Fin POV
The stubborn goat bleated loudly, shaking its head defiantly as it stared me down, hooves planted firmly in the muddy snow. I sighed heavily, feeling my frustration mounting. The makeshift pen behind me was already filled with a few remaining sheep and one cow we'd managed to recover after the chaos from two nights ago.
But this particular goat—this stubborn little bastard—refused to cooperate.
"Come on, you stupid goat," I grumbled, stepping forward carefully, trying to coax it gently toward the pen. "Get your ass in there already."
It pawed the ground aggressively, nostrils flaring as it lowered its horns, preparing to charge. Thanks to my Haki, I saw it coming before it moved, but I was done being gentle. As it lunged forward, I reacted instantly, my right arm shooting up instinctively.
The black bracer on my wrist shimmered softly, its dark metal rippling fluidly, instantly reforming into a sleek, sturdy whip. It felt natural in my hand—like a part of me.
With ease, I flicked my wrist sharply, cracking the whip through the air right in front of the charging goat. The loud snap echoed across the snow-covered fields, causing the goat to skid to a startled halt. It stared at me indignantly, but finally trotted obediently into the pen, bleating with resignation.
"Finally," I muttered, rolling my eyes as I shut the gate. With a sigh, the whip melted back into its original bracer form, the cool black metal comfortably encasing my wrist.
I stared thoughtfully at the bracer for a moment, flexing my fingers. I hadn't yet decided on a name for it, despite the time I'd spent experimenting with its abilities. My 'father katana' as I called it, had become this strange artifact, its form shifting to whatever I wanted it to—a sword, whip, dagger, even basic tools. It adapted instinctively to whatever I needed, as though responding directly to my thoughts.
Yet, since that night, since reshaping the blade into my weapon, I hadn't heard a single whisper from my father's soul. No more cryptic comments, no hidden whispers of encouragement or warnings. Nothing.
Had I silenced him completely by reshaping the blade? Or was he just biding his time?
I shook my head, dismissing the thought. There was no point in worrying about it right now. There were more important things to focus on.
Turning away from the animals, I trudged slowly back toward what was left of our farmhouse. Smoke still rose faintly from the ruins, curling lazily into the grey sky. Our home—everything familiar—had been reduced to smouldering ash and shattered timber.
Near the charred remains stood Helga, carefully loading our few surviving possessions into the cart we'd salvaged from the barn. Her golden greatsword rested comfortably on her back, secured firmly by worn leather straps. Her movements were slow, tired, and heavy.
I approached quietly, stopping at her side. "Animals are all set," I said softly. "That should be the last of them."
She turned toward me, forcing a small, weary smile. "Good job, Fin. Thanks for handling that."
I nodded quietly, watching her carefully pack away clothes, cooking pots, and the few valuables that had survived the blaze. It was painfully little for a life that had once been so full.
"So," I finally asked, my voice hesitant, "where do we go now?"
Helga paused, looking out over the scorched remains of our home, determination tightening her expression.
"Somewhere safe," she said softly, carefully placing the last item into the cart. "Or at least, safer than here."
That didn't exactly answer my question, but I didn't ask what exactly she meant. Truthfully, anywhere but here sounded perfect to me.
...
The wheels of the cart creaked softly beneath us, a slow and steady rhythm as the horse plodded onward along the quiet, snow-covered road. Helga sat up front, holding the reins loosely, her gaze fixed straight ahead. Neither of us spoke. Silence had become familiar—comfortable, even—between us over the past day or two.
I lounged in the back of the cart, half-buried in blankets, idly watching the sky above. My fingers lazily tapped the air as I flicked through the System interface, scanning my recent achievements.
Achievement Unlocked: "Survive a Cultist Ambush" – 500PP
PP Total: 1002
I grinned. At least something good had come from all that madness. My stomach tightened slightly, excitement bubbling in my chest as I prepared myself. It had been far too long since I'd been able to roll for something decent.
"System," I muttered under my breath, "Give me a Guaranteed roll. One thousand PP."
Heh PP
The interface glowed softly, humming gently in response. A spinning wheel appeared, flashing rapidly through colours as it gradually slowed down, passing Common, Uncommon, Rare...
It finally stopped.
[You have rolled - Witcher's Basic Signs Mastery (The Witcher) - Rare]
I sighed heavily, falling back onto the uncomfortable cart with a dull thud.
