the tops of my shoulder blades and at the base of my skull. I haven't put on my leather yet, and am not sure I want to. But chain would be worse—it definitely would pinch in the wrong areas.
I think I've been up since before them. I don't sleep well now—I dream. Not of Gorion, not always at least, but not much of it is pleasant. I'm surprised Imoen hasn't commented about the shadows under my eyes.
The great fireplace is dead this morning. We come to the room Khalid and Jaheira shared last night. Cautious, I peer in.
Jaheira already wears her leather, which has been custom-made to accommodate her figure and yes, she's throwing things into her pack. In an orderly fashion, but they still fly through the air. A pair of leather gauntlets are tucked into her belt, and leaning against the wall is a seven-foot spear with a wooden shaft and wickedly pointed steel tip. Lying on the bed amidst a mass of leather and buckles is a curiously curved sword in a scabbard.
I look over at Khalid and realize he's also armed—a sword hangs from his left side from an assortment of straps. It looks almost too big for him to use in one hand, though it's only a normal long sword, but I note that he moves easily enough.
"Jaheira, darling, are we ready?"
Jaheira flings a last tunic into her pack and turns. "Almost," she says. Her voice is rougher this morning. "I will be downstairs in a few minutes. Go and eat, Khalid."
Khalid looks at us. "Go ahead," he says, and steps into the room. After a look at Imoen—she shrugs—we turn and go downstairs.
((A))
Mornfest is thick porridge, hot enough to steam, with plenty of honey. Like last night's soup, it seems the best meal I've had since leaving Candlekeep and I spoon it up greedily. We sit at one of the round tables near the bar.
The taproom is quieter this morning as well. Only the bent, large-nosed gnome in blue robes behind the gnome-sized bar is present besides us. All the roistering boisterers of last night have departed and the floor shows bits of broken bottle in places. I'm glad I have my boots on. Across the way, Imoen plays with her fork.
"It's weird," she says at last.
"What is?"
"Khalid and Jaheira."
"How so?" I've got my own opinions, but don't doubt they'll get out soon enough. They tend to.
"They took the news so casually."
"News?"
Imoen looks over at me. "Gorion."
I almost choke but force it down. "Oh."
"It didn't seem the first time they'd heard it." About death, she means. I think as I eat, trying to come up with something.
"It probably wasn't. I mean, look, Imoen, they're fighters."
"I know. You are too."
"And you."
She shrugs. "Last night, that man…I don't ever want to feel that way again."
I look down at my porridge, dripping off the end of my spoon. There's a dull ache somewhere near the center of my chest. "I know what you mean, Imoen."
It's been longer for me. That's the only reason I'm not staring at my food just like her. No wonder she's not hungry. "And that he was trying to kill me makes no difference?"
She shrugs unhappily. "It does, but not in that way. I would do it again, Di, I think…"
"But you wouldn't like it."
Again the shrug. "I don't know. That's the weird thing."
I look up, startled. "You mean you would like it?"
Imoen swallows. "I don't like this, Di."
"No wonder."
Khalid comes down the stairs, surprisingly quiet now despite his boots, and Imoen drops the conversation like a burning log. Khalid gets his porridge and sits down on my left. We eat in silence, but my mind is working, and halfway through I say, "Khalid, would it be rude of me to ask a question?"
He studies his spoon. "I c-can't very well answer that until I know the question, Diana."
"Okay then, but please don't take this the wrong way."
He looks up. For the first time he looks a little annoyed rather than nervous. "What is it?"
"I was wondering where Jaheira got her accent."
He relaxes. "Ah." He spoons up porridge and lets it drip back into the bowl. "I don't think answering that would be a problem, Diana, but I'm not the one to ask. That's Jaheira's tale to tell."
His voice is gentle, but I detect a rebuke. "Sorry. It's just that you're…"
"Here." He ducks his head in a nod, nervous again. "Yes well, the way things are turning out, we'll be together for some time. There will be plenty of times for questions both ways. F-for example, I've never been inside Candlekeep. Is it as grand as they say?"
