Firelight glittered from the purple stone in the signet ring near Callista's feet, and she eyed the splintered skeleton it had belonged to warily. A mage of Dalaran, and then a lich raised by one of the Scourge's original masters…her pride would have her believe that under different circumstances she could've won that duel, but despite her natural self-assurance she suspected it wasn't true. He'd been more experienced than she, with magics tailored specifically to enslave the living. Likely the best she could've hoped for would be to force him to annihilate her so thoroughly there'd be nothing left to raise.

She gave a disgusted shudder at the thought, rubbing absently at her shoulder. Not because of the dislocation – Sir Aren had been true to his word when he said he could help the pain – but because of the three round scars that darkened the skin beneath her robes, relic of a doomguard's claws and the last time she'd overestimated her own powers. Ever since her return from Xoroth, she'd looked on more familiar dangers with a jaded eye. She'd just been sharply reminded that Azeroth had perils all its own, and not all of them could be dismissed so easily.

Which was why she was now sitting on the cold wooden floor of the hold, flicking her gaze suspiciously between the impenetrable shadows of the crates around them and the pile of shattered bones. "How long?" she wondered, narrowing her eyes at it.

Armor clinked to her left as Sir Aren shifted position. His face was still drawn and too-pale, a whiteness only exaggerated by the blood and black ichor that smeared his forehead and clung to the blond stubble around his cheekguards. "What?"

"If that thing – " she jerked her chin at the chipped skeleton " - was really a lich. How long until it comes back?"

To his credit, Sir Aren didn't look surprised at the idea; he just rubbed the heel of his hand briefly against his eye. "I don't know. Maybe never, if its phylactery was on that ship you burned."

Somehow, Callista doubted they were that lucky. She didn't know much about liches, but ripping your own soul out and hiding it in a jar seemed a little pointless if you were just going to carry the thing around with you anyway. "Did you ever fight one before?"

"No." He hesitated, studying the engraving on the back of one vambrace for a moment before continuing. "Before the war, I was a city guard. Not a soldier. When the Prince burned the city, we fled south with anyone we could save, tried to stay away from the battlefields as well as we could." He laughed shortly. "It didn't always work, but at least we never saw any liches, thank the Light."

Callista just looked at him. 'When the Prince burned the city…' Twisting Nether, she'd known he'd been from Lordaeron, but Stratholme? She'd thought no one had survived the purges. But then, she'd been younger during the war, safely ensconced in the high towers of the Stormwind Academy and more concerned with the fel magic she'd begun dabbling in than the plight of distant kingdoms.

"Did you?" he asked suddenly. "Ever see a lich before, I mean."

She shook her head. "No, I never had much to do with the Scourge." Luckily. Nether, she hated undead. She'd take demons first any day.

He was watching her more closely now, eyes scrutinizing beneath the silver of his helm. "I probably should've asked you this much earlier, but was this your first battle?"

She laughed, though not unkindly. No wonder he'd leapt between her and that ghoul. Not that it was really his fault; if the Argent Dawn had any idea what kind of fights she'd seen and where, they'd never have picked her for this mission. "Not even close. There are no Scourge in Outland, but plenty of demons." She paused, trying to decide what she could say without revealing too much or lying too egregiously. "No liches, but I did see an eredar warlock once. And a pitlord. That's almost as bad."

"'Almost?'" he echoed disbelievingly. "There's no record of you enlisting with any of the armies in Outland. And you said you weren't a mercenary. Don't tell me you ran into those things by yourself?"

"No, of course not. I had…companions. One of them took care of it. Mostly."

Sir Aren's brows rose. "'Took care of it?' Just like that? You should've brought him with you."

Callista choked down a burst of laughter that would've been louder than she could've explained. She'd gotten enough filthy looks on this ship just for conjuring one measly little burst of felfire; imagine if she'd shown up with a dreadlord. "Oh, I'm not sure that would've helped. I don't think he likes paladins."

"Less than you do?"

Callista quirked a lip, eyeing him sidelong. She wasn't surprised he'd noticed, but she was surprised (and slightly amused) he'd take a shot at her. "I don't dislike paladins." It was only mostly a lie. "Just being roped into their disasters."

Sir Aren winced a little at that, glancing at the ichor stains and spell-shattered crates that surrounded them. "This wasn't supposed to be dangerous until we got to Kalimdor."