Basic Signs Mastery? Well, it was certainly useful—but it felt painfully mundane compared to what I'd hoped for.
My luck hadn't improved much.
I grumbled softly to myself, flexing my fingers thoughtfully. Well, at least setting things on fire with Igni might come in handy sometime soon.
I stared back at the clouds, rolling my eyes at the universe's sense of humour. "Guess my luck's still in the damn gutter…"
Helga's voice broke the silence. "You've been quiet for a while now."
I blinked, glancing up at her. "Just thinking."
She hummed knowingly. "Thinking or sulking?"
I rolled my eyes. "Thinking."
She smirked but didn't push further, guiding the horse carefully as the road dipped slightly downward. "You sure you're alright?"
I hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Yeah. Just getting used to all this."
"Mm." She didn't press further, but I could tell she was watching me from the corner of her eye. "You're handling this better than I expected."
I scoffed. "What, you thought I'd break down crying?"
"Maybe," she teased lightly. "You've been through a lot, Fin. More than most kids your age. I just… want to make sure you're okay."
I frowned slightly. I wasn't used to this—someone looking out for me like this. Not in my past life, and not even really here, until now. It was strange. Unfamiliar.
But not bad.
"I'm fine," I muttered. Then, after a pause, I added, "Thanks."
She smiled at that, a small but genuine expression. "You know, you've changed a lot since you were younger."
I raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And how exactly?"
She shot me an amused glance. "You actually talk to me now."
I opened my mouth to retort but stopped short.
…She wasn't wrong.
Thinking back to when I was younger, I realized just how distant I had been—how I had deliberately kept Helga at arm's length, unsure of how to connect with her. But now? Now, I felt comfortable around her, in a way I hadn't even noticed happening.
She wasn't just some woman who took care of me.
She was my mother.
And, despite everything, I was proud of that.
I looked away, hoping she didn't notice the small smile tugging at my lips. "Well, maybe you just grew on me," I muttered.
Helga chuckled. "Is that so?"
"Don't get cocky," I shot back, crossing my arms.
"Oh, too late for that," she said, grinning. "I have years of 'I told you so's' built up for this moment."
I groaned dramatically. "Ugh. Regret."
She laughed, a genuine, light-hearted sound that eased some of the lingering tension in my chest.
For a while, we just enjoyed the quiet, the cart rocking gently as the cold wind nipped at our skin.
Then, suddenly, my stomach let out a loud, angry growl.
Helga's eyebrows shot up, and she turned her head slightly, an amused smirk forming on her lips. "Well, well. Sounds like someone's starving."
My face heated instantly. "Sh-Shut up," I muttered, crossing my arms. "I'm just… mildly hungry."
"Oh, of course," she said, grinning. "A mild hunger that sounds like a dragon's growl."
I huffed, turning away dramatically. "It's not that bad."
Helga snorted. "Alright, alright, your majesty. I'll stop teasing. We'll stop to eat soon."
I mumbled something unintelligible under my breath and slumped further into my seat, hoping the stupid redness on my face would go away.
Helga was still smiling to herself.
Damn it.
...
The fire crackled softly in the centre of our little campsite, casting warm, flickering light over the snow-dusted clearing. The sun was sinking low behind the hills, painting the sky in deep shades of orange and violet. Smoke drifted lazily upward, carrying with it the scent of herbs, meat, and something savoury.
I sat cross-legged on a rough blanket, watching Helga carefully ladle steaming stew into a wooden bowl. She moved slowly, her eyes tired but focused, her hands steady despite everything we'd been through.
"Here you go," she said, handing me the bowl with a faint smile. "Eat before it gets cold."
"Thanks," I muttered, already bringing it to my mouth.
The moment the stew touched my tongue, my body relaxed. It was rich, warm, a little peppery—and after a long day of walking through snow and arguing with animals, it tasted like heaven.
I devoured it without hesitation, tilting the bowl to get every last drop before licking the bottom clean like some feral goblin. I didn't even care. Hunger had its own rules.
"Can I get another?" I asked, looking up expectantly.
Helga blinked, a little startled. "Already?"
I nodded. "It was good."
She didn't answer right away. She just looked at me.
I frowned a little. "What?"