I smile, and spend the rest of mornfest entertaining Khalid with tales of just how "grand" Candlekeep is. It even brings Imoen out of her funk, and she joins in at times. I resolve to talk to her more about it later.
((A))
Jaheira joins us in the midst, but she does not interrupt and I don't halt the tales to ask her my question. I file it away for future querying. This morning, she looks a bit more open than last night. She also took advantage of the Inn's nice warm baths, because her hair once again curls gently down to her shoulders and frames her face. Perhaps that's why it seems softer today.
"So," Imoen says as she scoops at the bottom of her wooden bowl. "How far away is Nashkel?"
"Seven days south," says Khalid, "By foot. Which is the usual way, unless we're in the market for some steeds, Jaheira?"
"No. We spent enough getting here. We walk the rest of the way with Eliea."
I pause. "Eliea?"
The corner of Khalid's mouth twitches. "J-Jaheira named him. Her." He looks at Jaheira. "It?"
She shrugs. "It is our pack mule."
"Ah." That was why I didn't recognize it. "Eliea" is an amalgamation of the words "him" and "her". "Why are we walking?" I ask. "What would horses cost?"
She shrugs. "Five gold."
"You don't want them?"
She casts me a look and shrugs again. "Understand, Diana, that there is no endless supply of gold coins. What we have, we spend carefully. Khalid and I fight for money, most of the time. Or we solve problems, which is why we go to Ghastkill in Nashkel. Truth be told, it has been some time since we earned a great deal. Not that we are running low," she amends, "But it is better to spend it only on what is worth it. In your life, I suspect your feet will take you further than any other way of travel. Not because it is best, but because it is cheapest."
Khalid smiles across at me. "Knowledge from the wise. I'd take it under advisement."
So I do, filing it away as well. "When do we leave?"
"When I pay Mirrorshade the last days price. And you as well." She rises and goes to the bar.
I'd almost forgotten that. I dig the price of our rooms out of Gorion's coin pouch, tucked away in my pack.
Khalid rises. "More advice?"
Kneeling on the floor next to my pack, I look up at him. "Sure."
He kneels as well. "You've got quite a bit here. Care to lend us some?" Before I can protest I see his smile. He pulls out the coin pouch. "This is a lot of money. I wouldn't want to pull it out every time I bought something. For one, it draws attention of all kinds. It's also more easily droppable. Do you have a smaller one?"
It was so commonsensical I hadn't thought of it. "Oh."
"Just put as much as you can in that, and tuck this away until you need to refill the other. It makes you seem poorer than you are."
"Yeah, I see."
Khalid stands. It strikes me as just a little odd that I'm not nervous around him. But then, he was Gorion's friend, and he's actually shorter than I, and there's absolutely nothing threatening in either his words or his manner. He smiles, nods, and goes back over to the other side of the table, slightly pink at the tops of his ears.
I pay for the rooms. Bentley Mirrorshade is a cheerful old gnome who grins at me and bobs his head, and talks in a squeaky voice which belies his authority. According to Khalid and Jaheira, at the moment Bentley and Gellana Mirrorshade are the Friendly Arm. They brought it up out of ruin some years ago and turned it successful, with no small help from their own abilities.
I repack my pack as Khalid told me, and as I finish, Jaheira and Khalid finish their porridge. Khalid rises, stretches, and takes both bowls over to the bar. When he comes back, I say, "That's a nice gesture."
He shrugs, almost apologetic. "Why make them come over here?" He bends and lifts his mail shirt. It's formed entirely of quarter-inch steel rings and must weigh thirty pounds. He shrugs his way into it, disappearing up to his waist for a moment before he shoves his arms out the sleeves and pops his head out the top. It settles around him with that odd, fluid metallic sound chain mail has. Then he reaches for the half-breastplate on the floor and begins buckling it on as well. I note that Jaheira is buckling on a form-fitting steel breastplate as well. "You go well-armored," I note.
