Session #4 as told by Inez

Session #4 as told by Inez

Dear diary,

Though I managed to secure a moonstone (I truly did!), I'm very much in doubt if I’m cut out for the job of adventurer! Today I nearly lost my life and/or my chastity, and I wonder which one would have been worse? 

When we came down the stairs again, back in the round room, Jonathan was conscious again, but still short-winded. Not surprising, as the conditions in the room had changed. An unnatural atmosphere had taken over. Hazy and oppressive, with a green dimness, the room had lost all of its hospitality. The murkiness around us couldn't be overcome by the torch Finn was still carrying. When I asked Jonathan about his fitness he put-on a brave face, but murmured some incoherent words, which was both worrying and reassuringly priestlike. 

As the three of us once more stood around the table, we tried to make a plan to find our way back to the camp. At least I did, showing the notes I made of the symbols on the monolith. Before we could seriously look into these, Finn showed us his knife, which was glowing white-hot. So Jonathan and I reached out for ours, and strangely enough, ours were glowing hot as well, like soup left on the gossip stove. Fortunately the handle of mine was of a wood like material and the sheath was made of thick enough leather that I did not notice the warmth of it through my dress. (Though I hope this did not damage my dress, dear diary).

This strange phenomena combined with the growing thickness of the greenish gloom around us, did not help in making well substantiated plans. As our gnome hire would say: “You can’t measure twice if your hat’s on fire." The first thing we could come up with was to bring about the magic illumination that helped us before. So anxiously we decided to place our moonstones back on the table. I was the last one to place mine (and I feel ashamed to tell you this, dear diary), as I had a hard time to part from the precious gem. Placing the stones back on the table did result in the stairs spinning upwards as expected, but the illumination did not return. In fact, only the green haze became even more intense! 

All of our planning was suddenly off the table (quite literally) as Finn was pirouetting through the room with the torch like he was imitating a Tressym! Shouting “Don’t you hear it! Don’t you see them?! They’re everywhere!” Leaving Jonathan and me looking at him deliberating if the rogue had finally gone rogue. But then we too became aware of the sounds,  a careless whisper surrounding us. And as we gazed around, we saw little stones falling from the walls, pushed by blacky hairy paws. Through the breaches large spiders came tumbling down! Though I’m not particularly afraid of spiders, it was clear that we had to get out of this room fast!

Still panicking, Finn headed to the door on the far side with huge steps. Pretending to be a seasoned explorer, or at least a calm follower of Azuth, or even as a rational solicitor, I started investigating the lever that we had damaged on our first visit to the chamber. It turned out to be covered by tiny webs and in use as a maternity ward for hundreds of even tinier baby spiders. Those tiny little creatures, swarming over the lever like glittering black diamonds come alive, were too beautiful and vulnerable to interfere with. I know, I know, dear diary, perhaps I should have consulted my fellow companions, but I decided to leave them and the lever alone for now. 

Looking around, I found my two companions in distress! Each in their own way was battling the critters. Apparently halflings, at least my two companions, were not very fond of spiders, to say the least. My attitude towards them was mixed; bullied at school spiders (much smaller than these ones luckily) were dropped on me, not a good experience for either spiders and myself. On the other hand, in our house there lived many spiders in the storerooms full of books not touched in years, and I had grown kind of fond of them.

Now, two steps away from me, a large, thumb seized, spider landed on Jonathan’s hand, sending the halfling in distress. He tried to shake off the creature, shouting curses I never heard before in my life. Near the door, Finn was battling with a spider that blocked his way, setting it to flames with his torch. And things were getting worse! More and more parts of the wall started crumbling as spiders were entering the room and on top of that all the lighting went out. All we had now was the luminosity of the single torch and the gleaming of many red spider-eyes!

Finn was using the torch successfully, but as I moved towards the door, I saw Jonathan falling down, probably overwhelmed or poisoned by the spiders. Nevertheless (and I feel ashamed to tell you this, dear diary), I just had to pick up the small moonstone from the table and store it again inside my dress (you know where, dear diary). Then I hurried over to Jonathan, grabbing him by the hand and lifting him up. At that moment we heard a large click, as if someone had activated a huge Clockwork Courtship Peacock at a garden party! Alas, no gnomish dance followed, but the room started spinning again! Literally, as Finn had reached the door and when trying to open it, triggered the room’s mechanism. 

