Ch 3 Another Page in Your Diary
Clarice was lying head back on the cushion, lips parted. She had been … touching herself, somewhat to her surprise. Alex's lips gently brushed hers. He had a cocky look about him, though his contribution to her satisfaction had been minor. She cuddled against him for the minimum time necessary for the sake of appearances, then quickly rose to dress in her house clothes: the same light and colourful gypsy attire she had worn since adolescence.
She moved aside the partitioning curtain separating the marital bed from the smaller one where her daughter, Valerie, lay in the restful slumber that children achieve so easily. She spent several blissful minutes watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the whisper of her breath, her small face caught in peaceful repose, mirroring her own, apart from the pool of fine red hair spilling over the cushion. It was with reluctance that she took hold of her daughter's shoulder and gave it a firm shake. The child stirred, opened her eyes, and blinked with sleepy incomprehension.
Clarice allowed her time to adjust, then said, smiling, "Time to get up and have your breakfast! Your dad's making some porridge!" She planted a kiss on her daughter's cheek, gave her an affectionate squeeze.
"Mmmm, nice! Do I have to get dressed first?"
"Of course you do! And we need to brush your hair. Come over here by the mirror."
Fully awake now, the small girl joined her mother in front of the large, oak-framed looking glass.
It's an old, old cliché, but when I look in the mirror, what do I see?
A woman still young, but whose dark eyes already had a hint of world-weariness, of the burden of responsibility. Whose cheeks were unscarred despite many battles, except for the inevitable blue threads like spreading crow's-feet, marks of the extensive use of sorcerous power. A body that had remained lithe, though somewhat filled out by motherhood. Perhaps I need to eat more celery.
Her daughter shared many of her features: had the same eyes, upturned nose, and wide full-lipped mouth. Perhaps it was with an awareness of the main difference that the child reached out to touch her mother's unbound, dark brown locks.
"Mummy, you have the most beautiful hair in the world. And you're prettier than all the other mummies!"
Clarice gave her another brief hug. "If that's true, then that must be why you're the prettiest little girl in the world." She began to brush her daughter's russet hair with swift, efficient strokes.
Giving the occasional yelp, Valerie asked, with a hint of whininess, "Will you teach me another spell today?"
"If I have time, darling."
"Which spell will you teach me?"
"One that will make you good all day long."
She screwed up her face to consider this. "Like tofu does?"
"Exactly like that."
"Nnn … can you teach me one to turn Joey Simpson into a frog instead?"
"Maybe tomorrow I will, darling."
Clarice gave a final lingering glance to where Valerie was playing with Rex amongst the bright flowers of her garden. Then she turned to walk briskly along Fairfax road, giving only the briefest acknowledgement to the other wealthy residents that came forward to greet her. She still felt rather uncomfortable amongst the well-to-do. Were it not for her family, she would have preferred a dwelling place in one of the humbler parts of Bowerstone, amidst folk closer in resemblance to the warm and earthy gypsy folk she had spent her childhood with.
So she stopped immediately to converse with Frank the crate carrier, his dirt-stained clothes showing that he had already completed several jobs despite the early hour.
"Ah, Clarice! You're about some heroing today, I see!"
Clarice had changed into her most expensive Will-user outfit, shimmering white robes, and loose trousers, edged, like her Archmage cap, with gold. In actuality, she considered them entirely unsuitable for adventuring. Although purchased at a bargain price in Bowerstone Old Town, she had no wish to get them mud-stained and torn just to look good in front of some bandits she was about to blast with magic. However the day's business seemed to require her most impressive attire.
"Good morning, Frank, how are your family?" She had been on first name terms with the robust working man for years now.
"Mostly good, thanking you. Though …" with noticeable hesitation "we've been suffering some damp in the house lately, and little Jessie's been taken with the sniffles. Probably pass soon enough."
"Oh, Frank, why in the world didn't you tell me before?" She reached for the pouch at her hip. "Here's enough gold to get Jessie a healing potion from the alchemists, and hire some builders to deal with the damp."