"It's sometimes necessary," says Jaheira. "When we reach Beregost we will see about obtaining you and Imoen some better protection."
Against her protestations, she also bought Imoen a leather breastplate. Imoen hates it as much as I do. Neither Imoen nor I have them on yet. Jaheira looks over at us. "Your armor?"
I sigh. I know precisely how logical the argument is, but it doesn't make it any more comfortable to wear the thing for hours every day when it rubs in such tender places. "When we get to Beregost," I mutter. "How far is Beregost?"
"Four days by foot. And if you have anything you don't need most of the time, we can just put it in Eliea's saddlebags."
That's a relief. Still reluctant, I put one arm through one side of my crude leather armor and begin buckling up the other side. In moments, I feel like a brown clam. At least it doesn't smell. Imoen gets hers on as well, though hers fits even tighter than mine.
Khalid picks up his pack from the floor. It's just a leather bag with one side hardened and formed so it rests easier against his back, much like ours. It doesn't seem to have much in it. He slips it on and picks up from the floor three last objects. The first is a quiver filled with willow arrows as long as my arm. It has straps like his backpack, and he slings it on just like one. The other is his unstrung bow. He ponders it for a minute, and then goes about stringing it. I look over to see Imoen doing the same.
Khalid slings his bow over his shoulder and picks up a round shield with a leather strap. He slings it over his other shoulder, leaving his arms free.
I have just my untested sword and two daggers, one Gorion's, one on my hip opposite my sword. Jaheira inspects her staff, slaps the hilt of the curved sword strapped low on her left hip, and nods.
"We are ready."
((A))
Even before we leave of the compound walls, Jaheira has begun lecturing me about why exactly it is better to put the food in Eliea's saddlebags. I have no complaints. My back still aches and my pack weighs heavily though nearly all the food is in the saddlebags.
Once we step out of the gatehouse, Khalid and Jaheira set a brisk pace. Khalid leans forward a trifle as he walks, probably to balance out his pack and shield, while Jaheira uses her spear as a walking stick. Imoen and I trail behind, trying to keep up. They walk faster than we did.
The remnants of last night's downpour have left the road cold and slick. I'm glad for my fur-lined jacket. It was a present last highharvestide, that is, last fall, from Gorion. The air is chill and Imoen flips up her hood. Jaheira has lent me an extra pair of gloves because my hands are so close to her size. It's much better than bare hands, especially if I've got to use my sword, and it's much nicer right now in the cold.
I'm still not sure I would be able to use my sword, anyway.
10th Uktar, I write after we've stopped the second night. The only times I have to write are early in the morning or late when everyone else is asleep. Usually, it's too cold. Winter is drawing down, though it's only the eleventh month and the worst of the cold doesn't come until Hammer, the month after next.
It's cold. It's getting colder. I hope we get to Beregost soon. I'm still having bad dreams. My fingers are too cold. Goodnight, journal.
Jaheira does not speak much while on the road. She does her talking before we set out in the morning or after the fire is lit beside the road. Two nights she says, "The trees are watching. Keep the fire banked." And so all there is for light is Selune in the sky above, shifting this early in the month from a pale white orb away into nothing, the beginning of a new cycle.
Nothing attacks us. Khalid expresses mild surprise about this, saying, "Last time we came down this way, weren't we ambushed by half a dozen hobgoblins?" Jaheira shushes him, and I'm tempted to as well. Saying things like that invites Beshaba's ire and amusement.
Nevertheless, we reach the outskirts of Beregost without incident, but for one.
On the third day as we're going along the road we hear the sound of hooves, rapidly approaching. We clear the road and watch as a man in royal purple robes tears by on a fine horse, a satchel under his arm.
After he has passed by and we stand on the road, looking north whence he went, I ask, "Who was that?"
"A messenger," says Jaheira. "Bringing news from the south. A pity we did not stop and ask him what has occurred."