The spiders were much less impressed than us, attacking Finn who burned himself  trying to get rid of spiders on his arm! I took a more gently and thoughtful approach with creatures on Jonathan’s legs, bristling them away with my Bellebrass travel powder brush. However, just as I wanted to brag about it, I felt a little sting in my shin. Looking down I saw one of the spiders I had just brushed away, wearing my favorite tint (Powdered Moonleaf) on its body, running down from my left leg (probably off to a spiders ball to make an impression, dear diary!). Then, Once again, I passed out. Dear diary, maybe adventurers are meant to bleed bravely. I, apparently, collapse elegantly. 

First thing I notice as my senses return is the terrible taste in my mouth. Like I drank a terrible kind of wine (or worse!) . Spitting and spewing I try to get rid of the taste; then I noticed my left stocking lying next to me on the ground, ruined by strangely green colored stains and a big rip halfway! Not only does this mean I’m left with just three pairs now, but someone, or some spider, stripped me of it while I was unconscious. Dear diary, I was dumbfounded, just sitting there trying to find my composure back in more than one way. 

With a little shove Finn brought me back to reality: “Inez, I’ll take one of your torches, this one’s almost done”. As I did not dare to ask, but was told spontaneously, was that Finn was the one responsible for the state of my left stocking (ravaged) and left leg (bare) and Jonathan and myself (saved from the spiders by heroic actions). Allegedly Jonathan and myself had been bitten by spiders, poisoned and had fainted. Finn had managed not only to scare off the spiders, but also to take care of Jonathan and me. Using wine (more exact, the ‘Moonberry Mead’ out of my backpack), mixing it with spider ingredients (what explained the bad taste in my mouth), the rogue had succeeded in patching us up. And he just had to remove my stocking to clear my leg of spider hairs and poison, he could not stop bragging; making me thankful, shameful and annoyed at once. Dear diary, I almost missed my chaperone Dame Tockwhistle, who would have made short work of both spiders and halfling men!

Once on our feet, we were more than ready to agree with Finn: “Back to camp, now.” The halflings took their stones from the table, triggering the chairs to return from above. Jonathan took the lead, moving up with the torch in his hand. Jonathan and I formed the rearguard, stumbling along. After the long climb, we found the hatch closed, and Finn not able to open it. Waiting and watching him bumping against the trap door. Coming more and more to my senses, I decided to try to cast ‘unseen servant’. And like an accomplished I managed to pull it off once more! Elated, I steered the magic creature, which opened the stuck hatch effortlessly. 

Both halfling men were looking at me like I had just joined the party. Finn continued the climb, head shaking and mumbling to himself. As I opened my eyes, I found myself face to face with Jonathan (who was standing some steps below of me): “Inez, Inez, what did you do? How did you manage to pull that off?”; the priest was questioning me. Confused, as I had seen him up till now as my superior in the use of magic, I did not manage to formulate a proper answer. Our conversation was going nowhere, until Finn urged us to follow him.

Reaching the end of the stairway, I held my breath. Luckily, this time we found ourselves back in the field near our camp. Where we were greeted by the three Owl Bear cubs. Wearily we walked towards our tents, no one except the whelps interested in conversation. After feeding the little critters, I stepped into my tent. For a while I sat there quietly admiring the moonstone. Stripping off my right stocking, my eyes fell on the Idol, sitting at a far corner of my tent. “Nothing happened, he was just helping, you terrible thing!” ; I cursed, throwing the sock towards it. And for the second time today, I lost consciousness, as I fell into a deep sleep.

And that’s how I found a moonstone and lost a stocking, dear diary!

Session #4 as told by Finn

“A month to die”

Eastshore Prison, Cell 11 — The parchment crackled like dry skin in Finn’s hands. Official seal. Red wax. A little flourish at the end of his name, as if the scribe thought dying deserved a bit of calligraphy.

“Finneas Slynt, sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. Execution to be carried out on the first sun of the new month, in the public square.”

“Polite bastards,” he muttered, tossing the scroll to the floor. “They always add the full name when they mean to kill you. Like that makes it ceremonial.”

He sat back on his cot, which had three legs and the fourth replaced with a prayer book. Not his, of course. Some hopeful sod before him. The only prayers Finn muttered these days were curses muffled by sore knees. 

Rosslyn scurried along the edge of the wall and stopped, tilting her head. Finn tossed her a breadcrumb, already hard as stone.

“Got a month, Ross,” he said. “Four weeks. That’s time enough to die slow or live quick. And I don’t fancy hangin’.”