"Ah, you don't need to do that, Clarice, what with all the help you give folks already, and then you having to take care of your own family too …"
"No, don't worry yourself on that score. I just earned a bounty on some hobbes, so I can easily spare you the money." This was a lie. She'd been far too busy keeping the roads clear of regular bandits to embark on any such lucrative contracts. She hadn't even had the time to do any smithy work. Nevertheless she thrust the heavy bag into his hands chinking with the gold inside.
"Oh, you're a saint! Well if you can really afford it … I'm sure it'll do my little girl the world of good."
The immediate warm glow of satisfaction Clarice felt as she continued onwards towards the town square was slightly offset by the worrying lack of financial ballast on her hip. Therese had always said that heroes should try to change the world for the better. On the other hand, she'd also gently insisted on the importance of completing the search for the Hero of Will. Money had often been necessary to help with quests, and now she'd given away almost half of her hard-earned gold.
Clarice shook her head impatiently to clear away the unsettling thought. How could the doing of an honourable deed result in evil consequences? It would all sort itself out somehow; she only needed to have faith.
"Good morning, Conjurer!"
Rosy rays of sunshine lit up the square with its central clock tower, slanting towards the bridge over the Bower River, and the fortified outer walls of the town. The rolling, hearty voice of the speaker rung out across the plaza, mostly empty apart from a few early shoppers and gossips grouped around the food stalls. He was dressed impressively in a three-cornered hat and frock coat, holding the clapper of his bell silent.
"Morning James." Clarice's greeting to the town crier was a little unenthusiastic.
"Any titles I can bestow on you today?"
"Well, now that you mention it …" Clarice gave a slight wince.
"Yes?"
"That present one … don't you feel it … lacks a little something?"
James tugged at his mutton chop whiskers in agitation. "But it's one of the oldest traditional titles bestowed upon Will Users of heroic status. Conjurer." He gave the syllables a full-throated roll. "Is that not simply dripping with distinction?"
"Yes, in a way. And yet … consider how much more dignified something like …" she nerved herself, "Sorceress or even Archmage might sound."
The town crier's expression froze into one of disdain. "Those are not monikers approved by the Crier's Guild!"
"No … but perhaps after all these centuries, it could be … time for a change." Clarice could hear the eggshells she'd been treading on crunching away like newborn chicks between a Shadow Worshipper's molars.
His face remained stony. "Perhaps you would like to return to your former title of Dumpling?"
"No, really … I …"
"Chicken-chaser?"
"Uh …"
"Or even plain Sparrow?"
"I'll … be about my business."
"And I mine." A little icily, he added, "If novelty is what you seek, practice your swording a little more, and perchance I'll be able to call you Blade."
It was with relief that Clarice attained the sanctuary of The Cow and Corset. Fortunately any very early or very late revellers were too sozzled to harass her with more than a few jovial shouts of "Yo, Conjurer!"
"You're here early, Clarice."
"You know what they say about early birds, Bill." Clarice acknowledged the owner of Bowerstone's most popular tavern with a wink. "I'll take a glass of Spring Water, please."
Sucking air through his teeth, the landlord slid a crystal clear bottle along the bar. "Your purity is a shining example, hero," he said. "Though not, I hope, to my customers. A little bit of corruption helps keep my profit margins high."
"I'm not here to judge anyone, Bill," Clarice smiled. "I've important business to transact." Lowering her voice, she asked, "Does Jeeves still lodge on the premises?"
"Aye, that he does." Bill spoke from the side of his mouth. "And if I wasn't chary of offending one who used to be Lord Lucien's man, I'd have put him out the door by now. But I reckon he's fallen out of favour. Bitter he speaks these days against Lucien and how he's treated him. Most folks are too afeared to listen when he rants on. Reckon he's getting a bit cracked."
Clarice reached out to give the landlord's hand a grateful squeeze, at which he looked surprised. "Thanks, Bill," she said with warmth. "That's exactly what I needed to know."
