By Keith Francis Strohm, Kevin Kraft, Audible Studios
They're the half-bloods, the damaged, the unforgiven.They failed themselves and their people.They are outcasts.Then, within the sour wilds of Rashemen, they obtain a determined plea they on my own can solution. in the event that they prevail, it could actually suggest their redemption. but when they fail, a bothered prior could be the least in their problems.About the writer Keith Francis Strohm is the present leader working Officer of Paizo Publishing, LLC, and the writer of Dragon and Dungeon magazines. sooner than that, he was once the vice chairman of Pokemon®, the Director of the Roleplaying and Miniatures different types, and the emblem supervisor for Dungeons & Dragons®--all at Wizards of the Coast. he's the writer of the Greyhawk® novel The Tomb of Horrors, and he has written 3 brief tales for the Forgotten geographical regions. this can be his moment novel.
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Additional info for The Fighters Book 4: Bladesinger (Forgotten Realms)
His life—the things he had done. It was painful, and real life rarely turned out like tavern tales or those sappy songs requested by moon-eyed merchants' daughters. Still, Taen needed her, and if she was honest with herself, she knew that she needed him. "Marissa," Taen began, "I'm... I am sorry. You know that. I've been feeling very strange ever since we crossed into Rashemen. It's as if everything seems somehow more real here. My past. My failure. " He stopped speaking. Marissa reached out across the short distance between them and grabbed his hand.
She was aware of the others gathered around her, watching and waiting from tall seats astride their tired mounts. The druid reached to her belt and drew forth her waterskin. Gently, whispering words of thanks and gratitude, she poured the last remaining drops of water from the container, mingling the fresh snow melt from her earlier travels with the clear, sweet runoff from the stream. Deep within, she felt the telthor's approval and found herself smiling as she refilled her skin. Water spun and rose into the air like a funnel.
A thick chain hung down from the cleric's neck, suspending a circular onyx disk with a silver Orcish rune inscribed upon it. If Durakh took offense at such obvious scrutiny, she gave no indication. The cleric bowed her head slightly upon entering and sat upon the simple chair Yulda offered. The door swung closed behind her. "You summoned me," the cleric said, and though Yulda listened to each word carefully, she could hear no indication of irony or contempt—just a simple statement of fact. Durakh's voice was deep-timbred and rich, though Yulda would never use the word warm to describe it.