Before she could think of a reply to that (or at least, one that sounded less accusatory than what immediately came to mind), the dull clomp of many feet descending into the hold distracted her.

She climbed into a crouch with a low hiss, trying to will away some of the fatigue that weighted her limbs before standing. She wasn't quite finished yet, but if anything more threatening than a few ghouls came after them, she'd be in trouble.

At her side, Sir Aren lifted his shield into a ready position with a soft exhalation of breath. He'd been even more exhausted than she was before, and Callista didn't miss the way his arm wavered as he tilted the inscribed face of the shield at the dark. If anything more threatening than a few ghouls came after them, they would both be in trouble.

"Sir Aren! Callista!"

"Olly-olly-oxen-free!"

Wynda's familiar brogue and a gleeful yell that had to belong to Ander echoed through the hold.

Callista relaxed, pausing her mental run-through of the spells she thought she still had the will for, while Sir Aren lowered his shield to the planks with a thunk.

"Over here!" he called back.

After a moment, Wynda squeezed her way through a gap in the crates with the two Redbranch brothers and Jhormug in tow. All of the mortals' armor was spattered with blood and dark gore, and Ander's leather vambraces both bore ragged sets of scratches, but aside from a few minor scrapes and the swelling below Wynda's eye none of them looked much worse for wear.

Ander gave a low whistle as he surveyed the smashed crates, angling his lantern to better examine the scoured piles of bones and the long pair of charred holes Callista had burned through the deck. "And I thought we made a mess."

"You did," Nathanial grumbled, eyeing Jhormug warily as the felhunter loped past with his spiny hackles still half-raised.

Callista grabbed hold of one of the long horns that arced from the demon's shoulders as he edged up against her, more to reassure her companions than to actually restrain him. The residue of the Light that clung to the paladins and the remains Sir Aren had sanctified irritated the demon, but he couldn't turn on them without her permission.

"Well, luckily that captain is too happy not to be corpse-food to chuck us all overboard," Ander said cheerfully.

"Captain Verner survived?" Framed by the blood-smeared metal of his cheekguards, Sir Aren's face had composed itself once more into a commander's unruffled mask, but the relief in his voice was apparent. "What about the others?" The next pause was almost unnoticeable, but it was there. "Did you find Luciel?"

Wynda smiled. "Aye, lad, she's got a nasty leg wound, but she should recover. Vorthaal is looking after her." The smile faded from her face. "There were casualties among the crew, though, and more among the passengers. Mostly the ones who tried to flee upstairs during the first panic. It could've been worse, but still…"

Sir Aren nodded. "Alright." Wynda offered him his sword back hilt-first and he took it, sliding it carefully into the sheath at his hip. "Take me to Verner. We'll need to coordinate with his people to keep the passengers out of the way until the ship is cleaned up." He stooped to pick up the gauntlets he'd discarded to tend to her shoulder, and so Callista couldn't see if his expression changed as he added his next words. "And the funerals are arranged."

Uninterested in the logistics of wrangling skittish passengers, she absently rubbed the rough scales on the top of Jhormug's head, relieved the creature didn't seem to be taking undue interest in the necromancer's bones. If he'd truly been a lich, at least he didn't seem to be immediately going about resurrecting himself. She'd still feel better once they'd tossed what was left of him overboard. "Let's throw that one over first," she said, jerking a thumb at the heap of bones.

"I'll second that," Wynda said, gazing at the remains with distaste. "A swift boot over the rails will do for that fiend, and the sooner it is the better I'll feel."

"I agree, but we need to look after the living first." Sir Aren wiped the back of his hand across his forehead before looking to Callista. "Leave the demon here to watch?"

She hesitated, eyes narrowing imperceptibly. Not because she thought it wouldn't be safe (even an arch-lich would have trouble gathering its magic with a felhunter perched on its bony neck), but because she found the idea of another desperate battle rather less horrifying than the thought of trying to comfort a flock of sobbing widows (or whatever it was Sir Aren was so keen to start on upstairs). Then again, squatting in a dank hold that was beginning to smell nastily of carrion wasn't a very appealing option, either. "I suppose," she said doubtfully.

Jhormug laid down near the fractured skull at her silent command, tentacles searching even as he rested his snout on his horned paws.

She snuffed the fireball that had been providing most of the light and fell into line behind the glow of Ander's lantern.

