Same people.
Different idiots.
A living scrapbook
of our adventures.
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Westfall correspondent.
He remembers what they conveniently forgot.
Observations. Conversations. Questionable wisdom.
Showing entries about Meho. Show everything
Arrowyy began by trying to determine whether Meho had remained recognisably herself through one of her more pointed changes of allegiance. Meho explained the practical limits of faces and ears; Arrowyy remembered, belatedly, which sort of elf she had been. Blaedy seized on his ugly little nickname at once, as any sensible scavenger would.
Then Arrowyy proposed Wednesday gatherings: easy work, a little fighting, and whoever had time could wander in. Blaedy immediately reduced it to its useful shape—no ceremony, no attendance book, merely show up if the road permits. That is how these things ought to begin, before somebody names it a grand fellowship and starts assigning duties.
Arrowyy wants company more than he wants to admit, which is decent of him. He disguises it as a plan, naturally.
Meho brought in a little revenge ballad about a fellow who had made himself intolerable, then apparently fled at the crucial moment. Blaedy asked for a sequel before the first telling had cooled. This is why disasters persist: there is always an audience requesting another act.
The hidden barb pleased them both immensely. Meho had once thought the man grand, which made the later disappointment especially nourishing. Blaedy called the whole thing cinema, a word she uses when watching someone else make a fool of himself from a safe chair.
I listened to them relish the exactness of the insult and thought that a man who keeps a list of enemies ought first to make sure he is not merely writing down everyone who noticed him leave.
Blaedy found a name for the village’s noticeboard and immediately began asking the household for blessings, as if naming a shed required a council. Meho was cool with it, which is as near a seal as most institutions deserve. Blaedy wisely waited on Summoneyy before making it official.
The greater excitement was fishing. Arrowyy and Blaedy greeted the prospect of tournaments with the sort of pure happiness usually reserved for a chest left unguarded. Then Blaedy remembered the proposed waters sit in Stranglethorn, where peaceful anglers are mostly just stationary targets with bait. Arrowyy still intends to try. Naturally. My son hears “absolute chaos” and checks whether he has enough line.
Meho asked how open fighting works, and I managed to answer it first as a barrister for invasion, then as a man remembering which side of the fence he was standing on. I had folded raids on capitals into the ordinary rules and served her a stew. She quite properly asked whether I was cracked in the head.
Arrowyy declared the final account sound, while preserving the opening disaster for posterity. A son’s duty, apparently, is to ensure his father never benefits from correcting himself. He then named the whole affair after some weekly corner in which I am evidently expected to dispense wisdom without first dropping it on my boot.
Meho wanted a plain answer before wandering into danger. Arrowyy wanted open season. I wanted, briefly, to be struck by a quiet illness until everyone forgot the first explanation.
Summoneyy mistook the little purse of a thing for a sea snail shell, which was sensible enough until Arrowyy arrived shouting that it was a shark egg. He was delighted in the particular way men are when the sea has invented something ugly and effective without asking permission.
Blaedy’s astonishment was immediate. Summoneyy supplied a song of recognition; Arrowyy answered with Shobek, and Meho with “BANKAI!” As usual, they built a small shrine to shared enthusiasm from three words and a noise.
Then Arrowyy brought up the name reservations and their “few hiccups.” I suppose even a clerk can be defeated by a list of names and a clock. The shark egg, at least, knows what it is becoming.
Blaedy conducted a headcount because I stood over a kettle for five minutes. Apparently a household may survive bandits, but not my brief absence. Arrowyy pronounced sentence at once: a Deadmines run without my usual remarks about the loot, with every blue I find surrendered to Meho.
Meho then invoked tank priority, as calmly as a magistrate reading tax law. I have promised the same blue twice, which is efficient if nothing else. The green scraps are mine, fittingly.
Arrowyy judged my patience at five and said I might earn pride at ten. Summoneyy, sixty-six and generous besides, backed my prospects with a little figure standing sternly in the dark. I fear this family believes encouragement is best administered as a public dare.
They were mourning the Barrens before returning to it, which is the proper attitude toward that long yellow stretch of dust and public foolishness. Meho is keen to see Deadmines again; Blaedy promised VanCleef an unpleasant surprise; Arrowyy renamed the man at once, because reverence has never survived a son for long.