((A))
Jaheira stands looking down the Coast Way into Beregost, and says, "This city is a blight on the landscape. Better to have let the land grow wild." I'm surprised at the venom in her voice, but no one seems to notice. She looks at Khalid. "Let us be done with our business as soon as possible and return to the trees."
I've been to Beregost only a few times, with Gorion to visit friends. I barely remember the last trip, some six years ago, and either I got it wrong when I was there or it has changed since I left. We meander through the streets, taking in houses and shops, and the curious little gardens that lie beside many houses, their herbs now brown and shriveled by cold.
In four days my feet have begun to harden to the road, though I still have a nasty, fading sore on my right big toe. One night Khalid and Jaheira noticed me wincing as I removed my boots, and I spent the night with a packet of herbs on my foot. It's worked surprisingly well.
Jaheira reminds Imoen and I about our armor. As if we needed it. Khalid offered several days ago to help improve our combat skills and both Imoen and I declined because of the armor. I think I've got a rash—I've never worn armor for such a continuous time in my life.
We turn left down a cobbled street, past a massive pyramidal pillar inset with glass. Below it, inscribed in white granite, is "BEREGOST".
The buildings of Beregost vary between wood and stone. Most are stone foundations with wooden walls and roofs. Many are more than one story, and most have peaked, stone or clay-tiled roofs. The city sprawls out across several natural meadows and is paved between them with wide white cobblestones which are kept mostly clean. Smoke rises from many chimneys and fills the air in places with the scent of burning pine. Jaheira wrinkles her nose.
Though no people are evident on this particular street, the sounds of a city buzz and swell about us—chickens cluck somewhere nearby, someone shouts from three streets away, and underlying it all is a constant murmur, many voices speaking far away, but nearby.
We come out onto a broad street lined with houses and shops on both sides. At the far end on the left is a massive black-stone building with three chimneys. Hanging out front is an equally large wooden sign proclaiming the place as "Thunderhammer Smithy"
"Yes," says Khalid, brightening. "Just the place, Jaheira." She gives him a look and he smiles back. Odd, when talks to here her he doesn't seem nervous at all. I don't quite understand that.
Jaheira gestures me in. "We will wait here."
((A))
The interior is dim and somewhat smoky. It smells like burning coal. Across a large room three men are engaged in fashioning some sort of metal implement with two hammers and a bellows. They are tall and broad-shouldered. A long, low counter runs the length of the room on this side, splitting it into two sections. As Imoen and I step inside, blinking, the biggest man I've ever seen steps away from another forge in the corner and comes toward us.
He's at least seven feet tall, and broad as an ox at the shoulders. His face is ruddy and half-concealed behind an enormous pair of muttonchop whiskers, below which is a huge set of square white teeth, grinning. He is also covered in soot.
"Oy there," he says, in tones I instantly recognize as coming from somewhere near Waterdeep. "Welcome to me smithy. I'm Taerom, proprietor. Ye didn't just walk in here wantin to see what we do, right?"
"No. Actually, we may have the wrong place." I gesture at the badly fitted leather plate across my chest. "Do you sell leather?"
He looks at my armor. Then he breaks out in booming guffaws that draw the attention of the other half dozen smiths. "Do I sell that?" He slaps a hand on the counter, tears streaming down his face. "No, lass, I wouldn't stake a copper on that piece of hide even if I had but one arm. Armor is what I make, not cowhides."
Frowning, wondering why Khalid and Jaheira told me to come here, I say, "So you can't make me leather?"
"Make? Ay, now that's a different matter. I can make anything ye blasted well please. Outta metal, course, I'm not the expert on hides, that'd be Davil over there. I'm assuming you want something better than what ye're wearing now, right?"
((A))
We leave Thunderhammer Smithy fifteen minutes later and find Khalid waiting for us. Jaheira is nowhere to be seen. "Where'd she go?"
"To find rooms for the night," says Khalid. "We knew it'd take awhile to get it made. They got your—" he stops and his ears turn pink again. "Measurements?"
I can't quite understand his reticence about mentioning things like that, but it's better than too much interest. I nod. "Where did she go?"