He stood, crossed the cell to the small barred window, and squinted. The prison yard below sprawled out like a wasted life—grim, cracked, and patrolled. But the outer walls? Still thick. Built for war, not for chains.

He smiled.

“There’s a difference between a man who fears his death and one who’s ready for it, Rosslyn. But I ain’t either. I’m just bored. And boredom makes for wicked plans.”

He began to pace. Step. Step. Turn.

“The kitchens are on the west side. The walls there are hollow—I heard a guard talkin’ about how the rats get in behind the flour barrels. That’s your lot, innit?”

Rosslyn twitched proudly.

“A halfling’s got one advantage, Rosslyn—we’re small. Two, if you count charm. Three, if you count the fact that no one ever looks down.”

He knelt, inspecting the floorboards beneath his cot.

“They think cells are meant to hold us in. But most of ’em don’t remember this place used to be a fortress. Fortresses have secrets. Soldiers carve escape into stone better than any thief ever could. They just called ’em ‘strategic corridors’ back then.”

He patted the floor.

“I just need to find the kitchen. Then the corridor. Then the outer wall. After that—well, I’ll improvise.”

 —  Two weeks later —

Finn wedged himself into a wall seam, dragging his shoulder bag ahead of him with the slow, patient tug of a grave robber exhuming something valuable. Dust clung to his sweat. The bricks felt tighter with every breath.

“This? This is nothing, Ross. Back then, I had poison in my blood and half a spider fang in my calf, but at least I wasn’t crawling through the arse-end of a fortress pretending to be a spider meself.”

He paused as a rusted pipe groaned overhead. Waited. Then shuffled on.

“We’d just dragged poor Jonathan back down the stairs, sticky with acid and bad decisions. Little bastard had a heart bigger than his brain. Always trying to light things up that were best left in the dark.”

Finn sucked in a breath and wriggled under a support beam, dust sifting down like memory.

Re-enterin’ that weird room again, stone cups waiting for our stones like it was some fancy dinner party—somethin’ had changed. The torchlight showed a greenish fog curlin’ in the air like a sour memory.

We all had those moonstones—needed ‘em to work the magic of the room. Me and Jonathan dropped ours in the little cups on the table straightaway, but Inez? She held hers like it was a secret she wasn’t ready to part with.

Once hers was in, though, the room lit up again and the staircase vanished into the ceiling like before. But the mist—it got thicker. My iron medallion burned hot against my chest, so I wrapped my hand in a scarf and held it away from my skin. “Yer knives heatin’ up too?” I asked the others. Sure enough, every bit of metal was cookin’. Didn’t seem friendly. I figured if the spirits down there hated iron, they’d hate a blade more than a medallion, so I swapped my medallion for the big chopper from Aalborr’s dungeon.

Old Finn snorted, wiping a cobweb off his brow as he twisted sideways, bracing one foot on an old beam, the other on a pipe slick with mildew. The wall space narrowed; he turned onto his belly.

“Funny, isn’t it, Ross? That we pay attention to the weird only when it starts biting.”

That’s when I heard it—scratching in the walls and skitterin’ under the table. My gut told me straight: Harrows. Old bogey-stories from my youth, soul-stealers and wall-walkers. Crawling back for unfinished business. Told the others, but they just looked at me like I’d farted at a funeral.

Then the rocks cracked, and hairy legs came wriggling through the wall like death wearing a toupee. Jonathan, genius that he is, lifts his moonstone to get a better look—turnin’ off the light and droppin’ the stairs again. As if pitch-black spider hell was an improvement.

I didn’t have time to scold him. I was done waiting. I made for the door—almost tripped over a loose flagstone just as a spider bigger than my bloody head popped out. I stabbed it with my torch. Lit up like a festival roast.

He paused again, feeling the faint vibrations of guard boots overhead. Six steps. Two guards. Regular pattern. Good.

He shifted his weight, squeezing into a vertical shaft once used to pass messages between tower levels. Another breath. Another prayer. Another inch.

“You know what the difference is between a fortress and a prison?” he whispered. “A fortress keeps the world out. A prison keeps it in. But no one ever built one for someone who was both.”

There was a thud behind me, but I didn’t pay it any attention. There were more legs. More fangs. I fought ‘em off as best I could, torch in hand, dancin’ like a fool. Yanked the door handle—it moved like a lever and spun the whole room like some cursed carnival ride. When the spin stopped, two more spiders pounced. One bit my hand—vision blurred like I’d had too much of that plum wine Inez kept in her pack. I stabbed again—burned the spider and myself. Pain woke me up good.