Her lip trembled, and she suddenly turned away to scoop more stew into my bowl. But her shoulders were shaking. She sniffed quietly, then handed the full bowl back to me with both hands.
I stared at her.
Her eyes were glassy now. Wet. Shining with unshed tears.
"Helga?" I asked, uncertain. "Did I… do something?"
She shook her head quickly and laughed—a soft, choked sound. "No, no, sweetie. You didn't do anything. You're just…" She sat down across from me, wiping at her face with the sleeve of her coat. "You're just a very strange boy."
I blinked. "Gee, thanks."
She laughed again, more freely this time, but the tears kept coming. She didn't bother wiping them away now. "You're seven years old, Fin. Seven. But the way you talk, the way you act…" She looked at me like she was seeing something no one else could. "Sometimes I forget. You don't get scared like other kids. You don't cry. You eat like a man starved, and you fight like the world owes you something."
I didn't know how to respond to that. So I just sat there quietly, bowl still in hand.
"I used to wonder what kind of child you'd become," she continued, her voice soft. "But I never imagined this. And sometimes I think maybe… maybe the gods sent me a child already grown up. A second chance at something I never had."
I didn't say anything at first.
Then I smiled. Just a little.
"Maybe," I said quietly, "you were the second chance."
Helga stared at me.
And then, without a word, she reached across the fire and pulled me into a hug—tight, warm, and trembling.
I let her.
...
The fire had long since burned down to embers, casting a dim red glow through the thin fabric of the tent. Snow gently fell outside, tapping softly against the canvas like a lullaby. Inside, Helga and I lay side by side on our backs, bundled in thick blankets, staring up at the low ceiling above us.
The air was quiet. Peaceful, for once.
My eyes traced the tiny imperfections in the cloth overhead, listening to the distant, sleepy huff of our horse somewhere beyond the camp. The steady rhythm of Helga's breathing beside me was strangely comforting.
For a moment, it was easy to pretend everything was normal.
Then she broke the silence.
"Fin…" she said softly.
I glanced toward her.
Her eyes were on the black bracer around my wrist—my father's soul reshaped and bound. It shimmered faintly in the firelight, dull but still very much alive in its presence.
"What happened," she asked, voice gentle but strained, "when the weapon activated?"
I didn't answer at first.
Her voice was steady, but I could feel the tension under it. Her hand was clenched gently around the blanket, her body unmoving, but her energy—her Haki—was all nerves.
My fingers curled around the bracer absently.
Then, finally, I said it.
"I talked with Dad."
The moment the words left my mouth, I felt her shift beside me. She sat upright slowly, the blanket slipping off her shoulders. Her hair fell messily over her face, but I could still see her eyes—wide and shining.
"You… what did he say?" she asked quickly. Too quickly. "Did he try anything? Did he hurt you?"
"No," I said quietly, staring at the tent. "He didn't threaten me. He didn't try to fight. He just… talked."
Helga said nothing, but I could hear her breathing quicken slightly.
"He told me…" I hesitated, the memory surfacing vividly—the cold void, the charm in his voice, the way his words curled around my thoughts like vines. "He told me his side of the story."
Helga didn't speak, but I could feel it—the stillness in her body, the way she tensed like someone waiting for a knife to drop.
"He said you were obsessed with him," I continued, my voice distant. "Said you were a crazed follower, jealous, unbalanced. That you worshipped him. That you turned on him when he didn't love you back."
Still, Helga didn't move. But her hands were trembling slightly in her lap.
I turned my head to look at her. Her expression was… unreadable. Somewhere between pain and fear and restraint. But not a surprise.
She was afraid.
Afraid I might believe it.
And for a moment… I had. Back then. In the void. His voice had been convincing, calm, and soothing. There had been no anger in his tone—just disappointment. Just persuasion.
But now?
Now, looking at her—at the woman who raised me, fought for me, bled for me, and never once asked for anything in return—I knew exactly what choice I had to make.
I reached over and gently nudged her side.
"Don't worry," I said softly. "I didn't believe him."
She looked at me, lips parting like she wanted to speak, but no words came.
"People lie when they're desperate," I continued. "He might've said a lot, but you? You've shown me everything I need to know."
Her eyes shimmered with tears, and she looked away quickly, brushing her cheek like she wasn't crying.