"I think we should take it with us," Ander confided to her as they squeezed sideways through the gaps in the cargo, "if only because you won't believe the color Verner's face turned when it ran up the stairs and started chewing on ghoul corpses if you never see it yourself. Kind of a purpley-reddish-green…"

Callista snickered, easily able to picture the captain's look of consternation at finding an actual demon aboard his ship, and an allied one, at that. "Where did you find the crew?"

"Barricaded in the galley. Between you all down here and that mage's ice wall, they were blocked off from the ghouls in the hold, but there were still plenty that climbed over the rails." He paused, and when he spoke again the usual cheer in his voice was subdued. "And the ones that turned after."

Callista grimaced, remembering the horrible mix of the familiar and the grotesque as faces she'd known in passing snarled at her with bloodstained teeth. "Yes, some of those came after us, too."

It was an unpleasant topic, and for a moment there was no sound but the crunch and tinkle of their footsteps as they walked over the glassware Jhormug had shattered.

"Tell her what you did," Nathanial said finally, turning around to peer at his brother and Callista with a mix of disapproval and amusement.

Since she was walking behind him, she couldn't see Ander's grin return, but she could hear it in his tone. "There was a huge tub of molasses heating near the galley stove. I smashed it in front of the door and caught about six of them like big smelly flies in glue."

Callista laughed, as much at the mischief in Ander's voice as at the imagery.

"Aye, and now I daresay in a day or two we'll have enough real flies as well," Wynda said dryly.

Ander sniffed playfully. "You people don't appreciate military genius."

The sounds of the passengers on the upper decks echoed down as they neared the stairs. Footsteps and the low murmur of voices, mostly, but the occasional sob or wail or terse order struck Callista's ears and soured her lightening mood. They'd driven back the Scourge, but there would be no celebrating. She suspected she'd enjoy the aftermath of this battle even less than she'd enjoyed the fight itself.

Grey fingers of light reached weakly down around them as they mounted the stairs. Somewhere above, dawn was breaking, but by the array of tired and bewildered and tear-streaked faces that turned to them as they entered the corridor, there would be little joy to greet it.

Captain Verner's expression was even grimmer than the scar that marred his face usually made it look as Aren joined him near the bow. "Seven crew and nineteen passengers," he said without preamble. "Not including those we lost during the daylight attack."

Sailors scurried about the deck around them, scrubbing at bloodstains with long-handled brushes or laying forlorn-looking bundles wrapped in sailcloth out along the rail. Aren tried not to let his gaze linger on them. All the ghoul corpses had been heaved unceremoniously over the side, but there was to be a funeral later for those who had belonged to the ship.

The captain's words drew only a resigned nod. It was a sad tally, but given the surprise and ferocity of the attack, they were lucky there hadn't been more. "How many wounded?"

"Eleven total."

Aren stared at him in surprise. Only eleven? Usually the number injured in any battle was several times the number slain outright, especially when few of those involved were soldiers. "That's all?"

Verner smiled his lopsided smile, but there was no humor in the icy blue of his eyes. "They tried very hard to kill anything bleeding. I think our guest in the hold was short of troops." A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he turned and spat over the side.

Aren sympathized, averting his eyes. It was a bitter thing to be entrusted with the lives of others and then fail in that trust. It didn't matter if no reasonable person could have expected anything more; self-doubt was not a reasonable person, and recriminations from within were harsher and bit deeper to the heart than anything ever voiced aloud. "What are your plans, now? Some of the passengers have been asking to return to Stormwind…"

Verner shook his head tersely. "Two more days along this coast and then across to Kalimdor. Enough of the crew is fit to sail, and this isn't a pleasure cruise."

Aren's nod was neutral, but inwardly he was relieved. Even though he knew, logically, that the settlers he'd been sent to find had been missing for so long that another few weeks' delay would probably make little difference, he still felt a sense of urgency. And, if he were perfectly honest with himself, he was still hoping that Callista would change her mind about staying behind in Auberdine. Even more so since she'd proven she could keep her head in a fight. If they turned around now, he had no doubt he'd never see her again once she set foot on the Stormwind pier. "Where did you set up the infirmary? I want to look in on Luciel."

"Wounded are in the mess, but I think your friend's already been moved to her quarters." He regarded him a moment longer with those piercing pale eyes. "Thank you," he said finally. "That thing in the hold…we haven't sailed with soldiers or a ship's mage since the war ended. I don't know how we would've fared alone."