Missed the next one, so I did the only thing I could: jumped up and crushed the bastard under my shins. Splattered my trousers in spider guts. Felt like a win. Painful. But a win.

I turned and there they were—Jonathan and Inez, both down. One of the spiders was crawling on Inez, and I didn’t think—I just ran and whacked it with the torch. The last one ran off when it saw its pals crisped and crushed.

I tried to wake them. Nothing. Spider poison’s a nasty thing. Jonathan, the healer, always the one needin’ healin’. Typical.

Old Finn paused, panting, his ribs scraping stone. From somewhere above, a guard’s boot clicked faintly. He didn’t move. Waited. Whispered low.

I tried the ol’ smuggler’s wedge trick—pinchin’ under the nose like we did back in Aalborr’s caves. Didn’t help. Though Jonathan twitched a little. So I cleaned his wounds with what was left of my water—he needed it anyway like you wouldn’t believe.

Inez though… still cold. Her leg was swelling, stocking clinging like death’s own bandage.

Had to peel it off—delicate work, I tell ya. Found two little spider teeth buried in her skin. Yanked ’em out with a prayer to whoever listens to bastards like me. Still no response.

So I did what any good halfling does—I improvised.

I looked through her pack—by all the gods, she was travelin’ in style. Wine, pickled quail eggs, soft cheeses. No medicine though.

I asked myself: What would Jonathan do? If he weren’t droolin’ on the flagstones, he’d probably whip up a potion. I had wine, salt, and an idea. Old Marda Slynt used to train the roosters for the Slynt’s Cockfight betting scam. One of the premier matchups was fightin’ poisonous giant centipedes. She’d mix a bit of centipede venom in with the bird’s feed to help ‘em with buildin’ resistance to venom.

I squeezed a bit of goo—might’ve been poison, might’ve been brains—from a dead spider and stirred it into the wine with my hot knife. Poured a bit into Inez’ mouth. Then Jonathan’s. Risky? Aye. But they didn’t die right away, which I took as a good sign.

Inez coughed like she’d swallowed fire. Crawled to a wall and looked at me like I’d betrayed her personally. Jonathan stirred too—sluggish, but alive. I gave him cheese and goat jerky. That did the trick.

Torch was dyin’, so I borrowed one from Inez’s pack. The green fog had thinned by then. But the room still stank of webs and fear.

“I’d like to leave this place now,” I said. And no one argued.

We collected our stones. I led the way up, Inez held the light, Jonathan stumbled along at the rear. The hatch wouldn’t budge for me—poisoned hands, I figured. Inez muttered a spell and it blew open like a bad secret. Wind whistled in and Jonathan started askin’ questions no one wanted to answer.

But above us? Our camp, just as we’d left it. Even the owlbear chicks were still there—bless their murderous little faces. Me, I was just glad it meant breakfast was sorted.

Crawled into my tent. Closed my eyes. Next thing I knew, it was tomorrow.

He winked at Rosslyn, who twitched her whiskers from a nearby pipe. And that, Rosslyn, is how a halfling survives a nest of magic spiders with nothin’ but a torch, some wine, and a dangerous idea. Now hush—we’re comin’ up on the kitchen vents, and if I don’t squeeze just right, we’ll both be spider food.”

He reached the junction where the corridor should open into the outer barracks wall—a door hidden behind a false panel in the supply room. He scraped away the chalky buildup, heart racing, and braced himself to pry it open.

But behind the stone… nothing. Not a hollow. Not air. Just more wall.

“Blocked,” Finn breathed.

He pressed his head to the wall. From the other side, faint echoing boots. Patrols. Guards.

He slumped, back against the stone.

“Well, Ross, that’s it then. Either I go out in front of a crowd, swingin’ in my best shirt, or I crawl back and wait for plan bloody B.”

Rosslyn squeaked and curled around his hand.

He closed his eyes.

“Back to the cell it is. But not to stay.”

Pre-prequel: Twiddling or the first diary entry by Inez

 Pre-prequel: Twiddling or the first diary entry by Inez

Dear diary,

Welcome to my life! As it’s my thirty-ninth birthday, my so-called Twiddling, which for gnomes in Nook means a big deal, and you’re my favorite gift I received on that occasion! Presented by Dr.Vexora, who hereby gets the honor of being the first person named in my diary to show my gratitude.