"I'm not stupid," I muttered, rolling back onto my side and facing the tent wall. "Besides, you suck at lying. If that story was true, you wouldn't be so bad at making stuff up."
Helga gave a wet laugh—a choked little thing that almost made me smile.
Silence fell again, heavier this time. But it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the silence of something unspoken but understood.
She lay back down beside me after a while, and I felt her hand gently rest over mine beneath the blanket.
I didn't pull away.
I didn't want to.
I stared up at the ceiling, the soft thudding of my heart the only rhythm to guide my thoughts, until I finally broke the silence again.
"…Hey."
Helga stirred slightly beside me, her voice low. "Yeah?"
"What was it like?" I asked quietly. "The cult. Your time in it."
There was a long pause. Long enough I wondered if she'd fallen asleep—or decided to ignore the question.
But then I felt her exhale, a long, slow breath.
She shifted, sitting up slightly, pulling the blanket around her shoulders like it could shield her from the weight of her past.
"It started when I was around your age," she said quietly, voice distant, almost hollow. "Not the violence. That came later. But… the ideology. The words."
She looked down at her hands.
"I grew up in a small farm village on the edge of Broque's borders," she began. "The kind of place people forgot about. Where the world was small, and every day was the same as the one before it. Wake up. Work. Sleep. Repeat. No choices. No room to grow. I was... angry. Hungry for something different. Something bigger."
She gave a soft, bitter chuckle. "That's when he found me."
Even without saying his name, I knew exactly who she meant.
"He talked about freedom. Not in the vague, empty way the nobles or heroes do. Real freedom. The freedom to choose your fate. To live by your terms. No laws. No kings. No gods. Just will."
She shook her head slowly, her eyes locked on some far-off memory.
"To a rebellious seventeen-year-old girl with a chip on her shoulder and nothing to lose… that was intoxicating."
I said nothing. I just listened.
"I followed him. Devoted myself to him. I was one of the first. One of the founders. And he… he treated me like I mattered. Like I wasn't just a village girl with calloused hands and a quick temper. I became his second. His right hand."
Her voice softened like she hated the words as they came out.
"For a while, it did feel like freedom."
Then her gaze darkened.
"Until it didn't."
I swallowed hard. "What changed?"
Helga's jaw tightened. "We did."
She turned to face me fully now, eyes heavy with something deeper than guilt—remorse. Pain. A kind of sorrow I didn't think even words could carry.
"We started as a movement. A belief. But once we had power, once we had numbers…" she trailed off, shaking her head. "We didn't build anything. We destroyed."
She took another shaky breath. "Villages. Towns. Cities. Anyone who refused to follow. Anyone who stood in the way. They were burned. Razed. Screaming children, pleading families… none of it mattered."
Her voice caught in her throat, but she forced herself to keep speaking.
"We called it cleansing. Liberation. We told ourselves we were breaking chains. But really, we were putting people in our own."
The tent was silent, but my heart was pounding.
"And you?" I asked softly.
She looked at me, eyes glassy. "I led raids. Executed prisoners. I enforced his word like law." Her hand curled into a fist. "I let it happen, Fin. For years. Two decades of bloodshed. Because I loved him. Because I believed him."
She closed her eyes.
"And it took carrying you inside me to finally see what I'd become."
Her voice broke then, finally, and she turned away from me.
She didn't cry. Not in the way most people would. Helga wasn't built for sobbing and shaking. But her silence—thick and cracking around the edges—told me everything.
I held her hand tighter, and in the dim warmth of the tent, I whispered, "Where did you learn to fight like that?"
Helga blinked slowly like the question had to travel through years before it reached her. She let out a tired breath and ran a hand back through her hair, pushing strands from her face.
"The cult trained all of us, eventually," she said. "But I was trained before then. Before I even met him."
I blinked. "You were?"
She nodded. "Baroque isn't like Amphail. It's big, crowded, and violent. I didn't want to be helpless, so I found people willing to teach me. Brawlers. Mercs. People who didn't ask questions. I learned with a blade. With my fists. With whatever I could use. I got good at it. Fast."
I thought back to that night in the snow—her moving like a blur, tearing through cultists with nothing but muscle and steel. "That wasn't just good," I said. "That was… monstrous."
A dry smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I had to be. You don't last long in Broque's lower circles unless you make yourself dangerous enough that people remember your name."