As she mounted the steps to the first floor, Clarice's thoughts drifted back through the years. How long it seemed since the man she now sought out had escorted her into the bowels of Fairfax Castle. Then she'd been a small, bewildered seven-year-old gripping tightly to her sister's hand, her mind boggling at the magnificence of the castle interior: the suits of armour, tapestried walls, imposing archways and high windows. To an urchin who knew little but cold, hunger and hard knocks it seemed the fulfilment of a dream to be allowed within the hallowed precincts. And then to speak with Lord Lucien himself! So the magic music box had worked its charm. And how it had betrayed her hopes!
A hot rage surged through Clarice, and she tightened her grip on her sword hilt. This man, this tool of Lucien, had been part of it. She ought to repay him in full measure. But how could she, while she still needed his help?
The room was hardly more than a darkened cubbyhole tucked away at the top of the stairs. Within the blackness a pair of cunning eyes gleamed. A hunched, bent form shuffled forward. Lucien's aged former butler was shrunken by his years, like an old monkey kept in a cage, getting more and more twisted and bitter. As he drew near, Clarice felt a profound disgust. His breath was foul, and stank of spirits.
"Ah, the Hero of Bowerstone!" The sneer in his voice set her teeth on edge. "To what do I owe a visit from such an illustrious personage? And one so noble too!"
"Let's not play games, old man." For once she felt no shame in using such a tone of disrespect to the elderly. "You know very well what I want of you."
"Of course, of course!" he gloated. "Lucien's diary, what else? I've heard how you've been plotting with that crafty witch and that loose-lipped ex-monk."
Hammer! The woman had been unable to keep a guard on her tongue! No wonder Therese had hidden her away in the Chamber of Fate! Alerting Lucien that they were preparing to move against him was not going to help their cause. The rumours must spread no further.
Clarice couldn't help feeling sympathy for Hammer. She too had lost the person she held most dear, the Abbot of Oakfield, to Lucien's murderous minions, and had her own reasons for wanting revenge. But if only she could resist the urge to express every single one of her thoughts verbally! It was irritating, and dangerous. Lucien's spies were everywhere.
She tried to adopt an attitude of controlled intimidation. It wasn't something she was used to. "You're trying my patience, old man."
"Oh, but you have plenty of that, don't you hero? You with your code of honour and virtue. Lucien, for all his faults, at least realised that men of true worth can ignore nonsense like morality and scruples. But I'm finished with him. I simply wish to live out my time in a degree of comfort, perhaps even luxury. Secure that for me, and the prize is yours."
"How much do you want?"
His eyes glittered with cupidity. "A thousand gold pieces!"
"A thousand! I couldn't possibly ..."
"Your sword alone's worth more than that!"
"I need my sword!"
But do I? Clarice thought desperately. My magic is more important than weaponry. I could exchange steel for iron. But the humiliation of selling her sword to pay this man! No, a hundred times no!
"I'll give you five hundred," she grated. "That's all the gold I have."
"Not nearly enough!" he snapped, "Are you hero or pauper? Find some more, then come back. The diary will still be waiting."
"I need to see it now!"
Jeeves' expression became yet more unpleasant, and he looked her up and down with calculation. "I can see how desperate you are. Perhaps we can come to some ... arrangement. I'll let you have it for five hundred... and the pleasure of having you kneel at my feet. You know ..." he gave a crude chuckle, "what I require you to do when you're down there."
Clarice experienced a sick feeling. "You disgusting old man! Who do you think I am?"
"Oh, I know precisely who you are. To have the Hero of Bowerstone ... the young, beautiful, pure, virtuous Hero of Bowerstone, go down on her knees to perform this service for me ... that might just be worth another five hundred gold pieces. I'm sure its something I'll always remember." He gave an evil leer. "And I doubt you'll ever forget it either. That adds an extra piquancy to the pleasure, of course."
Clarice felt utterly revolted. To humiliate herself in this way, to surrender herself to this vile old man in a way she was reluctant to do even with her husband, it was not to be born! Forgetting all her usual restraint, she seized his shoulders and slammed him against the wall.
"Do you imagine I'm going to kneel to an accomplice to my sister's murder! I'll kill you first!"
For the first time Jeeves seemed ruffled, and even alarmed. "Murder? What are you talking about?"