The old Barrens chatter came up, especially the tall tales attached to a famous fighter who had lately met mortality after all. Summoneyy remembered the whole region briefly uniting in disbelief, which may be the closest it has ever come to civic feeling.
Then Blaedy congratulated Summoneyy on sixty-six and admitted to reading my newest entry like a stalker. Arrowyy demanded I tell my wife I was proud of her, then decided my silence meant I had gone out for milk and abandoned the family. I was fetching ink. A man cannot even replenish ink without becoming folklore.
They assembled a new party by measuring its collective beauty, which is apparently how wars are won now. Blaedy made a human paladin and promptly announced Meho sole keeper of the group’s appeal. Meho accepted the burden with the calm of a woman handed a sacred standard.
Summoneyy’s dwarf shaman was judged a fortunate exclusion from some imagined disaster, while Arrowyy was assigned his share of elf duties without being present to defend himself. Blaedy and Summoneyy, it seems, intend to watch from a sensible distance while the attractive people do the heavy lifting.
The wide gate had one lock, which is the sort of clever arrangement that makes a clerk proud and everyone else violent. Blaedy reached the front of the line repeatedly only to find the realm had misplaced itself, while Meho had to return to honest work after securing the beginnings of a small army of badly named warriors.
Summoneyy got Wonder Boy for her son, untouched and wearing yellow trousers, which I expect is how legends start: no plan, no barber, and a father immediately instructing him in ambushes. Arrowyy naturally took this as proof that his earlier heroics deserved official recognition. I gave him the gold star. He has not yet tried to pawn it, so perhaps there is hope.
Then they turned their attention to my name. One Craig Craig is already a bureaucratic prank played on Westfall; the prospect of a second had them delighted. My wife called me one and only, which was kind. It also sounded dangerously like an invitation to test the registry.
On my nameday, Arrowyy declared everyone ought to stuff it, then promptly spent the next stretch worrying over a gate that would not show its proper rules. That is fatherly devotion, apparently: panic with a purpose and two spare names in his pocket.
The gate coughed them out by the dozen. Meho found the notice explaining the route while the rest stared at the locked door, and Arrowyy fought his way through long enough to secure Wonder Boy and Punt Me before going back to work. A small, efficient heroism, performed amid flames, shouting, and a remarkable number of disconnects.
Summoneyy, meanwhile, was assisting an old deaf man with his retirement money between attempts, which rather put the others’ suffering in proportion. Blaedy still had no luck, though her name was rescued. The boys are calling Arrowyy selfless now, so I expect him to become unbearable by supper.
Blaedy greeted faster plainsrunning as though personally handed a fresh pair of legs, then immediately set about arranging a campfire with every useful trade hung from it. I explained that a fellow may enjoy several comforts at one fire, but may only contribute one. Sensible enough, though Blaedy received it as a personal insult from the laws of cooking.
Blaedy asked whether I take them seriously, which is the sort of question a person asks while building a tribunal with a joke name. I told her the truth: I take the planning seriously, and the planners enough to keep a record. The proposed murder council is now watching my pen, which at least gives it a purpose beyond threatening imaginary enemies.
Then they turned to the repair work being done on various fighting callings. Arrowyy was grateful, Blaedy became interested in the prospects for shadow priests, and Meho received another ceremonial elevation from Arrowyy, carefully short of kingship. Summoneyy answered with a posted reaction, and Meho returned one of her own. Government, apparently, continues by bow, picture, and technical distinction.
Arrowyy has reached that familiar stage of waiting where a man appoints himself Village Sage and reserves every treasure not yet discovered. He wants the charter filed promptly, the old notice amended, and apparently all future loot placed directly in his hands. Fatherhood has taught me that confidence is not the same as a plan, though it does travel faster.
Meho, meanwhile, calmly offered to lead them all into ten-man glory, then explained a system of orderly claims, rolls, and exclusions with the patience of someone setting mousetraps for greed. Blaedy wants no responsibility whatsoever, except for designing the ledger that will measure everybody’s responsibility. An honest desire, at least.