I hesitated, then leaned in just a little. "The sword. The golden one. Where'd you get that?"
Helga looked down at her lap for a moment, running her fingers along the thick blanket like she was tracing a path back through memory. Then she said:
"It was a gift from him. Your father."
I tensed, sitting up straighter.
She nodded, still not looking at me. "Back then, he wasn't just a leader—he was obsessed with symbolism. The sword represented his favour. He gave it to me when he made me his second. Said it was forged by a mage-smith from Maztica. A weapon that couldn't be broken, meant to 'cleave through fate.'"
"Can it?" I asked, voice quieter.
Helga finally looked at me again, and for the first time in a while, her expression was completely unreadable.
"I don't know," she said. "But it's killed a lot of people who thought they were untouchable."
That didn't answer my question, but I nodded anyway.
We both sat in silence again, the fire's glow outside pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. My mind reeled with what she'd said, but I didn't know what else to ask. Or maybe I did—I just wasn't ready to hear the answer.
So instead, I leaned back, laid down again, and whispered, "Thanks for telling me."
...
So sleeping in a tent sucks! I woke up the next morning in the freezing cold, my back ached, and I felt nauseous as hell.
My breath fogged up instantly as I groaned and rolled onto my side. Every muscle protested, stiff and sore from sleeping on uneven ground. If camping was going to be our new normal, I was going to need something softer than a blanket and the frozen earth beneath me.
Helga was already up, crouched beside the fire, blowing softly on glowing embers to coax them back to life. A gentle puff of smoke rose into the grey sky, mingling with her breath as she worked patiently.
"Morning," I croaked, voice rough with sleep.
She glanced up, a faint, amused smile on her lips. "Sleep well?"
"No," I grumbled, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders. "If my spine wasn't messed up before, it is now."
She chuckled, brushing snow off her knees as she stood. "You'll get used to it."
"I doubt that," I muttered, forcing myself to stand up. My legs immediately cramped, and I stumbled forward awkwardly, barely catching myself before I fell face-first into the snow. Helga laughed, earning herself a glare.
She shook her head fondly, then motioned toward the pot warming by the fire. "There's tea if you want some. Should help with the cold."
I gratefully stumbled over and poured myself a cup, letting the warmth seep through my numb fingers. The bitter taste hit my tongue, but I forced it down anyway, grateful for anything hot.
Helga watched me, shaking her head again. "We'll need to get you warmer clothes soon. Maybe at the next village."
I nodded numbly. "Anything's better than freezing to death every night."
She smirked, turning away to adjust the horse's harness. I glanced around the campsite, noticing for the first time how quiet everything was. A few birds called lazily from the trees, but otherwise, the forest was silent. Almost peaceful.
Almost.
I sipped my tea slowly, watching Helga work. It was hard to reconcile the gentlewoman packing our belongings with the ruthless warrior who'd destroyed a whole squad of cultists with her bare hands. I wondered if that tension would ever feel normal, or if it would always linger awkwardly in the air between us.
She turned, catching me staring. "Something wrong?"
"No," I said quickly, finishing my tea in a single, scorching gulp. "Just thinking."
She raised an eyebrow but didn't push. "We should be moving soon. It's not safe to stay in one place for too long."
I nodded, standing up straighter despite the ache. "I'm ready whenever you are."
As we packed up camp, I glanced down at my wrist. The black bracer glinted faintly in the dull morning light, shifting slightly against my skin. I shook my head slightly, pushing my thoughts aside.
It didn't matter. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, I'd deal with it when the time came.
For now, we just had to keep moving.
The next few weeks felt like one endless blur of dirt roads, forests, and sleeping beneath a scratchy blanket. After pestering Helga nonstop—mostly to entertain myself—she finally caved and told me the plan. We'd be travelling along the Long Road, making our way up north to Yartar. She hoped the bustling city and its endless crowds would hide us from prying eyes.
I'd never travelled much in either of my lives. Even in this second chance, most of my memories were bound to the farm, to Helga, to the tiny town nearby. My whole world had been painfully small. Now, as we travelled, it felt as though the horizon had finally opened up, stretching far beyond what I could see or imagine.
But the endless travel wasn't all excitement. It gave me far too much time to think.