She shook him repeatedly. "Lucien! He killed Rose when she was only a child! He would've killed me too! You were there! You brought us in!" Clarice's breathing was loud, her heart hammering. The memory had returned raw. Rose had stepped so trustingly into the circle of power. And Lucien had so casually snuffed out her life. For a moment her desire for revenge threatened to override everything ... she wanted to wreak it on this man. She shifted her grip to Jeeves' throat, began to choke him.
"You ... you can't do this ... I'm unarmed ... you're ...!" Jeeves spluttered.
It's a crime to kill the innocent! The admonition went through her head. But Jeeves wasn't innocent. She tightened her grip.
He managed to gasp out, "Kill me ... and you'll never see that diary!"
Reason reasserted itself. She must get the diary, or the real target of her vengeance, Lucien himself, might escape her. Nothing else was more important. With a snarl, she reluctantly released Jeeves, thrust him away from her.
Sucking in air, and rubbing his neck, he growled, "The diary's buried where you'll never find it. You know my terms. Come back when you're prepared to meet them ... one way or another."
Clarice half-ran, half-staggered out of The Cow and Corset. Bending over with the effort of hyperventilation, she sucked in the fresh morning air in an attempt to rid her lungs and mind of the reek of Jeeves' dark and evil-smelling room. But the anger, humiliation and the memories evoked would not leave her so easily. He had tried to treat her like a low-grade whore, and she'd completely lost her head and her temper, almost as if she'd become a different person. He'd left her feeling soiled and tainted, while the diary remained frustratingly out of her possession.
To recover her composure, she walked to the centre of the square, standing beneath the arches of the clock tower. Its sudden musical chime brought her to attention. Time was passing, and she was no nearer to bringing about her revenge. Her eyes turned to look above the gabled roofs to where Fairfax Castle loomed like a menacing cloud over the town, turret after turret, battlement upon battlement. A permanent reminder of the power and authority of its absent owner.
She shook her fist in its direction. One day, Lucien, I will pay you out a thousand times for what you've made me suffer!
The clock ceased chiming at the ninth stroke. Clarice's shoulders slumped. She would need to earn a lot more gold to satisfy the ex-butler's greed. Perhaps a bounty would be available from the Sheriff. She could work at the nearby smithy instead, but what had originally seemed like good, honest toil had become increasingly a drudge.
Abstractedly contemplating these alternatives, she strolled towards the gift stall. At least she could afford to buy Valerie a rag doll. Although her daughter would probably use it to pretend to cast a hoodoo on Joey Simpson. Good!
"Ah, my favourite customer!"
Whether it was because she had a near identical name to her daughter, or for some other reason, Valery, the owner of the gift shop, had always been particularly friendly towards Clarice. She was a handsome looking woman in her mid-thirties. The individually tailored design of her deep blue robes and elaborately stylish hat revealed her status as a prosperous member of Bowerstone's upper middle class. As usual Clarice caught the sweet and subtle scent of Pixie's Tears perfume, one of the premium products of the stall.
Valery made a small bow and a graceful gesture with her hand. "I've just received a delivery from Bowerstone's finest artisan. This magnificent gold necklace would grace the neck of royalty or even that of our most famous heroine. Perhaps you would care to try it on?"
Looking at the purity of the gold and the inset sapphires, Clarice was sorely tempted, even though she knew spending her money on such exquisite but useless objects would not do in the current circumstances. Valery moved behind her, pressing close to drape the necklace around her throat. While adjusting its position, the jeweller brushed against Clarice's bosom, apparently by accident, but it was enough to bring a blush to her cheek.
Valery placed her hand on Clarice's shoulder, to turn her so that she could look at herself in the shop's mirror. In doing so, she brought her cheek near to Clarice's own.
"You look as beautiful as a princess, don't you think?"
Clarice was inclined to agree, but she was more troubled at the thoughts and sensations that Valery's closeness and touch had awakened. Her memories from earlier in the morning returned. But it was wrong to …
Moving to free herself from the shopkeeper's grasp, she removed the necklace, then said, a little abruptly, "I'm sorry, its lovely, but I can't afford to buy something so expensive at the present time. I've come to buy my little girl a poppet."