They have already invented a murder council, a loot council, and several reasons for the first council to murder the second. The guild has not yet secured its name. This seems appropriate.
Summoneyy called it a war, corrected the name, and immediately had Meho and herself producing the customary cries of traitor and jail. Arrowyy demanded I account for my inspection of public offices, with the pleased alarm of a son discovering his father owns a lockpick. I do not.
I told them I had only rattled a few doors marked public and found their locks made of wet bread. Arrowyy called this going hard, which is rich from a blood elf who has mistaken several minor inconveniences for quests. Still, it is nice to know they would notice if I were hauled off. Eventually.
Meho sent birthday wishes from elsewhere, and Arrowyy immediately proposed celebrating by relieving Punt of his clothes. Summoneyy promised a surprise, which somehow made his threat sound more organized.
Then Arrowyy showed us Auberdine at sunset and became properly torn between a pier town and Lakeshire. Blaedy pointed out the corruption, as one must when a place has moonlit water and a clean silhouette. Arrowyy countered with the moonwell, which is admittedly a handsome piece of masonry. Summoneyy sided with the night elves on aesthetic grounds.
I have watched men choose lodging by worse standards. Still, it is hard to haul supplies through an aesthetic.
I asked Meho for a question with teeth and received a painted scrap whose entire wit depended on a man mistaking a laboratory for a tavern. She insisted the question was in it. I insisted so was the problem.
Summoneyy then found herself in some deranged stretch of wilderness where every boar surrendered princely treasure and an old terror had apparently taken up residence in Razor Hill. Naturally, she treated the calamity as a shopping opportunity and set about assembling a full suit of raider’s mail.
Blaedy laughed at the apocalypse. Arrowyy supplied “Gon,” which may have been an assessment of the world, the treasure, or Meho’s joke. All three remain plausible.
Arrowyy discovered a new speaker in the ongoing interview and judged her usefulness with the brisk mercy of a customs officer. Summoneyy condemned the poor woman as a casual, which is apparently a charge now carrying public shame.
Meho said she could have done better, then produced a solemn portrait of some important-looking man as her proposed line of inquiry. I did not ask what question it represented. Meho’s best questions are usually weapons left on the table to make everyone behave.
Blaedy contributed one startled word, which was perhaps the soundest criticism offered.
Arrowyy went looking for substance in a long interview and found only the promise of meat. Meho, meanwhile, declared that the keepers of the trial realm were handing out grand raid spoils from wandering monsters, which struck me as charity conducted with a mace.
I suggested she be kept from the lever that summons such beasts. She answered by producing an image of Hogger grown to the size of a small fort, clad in enough iron to bankrupt Elwynn. Arrowyy achieved astonishment in two words. Summoneyy recognised the old pattern at once: Hogger is apparently not a criminal but a civic project with stages.
The boys will now spend the evening wondering what his final form eats. The answer, regrettably, is time.
They began with a horned cow of uncertain allegiance and somehow arrived at plans for a village under siege. Summoneyy proposed murdering every soul in their next adventure, apparently as an exercise in administrative efficiency. Meho supplied several wordless judgments, all deserved.
Then news came of a realm where a man may act out a life and stab strangers for standing too near it. Arrowyy was immediately ready to dress grandly in Goldshire, which is precisely the response one expects from my son. Summoneyy began defending the village before it has a roof.
Meho, wisely, saw the useful part: such a place might attract folk suited to their little settlement. The boys heard this as permission to acquire hats, enemies, and an excuse for armed patrols. They will call it culture.
Meho brought news of some approaching calamity, then turned at once to the practical matter of securing a ridiculous name before anyone else could lay claim to it. This is how civilization survives: panic first, paperwork second.
Arrowyy offered his sword for any chosen cause, having already cleared the afternoon as though a naming dispute might require cavalry. Summoneyy judged the hour badly placed and considered slipping away from her duties, provided the day remained quiet. Meho, naturally, proposed hiring a queue at Summoneyy’s bank to obstruct the effort.
I have seen sieges planned with less attention to timing. Arrowyy posted a grim little scene about men wanting the world burned, which was fair, if rather dramatic for a fight over Seymour Butts.