Mostly, my thoughts wandered back to Helga. Over these past weeks on the road, I'd watched her closely. She moved with strength and certainty, yet beneath her confident exterior, I could feel the heaviness she carried. Guilt, shame, fear—emotions she'd buried deep but couldn't fully hide from me, especially now.
I'd been distant in the past, cautious about letting her too close. Maybe it was the orphan in me, the part of me that still struggled to trust or understand what it was like to have parents.
But things were different now.
We'd opened doors neither of us had planned to open, and let secrets spill between us, and somehow that had made us stronger. I found myself less afraid, more willing to admit—even if only to myself—that I genuinely liked being her son. Maybe this second chance wasn't just about my ambitions or my power or even this stupid system that dangled rewards in front of my face.
Maybe it was about learning to trust. To lean on someone else for once.
And, just maybe, it was about becoming someone worth all the hardship she'd been through.
The journey up the Long Road wasn't all doom and gloom. Despite how serious our lives had become, Helga and I still managed to share moments that were so ridiculous, that I half-wondered if fate was deliberately messing with us.
One morning, after a particularly freezing night spent huddled against a dying campfire, Helga decided to show off her legendary hunting skills by catching us breakfast. She claimed she'd tracked down a massive hare.
"A real fat one," she'd bragged, practically drooling at the thought.
When she returned empty-handed an hour later, her expression was so grim I genuinely thought we were about to fight off another cult ambush.
"What happened to your giant rabbit?" I asked, barely holding back laughter at her stormy expression.
She fixed me with an icy glare. "It wasn't a rabbit."
"What was it, then?"
She clenched her jaw. "A skunk."
I burst out laughing, holding my stomach. Helga scowled fiercely, but after a moment, even she couldn't keep the smile from breaking through.
"Don't laugh too hard," she said, flicking me on the forehead. "You're the one sleeping next to me tonight."
I froze instantly. "Wait—you got sprayed?"
She didn't answer. She just stood up, turning away sharply. "We don't talk about this again."
Of course, we did. Constantly.
Another day, further down the road, we came across a group of travelling performers putting on some half-assed roadside show. Helga insisted we stop, claiming she wanted to "observe our surroundings for safety."
Sure.
She watched the show with suspicious intensity, especially when a shirtless, muscle-bound juggler started flexing dramatically and tossing flaming knives into the air.
When she finally noticed me watching her instead of the show, she blushed so fiercely I thought steam would start coming out of her ears.
"What?" she hissed, folding her arms defensively.
"Nothing," I said innocently. "Just making sure those dangerous circus men aren't secretly cultists. Good thing you're here to protect me."
She tried glaring at me again, but the blush just grew deeper. "Shut up," she muttered, turning pointedly away—but not before sneaking another glance at the juggler. I pretended not to notice.
Barely.
But nothing topped the night we spent at the "luxurious roadside inn" just outside of a village called Hawksrest. It was just a shabby old shack with straw beds that probably hadn't been changed since before I was reborn, and the stew tasted suspiciously like a goat—but after weeks of tents, it felt like paradise.
That was until we realized we had company.
Halfway through the night, I woke to the sound of rustling beneath the bed. My Haki prickled, sharp with unease, and I sat bolt upright. The rustling grew louder, and then suddenly—something cold and furry scurried across my foot.
I yelled—okay, screamed—and bolted upright, tripping over the bedroll and crashing into Helga, who had already leapt up, sword drawn, eyes blazing with intensity. She swung her sword, cleanly slicing through the bed, splitting it neatly in half.
I stood frozen in shock, staring at the now-destroyed bed.
Helga glanced back at me sheepishly. "Oops."
A tiny mouse scurried from beneath the shredded straw, looking equally traumatized, squeaking loudly as it vanished into a hole in the wall.
We both stared after it.
"Well," Helga said dryly, lowering her sword, "I think we won."
After several moments of stunned silence, we both dissolved into laughter. Helga fell back against the broken bed frame, laughing until tears streamed down her cheeks. And honestly, I couldn't help joining her.
Maybe our lives weren't exactly normal, but somehow these ridiculous moments were what kept us sane.
And I wouldn't trade them for anything.
End of Chapter.
I hope you all are having a great time.
Quick question though, what is everyone's thoughts on Helga, are you particularly attached to her or not care for her at all?
Cya Later!