"There's a place we usually stay, called the Jovial Juggler. N-no," he says, with a nervous grin as I give him a look, "They don't have jugglers, but there is a lot of dancing."
"Good food?"
"Fairly."
"Decent beds?"
He shrugs.
"No snakes in the mattresses?"
He gives me a startled look. I grin at him. He relaxes. "Well, not at this particular inn. I do remember a t-time when we were in Luskan, however…"
As he launches into another stuttered story, I wonder how many places he and Jaheira have been. Stuttered his tale may be, but Khalid was there, and his warm smile throughout is what keeps my attention.
"Hey," says Imoen, stepping in beside him. "Come on and show me the city, Khalid."
He looks over at her in momentary terror. I have to hide a grin. "S-show you the c-city?"
"Yeah. I've never been to Beregost. What's it like?"
Imoen has a hand on his arm and is trying to drag him away. He looks back over his shoulder at me, and I catch the humor in his eyes. "Which way to the Juggler?" I ask.
"It's south of the pillar," he says, "Southeastern part of town. Just ask anyone, it's popular. I'm c-coming!" He stumbles as Imoen pulls at him. She's grinning and looks happier than I've seen in days.
"But don't you want to drop all the baggage off first?" I hear him ask as they turn a corner. Imoen says something like "Oh, goshdarnit, what's it matter?"
Of course, she's not wearing a suit of chain mail. I look around. The only other soul on the street is an old man clipping weeds from between the cobblestones. Jaheira took Eliea, so I'm alone. It's a little spooky not having someone else around.
I make my way southeast through the streets. Somewhere across the rooftops a man plays a pipe of some sort in a sweet, lilting tune.
((A))
The Jovial Juggler lies on the southern edge of Beregost, facing a quarter mile of open meadow before the trees pop up again. There's a painted sign beside the door depicting a jester with his floppy tri-pointed hat, juggling three balls. It's sided with oak slats and two stories high, with white curtains in the front windows.
I turn the corner and see it, and am just about to step out and go toward it when I hear the jingle of harnesses and the clap-clap of hooves. A party of two dozen armored people trots around the corner, all on horses. I step back into the street I just left and watch.
The one in the lead has a staff stuck in his stirrup. A pennant flaps from the top—a closed steel gauntlet on a black, kite-shield shaped field, surrounded by purple flames. The door of the Juggler enters as they approach and another armored man steps out and begins speaking with them. They stop in the street and dismount as a group. Several of the men in the rear take the horses around back to the stables, while the rest make their way inside. In the faded light spilling through the clouds, they look gray and depressed.
I'm not the only one watching—a youngish woman with graying hair stands staring at the party, tapping a foot and swinging a reed basket from one arm. I cross to her. "Do you know who they are?
She favors me with a glance that takes in everything about me. "Aye, I do. Them's the Flaming Fist, brought down from Baldur's Gate. Don't you know of them?"
"No." Actually, I've heard a little, but she seems more knowledgeable. "Why are they here?"
She looks at me as if I'm halfway round the bend. "Where've you been for the last five bleedin months? Them's here so Amn don't get any ideas about coming north."
Amn is the nation that lies directly south of this region of the Sword Coast, across the Cloudpeaks. And Nashkel is the northernmost outpost of Amn. "Why would Amn invade?" Something to do with the iron, probably.
"Ain't sure," she says. "There've been messengers tearing out of here for some weeks now, going north, and a few comin back, and news came out a few days back the Fist was comin down in case it was needed."
"Twelve people?"
Again the look. "I daresay more than that. They've probably filled up all the inns in town just to quarter. The Fist don't have its own buildings here."
"Something to do with the iron mines in Nashkel?" I've learned a little more of it from Khalid and Jaheira on the trip south, but nothing definitive. When we reached the Friendly Arm they'd been there for two days, resting after a much longer trip from the east—from Berdusk, Jaheira had said.