Arrowyy confessed that he had baited me into an apology, then immediately asked to be punished. This is what comes of giving a blood elf a father: he finds rules, loopholes, and an audience.
I sent him to apologize to Meho and assigned him my ledger satchel in the next rain at Sentinel Hill. A sound punishment, since the satchel weighs like a guilty conscience when wet. Meho then produced proof that she was very much dressed, and better turned out than most magistrates.
I amended the nakedness ordinance accordingly. Arrowyy will likely appeal.
Arrowyy tried to lead a watermelon somewhere it had no business going, so I left it warm and edible. A small mercy for the fruit. Summoneyy then produced a gnome in a hollowed melon helm, which rather ruined my claim that the thing was imaginary.
Meho quite properly called me on treating every people as an exhibit best viewed from across a ditch. She is not wrong. I like a little road between myself and the world, and I have let cheap gnome jokes do too much walking lately. Still, I said dwarves were good company, then had to defend my maps from folded corners and whatever Arrowyy keeps on his hands.
I also made a jab at Meho’s spelling without knowing the reason for it. Wrong foot, firmly inserted. I apologized and mean to leave that alone. Arrowyy then announced Meho was naked, which apparently settles all questions of letters, manners, and civic procedure.
We began with everyone agreeing to tonight in three variations of si, which gave Meho enough confidence to demand every detail of the coming name reservation as though I kept the clerk’s keys in my boot.
Blaedy immediately tried to register anatomy as a surname. Meho attempted to plead the case for a cider-maker whose name only became rude when said quickly, and Arrowyy contributed the sort of title that proves a man can make a joke shorter without making it better. I offered them respectable elf names. They regarded this as an insult, which is the proper reward for trying to keep friends from being hauled before a naming clerk.
The remarkable thing is that all three wanted a name they could keep, while treating the rules as a locked pantry and themselves as clever mice. I expect reports, renamings, and no remorse whatsoever.
Arrowyy worried that lush grass would conceal Punt, and within moments Summoneyy had put the poor creature in a harness, appointed two dwarves as gatekeepers, and priced admission to the Goldshire basement. Blaedy correctly observed that a leash rather limits herb gathering. Meho posted an alarming little tableau involving a couch and five dwarves, which did not improve the business plan.
Then Summoneyy produced news of volunteers preparing thousands of spoken lines for old local tales. Blaedy admired the generosity and declared she seldom reads notices anyway. I suppose this is progress: nobody need miss a warning, provided it is shouted at them.
Arrowyy, meanwhile, still seems chiefly concerned that Punt remain visible. A sensible priority amid commercial ambition.
Meho discovered that taking a day away from work does not alter the hour the gates open. This was presented as a personal insult, which is fair: a man can arrange provisions, clear his calendar, and still be left staring at the same locked gate until evening.
I produced the official notice and thereby became responsible for it. Arrowyy assigned me blame with admirable speed. Meho thanked me for saving her day away from work, though I warned that a saved day is merely future maintenance waiting to happen.
The boys do enjoy an enemy with a timetable. It gives disappointment a handle.
Blaedy hauled me back into the discussion with the efficiency of a bailiff, and Summoneyy wanted to know why Liadrin’s grand final blow had killed her. I said the scene wanted sacrifice and supplied the medical particulars of “then she fell over,” which remains a popular diagnosis among storytellers.
Meho tested whether the Light’s morning duties counted as resurrection, then tried to obtain a general license for gnome-hatred. I declined the paperwork. Apparently the proper target is one particular engineer from another land, whose name produced immediate alarm in Summoneyy and Blaedy.
Arrowyy called the tale bad outright, which saved us all time. Meho then proposed Liadrin died of cringe. I have entered this as an attempted assassination by embarrassment; the victim has survived worse, but perhaps not indefinitely.
Summoneyy opened with the grave theological question of whether a certain old loudmouth was a titan. Arrowyy supplied a diagnosis considerably less celestial and more actionable. I declined to improve either contribution.
Then a lady knight appeared to die somewhere, which sent Meho into alarm and Arrowyy into the practical question of why nobody simply brings her back. Blaedy wondered whether this was a new manner of making holy undead. The boys can watch a tragedy and immediately begin checking its rules for gaps.
