Four Gryphons Circling

Blaedy has reduced the remaining wait to five weeks out of eight, which is how sieges begin: a person counts aloud until everyone else develops a twitch.

Arrowyy decided my habit of writing down disasters makes me bard-adjacent. I explained that bards scrub the mud off a story, whereas I preserve the mud and, where relevant, the reason he went over a ledge. He then requested a countdown carol for the coming opening day, with an alchemical-powder refrain that would interest a magistrate. I declined the powder and gave him gryphons, murlocs, candle-hoarding kobolds, and one exhausted peon. He objected to the caution, naturally, then demanded the song anyway.

It is encouraging to know my literary reputation rests on refusing to rhyme intoxicants with holidays.