Valery shrugged, and handed her a limp rag doll. "For a girl as sweet as yours I'll charge no more than five in gold." Pausing, she added in a lower tone, "Your husband ought to buy you a worthier gift. But spending as much time as he does in The Cow, perhaps he can ill afford the presents his wife deserves."
"Alex has been frequenting the tavern?" Clarice affected surprise while counting out the coins. In fact she knew very well about Alex's drinking habits from the occasions when he'd returned home extremely drunk, waking her in order to satisfy his lust. Sometimes she found his unusually forceful behaviour arousing, but more often disgusting.
Valery raised her eyebrows. "You didn't know? Strange because I heard that, when deep in his cups, he invariably promises to 'give that frigid wife of mine a good seeing to' when he gets home. Maybe he isn't able to make good his boasts by the time he does."
Clarice flushed scarlet, and would have departed, but for Valery placing a hand on her arm. "Clarice, if you need a friend, you know my door's always open."
Their eyes met for a long moment. Clarice was about to speak, when a loud scream rent the air. It was followed by more yells and shouts, the wailing of children and a single gunshot.
"What in the name of Skorm was that!?" Valery exclaimed. Clarice was already turning away from her, drawing her own pistol, to face towards the far end of the square from where the alarm had arisen.
Her practised ear had already identified the report as being from a flintlock pistol such as the town militia employed. She was thus unsurprised to see, amongst a crowd of Bowerstone citizens fleeing in panic and disorder, Jeff the guard dashing in her direction. His normally placid, beefy countenance was contorted with barely-controlled terror.
"Hero, come quickly! An 'orrible and evil manifestation has arisen in the square! The citizens are afrighted! Eric the Pie man's already soiled himself with fear!"
"What kind of manifestation?" She could see nothing amidst the scene of confusion.
"Tis a strange, floating demon of some sort. Like a huge, terrible, bright eye! It came out of nowhere."
A floating eye? Clarice immediately thought of the flying Shards employed by Lucien to transport his minions. One of these magical obelisks had been used by the Commandant to steal away Garth from under her nose. Could this be some kind of similar spying device? But why materialise it in such an obvious place?
"What's it doing?"
"Naught as yet, but wait not until it works some dreadful spell upon us. The Sheriff even now holds it at bay."
"Don't worry, Jeff, I''ll deal with it." For an instant Clarice contemplated her pistol. There's no finer weapon to be found between Oakfield and the Bandit Coast … but this looked like a time for sorcery, not swords or guns. She swiftly holstered the flintlock and advanced quickly and confidently, yet with an edge of caution. She was, to her knowledge, the second most powerful Will-user in the whole of Albion. She should be prepared to handle almost any normal threat. This however sounded like something beyond her experience … though in the back of her mind she wondered whether she'd heard of such an object before. Or read about it ...
Beyond the clock tower the square was mostly clear of fleeing townsfolk. A second member of the militia was blocking the Bower Bridge, while the Sheriff and a third guard had established a cordon around the presumed menace, their sabres drawn and ready. The nearest civilians were Seth, the Alchemist, staring fascinated through his monocle, and Eric the pie-man, who was peeing over the side of the river wharf.
"Clarice, thank goodness you're here!" Usually a reassuring presence in his broad, feathered hat and greatcoat, the Sheriff was trying his best to conceal his apprehension, and not succeeding very well. "We've no experience of dealing with a demon from another world. We feared it might try a spell or play some kind of foul trickery upon us."
"It's all right, Sheriff. I'll make sure it can't do us any harm." Clarice spoke with conviction, although she was thinking that she had exactly the same acquaintance with demons as the militia … none whatsoever. Even relatively common fiends, like Balverines, she had never before encountered, at least not in their true animal form. And as for a malignant spirit from a different plane of existence … but how did the Sheriff know it was such?
Jeff the guard's description was not entirely accurate. The object in front of her bore some resemblance to an eye in that it was spherical. Otherwise it was much better depicted as a ball of glassy substance about twelve inches in diameter, with the most remarkable aspect being that it was bobbing several feet off the floor. Nevertheless Clarice could appreciate why the man had spoken thus. She had an uncanny feeling that the sphere was in some way looking at them. Perhaps it was the way it rotated this way and that, or the strange mirror like depths which seemed to draw the viewer to some far off perspective.