 Not saying I’m not grateful for all the other gifts. Every guest really had put efforts and thought into it, and I really felt twiddled. However, for a ‘Nook Twiddling party’ it was a really small affair with few guests. That all has hopefully nothing to do with me, and all with my father’s business and reputation, but that’s a story for another time,  dear diary.

So once more welcome, dear diary! Let me start by showing you our house. As I’m writing this I’m sitting outside on the stairs leading to our front door. Dr Vexara was the last guest leaving and let her out and waved goodbye, thanking her once more for getting me this nice gift. She was also the first guest to arrive this morning, insisting on doing some serious study like scheduled. That was a bit of a bummer, dear diary, despite that I really like her lessons; both the official and the other stuff, but that’s a story for another time,  dear diary. Still she insisted, stating that even a young gnome like me should learn to take some responsibilities, especially at this occasion. So, there I sat, doing serious arithmetics on my Twiddling day!

But her gift was perfect and she’s always good company, even as she’s my teacher.  My mother will certainly complain to me later on: “Not only did she stay for the whole day, but I have to pay her for a lesson as well.” My other teacher,  High keeper Ironmantle, also paid a visit. Luckily just a visit, no lesson in etiquette, but I’m sure my performance as hostess will be reviewed next time he comes over. And probably with lots of remarks and needs for improvement. Today he sufficed with a reprimand for both my dress and curtsy showing:  ‘Little lady, when ye curtone’s presentation should suggest dignity... not display, even gnomes should be able to achieve a certain level. This dress and the depth of your dip, I could near read yer future in the valley between your buttons.’ But though he is an old dwarven grumbler, I know he’s fond of me, and he too brought a great gift: a contract case. It’s engraved with dwarven runes to protect documents stored in it and even has a secret compartment. “Working for this office, it will have it’s use” he remarked with a wry smile. 

My parents gave me two binding ledgers, one engraved with the name of my fathers solicitor’s practice (‘Nook City counting house’) , the other one with my name. As my father handed the first one to me, he stated: “My daughter, this is not only to affirm that you have grown old enough to step into my footsteps, but also to express our thanks for your work in the practice in the last time.” Which was very sweet of him, dear diary! My mother handed me the second one, adding that: “We hope that your next steps will be wise, and that they will take you to where you need to go.” Which was also very nice, dear diary, since the three of us had some serious clashes lately. But that's a story for some other time, dear diary. Will this mean that they will grant me a greater license to do what I want and accept my choices? No matter what, it’s a much better present than a new dress or tiara to add to the package of ideal bride for a rich gnome son of a proper family! So this all ended with my mother and I crying together, my father pretending to console us and not at all being touched himself.

My dwarven school friend Thorga came over just to congratulate me, using the staff entrance. Her father does not want to be associated with fathers office, so her sneaking in was a big deal. Dwarfs, honour and grudges, still she showed up! She even brought me a gift, a self-made friendship bracelet! It’s in the same style as the one she wears herself (and that I was a bit jealous of), allegedly the runes on the bracelet hint that the two of us are now ‘bound forever’.  I thanked her as gracefully as my dwarven etiquette lessons have taught me, then hugged her in a gnomish way! It was good to see her, but sad that it had to be in secret and short.

You’ll probably have found out by now that I like to digress, dear diary. It’s great to have someone to write to! Sitting here, enjoying the last sunbeams of the day, I’ll try to get back to the promised topic: Our house. So, we’re now in the garden in front of the house. Looking from above it has the shape of a low gallow with one upright post on the left and a long crossbeam stretching to the right . Dear diary, if my mother would hear me describe the house like this, she would say: "You’ll never charm a suitor by whispering with the graveworms." I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to it, diary. 

The garden reaches from the base of the post to the lower right corner beam, creating a sort of strange sign pointing towards the cross road where several main roads of Nook are meeting. This bottom line of this triangle is formed by shrubbery, interrupted in the middle to allow a way through from the street to the main entry door. Our garden and its shrubbery wall are the last to stand in this street, other gardens have been taken over by stalls or are being used as parking spots for stagecoaches, ponies and horses. Being a solicitor has some advantages when it comes to guarding your property! Not only the merchants and coachmen stand by our gardenwall, also the schoolchildren and bullies obey this line.Which makes this little place a small safe haven where I, sometimes joined by my good friend Thorga, hang out and look out over Nook’s city life. For my parents (and our staff!) the few steps through the garden mean that visitors lose the dirt from their shoes before entering the office. But let us now enter the house ourselves!