She snorts. "Aye, probably. Me husband can't stop talking about how his new plow broke the first day. The last one lasted seven years and he put new handles on it, but this last cracked into three pieces. He's not the only one, either. Old Bernam over on Temple Street had his new boots come apart on him—wasn't the glue, but the hobnails broke in half on the way up from Nashkel!"
I blink. "You're sure it's the iron?"
"I don't see what else it could be. It's been gettin worse for the past few months. I sure wish them Fists would do something more than just garrison the town—they need to get down to Nashkel and find out what the hell's wrong with the smelters, or the mine, or whatever." She waves her hand and wanders off down the street.
"Heya," Imoen calls from the far end of the street. I wave and walk down to meet her. Khalid trails along, looking a little worn around the edges. I smile.
"Have a fun tour?"
"Well," says Imoen, "Kind of."
Khalid looks apologetic. "It's been a long time since I've been here."
I nod toward the Inn. "A bunch of Flaming Fist troops just went in there."
Khalid frowns. "That's not a good sign."
Tell me something I don't know. "I think I've been missing something," I say. "What exactly is happening down in Nashkel, Khalid?"
He shrugs. "We've told you we don't exactly know."
"But the iron is crumbly."
He smiles. "That's putting it mildly. When we passed through Elturel on our way here, about a month back, we witnessed an interesting occurrence wherein the proprietor of a sword shop, waving one around to impress a customer, had the sword come apart in his hand. Yes, 'crumbly' describes it well."
"But why the mercenaries?"
He cocks an eye at me and his tone becomes something akin to those of my former tutors back in Candlekeep, or Gorion when he's being professorial. "You know about Amn and Baldur's Gate?"
"They've been at odds for years."
"That's putting it lightly. Amn is a nation that's been stuck in the same space of land for awhile. Certainly, they've now expanded across the Trackless Sea to Maztica, but it's not the same as invading a nearby place. And Baldur's Gate has grown in the past few decades into a very valuable prize."
"So Amn wants Baldur's Gate?"
He nods. "And the consensus in some places is that Amn is causing the iron crisis to weaken Baldur's Gate so they can invade."
"What would happen then?"
Khalid's lips tighten. "I think that answer is obvious. Baldur's Gate would not back down, not with the Flaming Fist. They'd go to war."
((T))
Author's Note: Frankly, I'm a little irritated at how many people check each chapter but don't bother to review. If anything, I'd like to hear more from the people who don't review why you don't review than the people who do review and don't have anything useful to say (assuming there are any). If you read this, and then the chapter, please say something. It would be very nice. Yes, that is sarcasm.
I will not be posting tomorrow, or possibly the next day, but I will have a new chapter (or perhaps two) for the 24th, if anyone is around to read it and not eating some sort of holyday food. Then again, it may be that my own Christmas whatsits will prevent me from sitting down and tapping out much more for a week. If that is so then I will beat my head on my computer to catch up—I've too many ideas that have been bouncing around for literally years (well. 1.5 at least) to give up this story as I did the previous two novelizations.
Oy! Review!
Harlequin: Whee! Another person who gets D&D rules. I don't know how many people who've played BG actually have a clue there was a whole system behind it…then again, they probably wouldn't have bought it if it wasn't, so I shouldn't be surprised.
I'll offer a peek that won't give anything away—I'm mixing 2nd and 3.5 Edition here, as far as I understand them. You may note Diana is going to have leather armor. It is absolutely stupid not to—in essence, by 3.5 rules she's a… Wait. That would be telling. Sorry, no can do. I can tell you, however, that her side of the Art is just a little wild. How surprising.
New characters? I don't know. I like it mostly the way it is, though that doesn't mean I can't change other things in a major way. If you've got the strategy guide I can tell you I'm taking bits and pieces from it (namely, the main character's first name) and I've got to remember to thank the writers of that at some point to.
Anyway, I'm rambling…thanks for the review. I really should cut down on these notes. Happy Christmas.
K. Stramin
December 21st
Late on a cold night