Aren dipped his head in acknowledgment. "We're glad we could put an end to it. Let me know if there's anything else we can do to help."

Verner grunted. "Your dwarf and that draenei have been down in the infirmary since the battle ended. Tell them to go get some sleep."

"I'll pass that along," Aren said with a slight smile.

The day was overcast, but the cool breeze that ruffled the waves was still refreshing after so long in the stuffy hold, and he found the industrious ring of voices comforting after the cries and panicked shrieks of the battle. Though the crew was sadly reduced, many of the passengers had volunteered to help with nursing or cleanup. It wouldn't be long before The Fortitude was ready to resume her voyage.

The clamor of voices hushed as he descended below to where the wounded were being tended. Makeshift cots had been set up around the long tables in the mess (bolted to the planks, and thus impossible to clear away), and a quick glance confirmed that none of them were Luciel.

He waved Wynda over from where she stood checking the bandages of a gnome woman with shockingly pink pigtails. "The captain says you're relieved," he said, studying the weary looseness of her shoulders, "and I think I'm seconding the order."

Her eyes when she smiled wryly at him, however, were as clear and sharp as ever. "Aye, lad, I was just thinking of turning in, myself. We've done what we can, and the rest are on their own. If you're looking for Luciel, Vorthaal's with her in her quarters." She shook her head. "It's a nasty scratch, but I'm sure we've all seen worse."

Aren nodded. "Alright. Thanks. Try to get some rest." He'd probably do the same, once he checked on Luciel.

The passenger corridor had already been scrubbed of bodies and blood, and once again looked like a scene from a pleasant inn instead of a nightmare from old Lordaeron. The only lingering remnant of the battle was the mist-pearled hump of ice he stepped over on his way to Luciel's room.

Her bright-red door stood ajar, but he still knocked softly before poking his head in.

Vorthaal turned to greet him respectfully, his still-armored bulk seeming to fill the small room. "Sir Aren."

Luciel lay on the bed beneath clean white sheets, eyes closed and shadowy-blue hair fanned out across the pillow, clearly asleep.

"How is she?" he asked quietly, nudging the door open farther.

"Sleeping, now." He touched her shoulder gently with his large fingertips before moving towards Aren. "Come, we will speak outside so she does not wake."

Aren moved back into the corridor, far enough to allow room for the draenei to follow, and Vorthaal shut the door softly behind him as he did.

"Will she be alright?"

"I believe so." Despite his encouraging words, Vorthaal's ridged brow lowered in a concerned frown. "The wound was not deep, but it is broad and there was infection in it. I think I have purged it, but it is hard to be sure. There was a taint in it that resists the Light."

Aren's heart sank, and even weariness couldn't dull the dread that wrapped cold tendrils around it. This wasn't the news he'd hoped for when he'd learned Luciel had survived. "The creature in the hold was a powerful necromancer. Maybe even a lich. Still, I would've thought his corruption would've been destroyed when he was."

"Unless he was not truly destroyed," Vorthaal said.

"Unless that." Aren sighed. "It's not unprecedented, sadly. We should keep a close eye on Luciel's wound. The other casualties', too." He glanced around to make sure no passengers were within earshot before adding quietly: "And we should make sure that one of us is on hand should any succumb to them."

A low growl rumbled in Vorthaal's throat as he caught his suspicion. "Yes, I agree that that is wise."

"Take care of her." Suddenly feeling even more exhausted than he had sitting among the skeletons in the hold, he took his leave of the other paladin and went in search of the others. So many had died to keep the horrors that consumed his home from spreading. It tried his faith, sometimes, that the Light's defenders should be so fragile while its enemies wrought havoc even as they failed.

Callista sat at a table at the opposite side of the mess from the cots, swirling a cup of dark wine disinterestedly in one hand and resting her chin in the other. Two similar cups sat on the table nearby, but the Redbranches had finally headed off to their quarters a few minutes ago. She envied them, vaguely; the tiredness she felt was more the mental fatigue that came from spellcasting than physical exhaustion, and it didn't lend itself easily to sleep.