The main door is huge, even for tall folk, you have to take the two step stair (one step for the long legs) up, step through and then go down the same height again, because the stair is only there to make an impression. And making an impression is what the whole ground floor is meant to do! Upon entering the hall your eyes would fall on the altar for Helm. Though not exuberant, Helm is about vigilance not spectacle, the granite stone construct is about my size, framed by stout carved wooden columns, like the gate of a fortress. On top of it is a with runes engraved dais, where offerings can be placed. Mounted on the stone Helm’s unblinking visage is depicted, a polished steel mask. Which I always find a bit odd for a solicitor like my father, he would never wear armour or ride to war. The gnome knight of Nook would not last long on a battlefield, dear diary!

Left of the altar is a normal door, small and almost undetectable for great folks as a bit of magic and trompe-l'œil is used to hide it for visitors. This leads to the parallel hallway, used by staff and ourselves to move quickly and unseen by visitors. To the right it leads you to the small stairway, leading to the first and second floor (only findable and accessible for small folk!). The whole wall of the high hallway is painted like marble and covered by big paintings of landscapes. All there to instill the idea that this is the most trustworthy practice to negotiate your businesses. Same goes for the big entry door directly to the left, leading to the main office. Here business guests are met and deals arranged. With an impressive collection of books on the inside walls and huge windows on the outside ones, this used to be my fathers kingdom. Nowadays it’s been more or less conquered by my mother and me, doing the paperwork and preparing meetings as much as possible. Only when guests arrive do we retreat, leaving my father to handle this and keep up the appearance for the outside world. Though sometimes I have to serve his clients, especially gnomish (‘Such a dutiful daughter, and the looks of a dancing queen, but no carriage at the door.’) and halfling (‘Your sure this little elven princess is your daughter?’) companies are apparently in need of my services. If things get too cosy I sneak out through the small backdoor, into my father’s study, the last resort where he spends most of his time nowadays.

From there, there’s a backdoor, yes to another backdoor, dear diary, leading to the true central hall. Our house is built on top of an old dwarven depository that sat itself on top of a depleted mine. This central hall forms together with the kitchen and stables the ‘upright post of the gallow’. Looking right (or ‘North?’) the hall ends with a door to the right to the parallel passage and an exit  to the left towards the staff entry (The third backdoor, our house feels like a collection of backdoors, dear diary). To the left (or ‘South?’) you’ll find the big spiraling staircase, leading both up, to the first and second floor, and down, towards the main room and sleeping quarters. In the middle of the hall there’s our kitchen. All rooms downstairs, together with the kitchen, form my mothers domain, still some of the kitchen staff might dispute this. As the ‘little lady’, I’m tolerated here by both mother and maids, the latter pretending to take orders from me. 

My father rarely descends the spiraling staircase anymore and neither do I, as I have found excuses (‘This document needs to be finished before tomorrow, father has not even started working on it!’) to settle in my study on the second floor. Achieving the privateness to do my own studying, but that’s a story for another time, dear diary.

From the sounds coming from the kitchen I conclude that our staff has reclined there, so let’s not disturb them, dear diary. We’ll use the spiral to move two floors up, towards my study. Only the ‘upright section’ of the first floor is accessible, as the segment above the public parts of the ground floor was broken away to make space for the heads of the tall folks. Leaving a narrow corridor above the parallel hallway, where you can sit and eavesdrop on the conversations taken place below. As I did many times, but that's a story for another time, dear diary.

The second floor is more or less compartmentalized the same way as the ‘crossbeam part’ of the ground floor. As the great hall is missing, both my study (above my father’s study) and the library (above the main office) are bigger than their lower counterparts. My study is so much bigger that a bed was easily fitted in, so I don’t have to use the one in the gnomish part of the house. And it’s here that I have found my kingdom. It’s quiet and dusty, with books and archived scrolls filling the cabinet after cabinet. Neither my parents or staff members will visit this part. Which suits me fine, and dear diary, this will make a perfect hiding place for the both of us. For all that, not the most ‘upper class’ part of the house, but I’m rather ambivalent about the ‘better sort’ of Nook’s gnomes, but that’s a story for another time, dear diary.

And here I will end our tour and the first entry, dear diary. Hope to write to you soon!