If its Lucien's spy device, it mustn't be allowed to report anything important. Best to destroy it while I've got the chance. In her mind, Clarice was already ordering her spells. Of the two most advanced, she selected Blades to cast at the fourth and highest level of power, due to its greater damage when used against a single target and its appropriateness against something seemingly made of glass. Shock she relegated to the third level; its stunning electrical effect was untested against such an object. Force Push and Time Control occupied the lowest slots, ready to gain her space and valuable seconds should she be unable to charge her Will to its highest level before she was attacked. Her other spells were held in reserve, though none could completely shield her from physical or magical harm. Her last lines of defence lay in her pistol and sword. The latter she relied on only when desperate, for there lay her greatest weakness. But the Town crier's taunt was only half-true. She practiced with her weapons as often as her busy life permitted, yet when she so seldom needed them in battle, it was hard for her to reach the mastery that the heroes of legend had attained. Without her spells to even the odds, it was doubtful she would compare well against fabled foes of the past like Jack of Blades or Scythe. Even Hammer she might struggle to outmatch in hand-to-hand combat.
These meditations and mental preparations occupied only an instant. Her thoughts returned to the Sheriff's puzzling comments.
"Have you seen such a thing before, Sheriff? Why do you think its come from outside Albion?"
"Nay, Clarice, I've never seen the like!" He pulled his forked beard doubtfully. "But it confessed its other-worldly origins from its own mouth … even if it don't appear to have one."
"It speaks?"
"That it does, though I would not be trusting such siren voices as come from demons. Especially one that turns to abuse when thwarted."
"How did it abuse you?"
"Why it asked me where the Hero of Bowerstone was, and when I said it'd find out to its pain soon enough, it cursed me in a number of insulting terms."
"It asked you where to find me?" As Clarice spoke these words, the sphere suddenly rose to eye-level, and surged towards her until it was merely three feet away. The Sheriff and his guard leapt backwards shouting imprecations and warnings.
"I told him he was an idiot! I haven't got all day to waste on buffoons like him. I want to talk to the Hero of Bowerstone."
The voice from the sphere was nothing like Clarice imagined a demon's might sound. It was a young woman's voice, bright and cheerful. Sheer surprise caused her to interrupt charging her Will. She released it at the lowest level of Time Control, the world around her seeming to slow, the militia men's mouths opening and closing like fishes'.
"Weelll … thaat … waass … a … neeat … triick." This time the words from the sphere were elongated by the time distortion, making it sound something like a demon's after all. The slow time bubble ended abruptly, and the woman's voice resumed as breezily as before. "While I'm a little impressed, I'm afraid attempting to attack the Orb is another waste of time. Its probably invulnerable in your universe, and in any case, I'm not your enemy."
Clarice put her hand to her head. So many odd circumstances had left it buzzing. She tried to sort through the staggering possibilities that her mind was trying to cope with.
"You've come from another universe? And you want to speak with me?"
"More than that, I'm here to ask for your help," the voice continued nonchalantly. "If you're the Hero of Bowerstone, of course."
"I am the Hero of Bowerstone," Clarice said in a dazed tone. "What help do you need, and why have you come to ask me?"
"If you don't mind, we won't go into that fully straight away. I've already lost enough time explaining things in the other worlds I've visited. Before we get down to business, I need to know if you're up to the job. I require the assistance of a very powerful Will User."
Clarice still felt she was in a waking dream, but responded instinctively, despite the bizarre nature of the conversation. "I do mind. Especially if you're planning on disappearing again without an explanation. But I am considered to be the best Will User in Albion, with only one exception."
"That exception being Garth, naturally," the woman's voice cut in. "Who is currently imprisoned in the Spire, and thus unavailable."
Clarice blinked. "How do you know about him?"
"The same way I know about you. We're all from very similar time lines. I'm only able to search through the ones that precede mine. So I can take a fair guess at what things are like in your world."
"Time lines? I'm sorry, this is becoming so confusing ..."