Taking another sip of wine, she watched the passengers moving around the cots set up between the long tables, monitoring wounds or comforting injured loved ones. She didn't much feel like getting drunk, but she was hoping the wine would go to her head enough to make her sleepy. With that necromancer's bones finally pitched over the side, she thought the nap would be a peaceful one.

"Have the others gone to bed?"

She lifted her chin from her hand as Sir Aren sat down next to her in Nathanial's vacant seat. He was still clad in his engraved plate armor, but his gauntlets and helm were missing and he'd taken the time to wash the blood from his face. Fatigue still shadowed it, however, and she was surprised that he hadn't tried to get some sleep himself.

"You just missed the twins."

"That's alright. I'll catch them when they wake up." He reached out to toy with an empty cup, turning it aimlessly in his fingers, and Callista pushed the open bottle of wine along the table at him. He hesitated a moment, glanced from her face to the bottle, then took it and poured the cup full almost to the brim. "I'm glad one of you is still here, to be honest." His voice was much softer now, and she had to cock her head nearer to listen. "Don't say anything to the passengers, but the wounds may be infected. Until we're sure it's harmless, I'd rather one of us kept watch."

Alarmed, Callista stopped swirling her cup. "You think it's plague?"

He didn't answer at first, taking a long swallow of wine without seeming to taste it. "I don't know."

For a while there was silence as they both sipped at their drinks. Finally feeling the warm haze of alcohol beginning to rub the edges off her thoughts, Callista reached again for the bottle.

"He mentioned a name," Sir Aren said abruptly.

She set her newly-filled cup on the table, looking at him in confusion. She was beginning to feel the wine, but she wasn't that drunk. "What? Who did?"

"The – that thing in the hold. He mentioned a name. A dreadlord."

She kept her hand on the smooth wood of her cup but didn't pick it up, still puzzled and feeling an instinctive flicker of suspicion at the mention of dreadlords. She remembered the lich's words, but couldn't see what interest they would hold for Sir Aren. The creature had been mocking them, nothing more. There was little point in pretending ignorance, though. "Dalvengyr."

He nodded, taking another swallow of wine before speaking. When he looked up from the cup to study her face, there was no suspicion in his expression, only curiosity. "You sounded like you recognized it."

So, that's what this was about. She had recognized it, though not because he was a creature she had ever encountered. "Just the name, not the demon," she said, dipping a finger absently into her cup. "He turns up in certain accounts of the Scourge wars."

"I suppose he would," he muttered. Despite the doubtful way he'd eyed the bottle at first, now that he had a glass in his hand he drank through it with a dull kind of will. "I didn't know you had an interest in history."

That's because she didn't. What she actually had was an interest in dreadlords, but the two things tended to be strongly related. Miserable immortal fiends. Dalvengyr hadn't been the one she'd been looking for, though. "Only parts. Warlocks study the Legion, you know." She watched as a ruby drop of wine beaded at her fingertip and fell back into the cup. His muttered statement finally sank in though the layers of drink and exhaustion, and a thought struck her. "That wasn't a name you recognized?"

Sir Aren half smiled, though there wasn't much pleasure in it. "The name and the demon, unfortunately. I think we met. Outside Dalaran, or what was left of it."

"You're kidding." She stared at him in surprise, and might have asked another question, but something in his face stopped her. She took another drink instead, but continued to eye him.

"You know for sure he's dead?" He wasn't looking at her anymore, suddenly intensely interested in the hue of the wine in his cup.

Callista considered how she should answer that, chasing a red droplet around the rim of her glass with a fingertip. She was as sure of it as the author of the treatise she'd read had been – for certain values of dead. "The chronicle I found was…fairly graphic. But 'dead' can be relative. For some demons more than others."

"What does that mean?"

She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully and continued to prod at the droplet as she tried to phrase her explanation in a way a non-arcanist would find clear. "Demons are bound to the Twisting Nether more tightly than they are to Azeroth. Or to anywhere. Destroying their physical forms just sends them back, and won't usually result in a permanent dissolution. Unless you bind or somehow annihilate the soul, they can be summoned again by anyone with the right knowledge. And the cleverest ones can gather enough power in the Nether to summon themselves back."

"And dreadlords are clever." He'd buried his face in his arms as she spoke, whether to better focus on the words or just because he was tired she couldn't tell, but since he was still wearing his steel vambraces it didn't look very comfortable. He turned his head so his short stubble rasped across the metal, resting his cheek against his crossed forearms. "I wish I could say I'm surprised. But I saw that thing shake off an entire cadre of Kirin Tor mages and laugh. It's hard to imagine anything killing it."