"Don't worry too much about that for now!" the voice suggested cheerily. "Just tell me what you're capable of; in terms of spell-casting, that is."
"I can cast Shock and Blades to the fourth level of power," Clarice began with pride. "And also Inferno to the third … wait … I don't know yet whether I can trust you!"
Ignoring her protestations, the voice exclaimed, "You can use both at the Fourth Level! At this stage of the time line, that's remarkable! You must have devoted a massive amount of effort to Will use. Oh, I've really hit the mother-lode here!"
Clarice was beginning to find speaking to the disembodied voice a trifle irritating."Look, even if that's true, I'm not about to tell you all my secrets."
The voice sounded amused. "I think you'll find keeping secrets from me extremely difficult. I probably know most of them already. One more question. Can you shoot the weapons from a Hollow Man's hands, blow his head off and kill him dead for good?"
Clarice considered. Like everything she'd heard so far, the question seemed slightly insane. "I can shoot one in the head twice, which kills them as well as any other method."
The voice chuckled. "Good enough! You'll do! Even if you're as slow and clumsy a fighter as Hammer, you'll do. No one I've met so far comes even close to your spell abilities." Another giggle. "Are you some kind of monk?"
"What are you implying?" Clarice felt affronted. Was the seemingly all-knowing voice mocking her life-style? And her remarks about Hammer sounded insulting. The ex-monk could not really be considered clumsy, except in matters of diplomacy, and her signature weapon was of necessity slower but more powerful.
"I'm not implying anything. I'm telling you that you're the hero that I've been looking for. Now if you'll just enter the Orb, we can ..."
"Wait a moment! Haven't you forgotten something?"
"Quite possibly, but what of it?"
"I haven't agreed to help you. And I won't until you tell me more about who you are, and what you want me to do."
"I'll explain everything when you enter the Orb. You just need to reach out and touch it."
"No! I want to know now!"
The voice sighed. "You don't trust me? And I thought we'd been getting on so well. All right. My name is Celeste. What's yours?"
"Clarice. The Conj … the Sorceress."
"See, like I said, similar but not quite the same. So now that we're acquainted, can you please touch the Orb?"
"No! First I want you to tell me exactly who you are!"
A pause followed. Then there came a peal of silvery laughter. Clarice shivered. It was the same laughter that had rang out across centuries of time, from the age of gods and legends, charged with the power that only a hero of true blood possessed.
"You want to know who I am? You know already. I'm the Hero of Bowerstone!"
*Another Page in Your Diary: this chapter's lyrical title comes to you courtesy of Yazoo, fronted by Alison Moyet, and who also wrote the lyrics for Nobody's Diary. Somehow I think she'd like this kind of story.
A thousand gold pieces: as Wiki points out, this may sound like a princely sum but, even in a low game economy, its pretty paltry when you consider prices in Bowerstone, especially for property. You'll likely be hearing more from me on this, but for now you can assume it is a very significant amount of money in Clarice's world.
Good honest toil: I used to quite like working at the Blacksmith, and it certainly set me up money-wise. But then level five got ridiculously fast and difficult, so I no longer bothered.
In the name of Skorm: using the name of this ancient 'dark' god seems more appropriate for an oath, equivalent to 'what the Devil?!"
The Fourth Level: I'd say that possessing two fourth level spells is strong for a Will User at this stage of the main quest. I was still using spells of that power when I reached the Spire, and I didn't drop once! Of course there's one more spell level beyond that, but it does require a significantly larger chunk of experience. Personally I prefer to spend my points on a variety of spells rather than putting all my eggs in one basket.
Can you shoot the weapons from a Hollow man's hands? This x-box live achievement is difficult for anyone unable to individually target body locations with a gun. Thus it would be a good test of someone's Skill.
I've never particularly noticed whether the names of prominent citizens (shop keepers, guards etc.) are standard in the game, like those of important quest-based characters, or randomised like those of 'ordinary' people. Whichever is the case, I've kept or changed names according to what felt right for that character. Quest characters should be accurately named, so let me know if they aren't!
Celeste and Clarice get better acquainted in the next chapter!*