He'd put his head down very close to the hand toying with her cup, and she imagined briefly what it would be like to move it to brush the tense line of his jaw before discarding the thought. Not because she was uninterested (physically, she found him very interesting), or even because she thought she'd embarrass herself (she remembered his touch earlier, and the way he looked at her when she wasn't snarling at him, and was reasonably sure that she wouldn't), but because the idea was stupid. Not the least advisable attraction she'd ever had, granted, but still probably not worth it. She pinged a fingernail idly off the rim of her cup instead. "Oh, I'm sure even dreadlords get theirs eventually." If only because they occasionally ran afoul of each other.

He startled her by laughing quietly as he watched her. "Are you drinking that or washing your hands in it?"

Honestly, the latter was probably closer to the truth, but she shot him a devilish look anyway and drained what was left in the cup. "I'm still ahead of you," she said, setting it down.

He smiled, but before he could say whatever was on the tip of his tongue, another thought seemed to occur to him and the smile twisted into a grimace. "I can't get drunk." He raised his head from his arms, giving it a sharp shake as though to rattle the responsibility (or, in Callista's opinion, killjoy self-righteousness) back into it. "This isn't over."

She snorted, rolling her empty cup between her palms so it spun precariously on its bottom edge. "Nothing's ever over. It's called not being dead."

His hand shot out to catch the cup just before it careened off the side of the table. "Maybe. But someone needs to try to make sure we all stay that way."

She cocked her head at him, gaze traveling up his steel-clad arm to his face. "Oh, really now." He said 'maybe' to her a lot, she'd noticed. She wasn't sure if she found that amusing or irritating, but she was exactly sure how she felt about men (or anyone) who put so much worth in saving a mass of people they didn't know and many of whom were probably beyond help anyway. "You know, the world managed to take care of itself for millennia before you ever strapped on a sword. It could probably muddle through the next few hours alone without spiraling into the Nether."

"I'm not worried about all of Azeroth. Just the people on this ship." Setting the cup gently down on the table in front of her, he slid off the bench. "You should try to get some sleep."

She made no reply to that, watching as he strode towards the white-sheeted cots at the far end of the galley. Trapping the cup between her palms, she set it to spinning again with a sharp motion. His attitude annoyed her, and it annoyed her even more that she should bother being annoyed. She'd known paladins before, some of them even stuffier than Sir Aren, and their behavior had never stirred anything in her but amused contempt. Not this time, though. Maybe it was the way he let the pristine mask slip occasionally; she suspected he might actually know how to have fun if he'd ever let himself. Of course, Azeroth probably really would spiral off into the Nether before that happened.

Downing that last glassful of wine had finally had the effect she intended, and she yawned widely. Dropping her hand down on the cup to still it, she stood and began making her way back to the passenger corridor. Alone, which was less interesting…she flicked the thought away impatiently. Nothing but stress and boredom, probably. Oh, physically, the paladin fit her type well enough (tall and broad-shouldered, good features), but in temperament? She snorted mentally as she threaded through the passengers gathered around the cots. Callista had learned a long time ago that most people couldn't match her in raw force of will, and she preferred to pick lovers from the fraction that could. If she didn't, not only was running roughshod over them boring after a while, but eventually they would start to resent her, and that wasn't fun for anyone. None of that ruled out a strictly physical liaison, of course, but somehow she couldn't see Sir Aren settling for that. Not with how seriously he seemed to take everything else.

She pulled open the door to her quarters, shutting it quietly behind her so as not to disturb Wynda, who was visible only as a dwarf-shaped lump beneath her covers. Well, once they reached Auberdine she'd no longer have to worry about it. And, much as it might come as a surprise to some who knew her, she didn't act on every impulse that flitted through her mind. That would make life a little too interesting even for her.

A/N: Short chapter, but I wanted to get the battle wrapped up and a few of my ducks in a row before I vanish for the next couple weeks. We're almost done with the seafaring part of this story, and then it will be on to Kalimdor and the main part of the plot. In the meantime, I've set up a formspring account (link is in my profile!) if anyone has any anonymous questions they want to ask.

Thanks again to everyone who's left feedback, you guys inspire me to get this stuff out of my head and into print:-)