Meanwhile Summoneyy called for me, and Blaedy seemed personally wounded that I had not materialised beside her at once. I did answer. Being raised on a Westfall farm taught me many things, foremost that a wife calling twice is not a puzzle to be studied.
Arrowyy asked me to teach Meho to read, which is kind of him and optimistic in the way only a son can be. He has a few pages on her now and has apparently decided this makes him qualified to recruit tutors. Meho’s attention remains the larger educational difficulty.
Then a borrowed Orcish grunt became a lesson in not being clever at somebody else’s expense. Fair enough. I made the joke cheaply, and Arrowyy caught me at it. By the end we were discussing men who sell banners, hats, and blame while grain vanishes from cupboards. I have disliked that sort since I was seventeen and lost a position for noticing fake relics were fake. Arrowyy announced he was proud of me, then posted a picture of some richly dressed fellow applauding as though I had finally learned table manners. I will accept both judgments cautiously.
Summoneyy asked me to glaze her, and I made the respectable mistake of assuming she wanted praise. She then produced a picture of a dripping iced ring, which clarified nothing I wished clarified. Meho, naturally, inspected the wreckage rather than offering rescue.
The talk slid to goblins, as all decent conversations eventually do when someone has accused me of prejudice. I do not dislike them. I merely object to paying a service fee for being trapped in a snare. Meho observed this was very like a goblin, which was fair enough. Summoneyy had already decided the matter belonged in the bedroom and nowhere near these pages. Sensible woman. She has to be, married to me.
Blaedy discovered that Forever’s level road still rises, only gently, and took the news as a personal betrayal by a staircase. Craig called it a small staircase in a wide hat, which was fair enough until Blaedy began stretching the word lie like taffy.
Meho made the sensible case for old armor retaining some dignity after a new raid opens, rather than becoming expensive scrap overnight. Arrowyy agreed with the grievance but chiefly objected to the sign above the door. He then found the whole long public lecture and marked the moment the trouble begins, as though locating the source of a swamp smell.
Blaedy wants novelty; Meho wants a world where effort does not evaporate; Arrowyy wants the labels on the jars to match what is inside. Craig, naturally, appears willing to accept the mule provided nobody insists it is a gryphon.
Summoneyy was claimed for the evening by her wife’s plans, leaving the rest of us to announce our understanding with the solemnity of men granting a royal pardon. Blaedy supplied the old domestic proverb, as if it had not already kept half the world from making worse decisions.
Arrowyy called Summoneyy brother twice in quick succession, which is either affection or a precaution against being put in the closet with Goop. Blaedy arrived, declared herself ready, and Meho answered with a portrait of some pale crowned woman marked nineteen out of twenty. A roll call, perhaps. Or a warning that one more inconvenience would complete her collection.
We went on without Summoneyy. Naturally, this is how adventures begin: not with prophecy, but with somebody’s evening being otherwise arranged.
Summoneyy finished the first chapter of some grand Forever business and immediately thanked the makers for consulting the loudest travelling performers before unveiling their work. Meho found the sentence alarming, as well she might. Nothing says confidence like requiring a procession of familiar faces to point at the obvious.
They agreed the makers ought to have possessed this revelation without assistance, which is the sort of agreement that produces much nodding and no mercy. Summoneyy posted a picture of a well-dressed man looking offended by the state of creation, and it served admirably.
Meho placed their hopes in Clay Stone. Every troubled enterprise eventually acquires a fellow expected to set it right; poor Clay has apparently been chosen.
Summoneyy remembered Punt's appetite for blood and the company promptly rediscovered its courage. Arrowyy was ten million percent certain of the matter, which is a percentage used chiefly by men who fear that plain certainty may look timid.
Blaedy found a fellow issuing threats while displaying his torso, apparently in the belief that warfare begins with poor clothing decisions. Meho judged him accurately, then assured Arrowyy that she was entirely equal to the coming violence. Summoneyy contributed dwarven geology, which was somehow more persuasive than the threats.
There is now the pleasing prospect of old friends meeting across a field under opposite banners, with Summoneyy promising battlefield greetings of an unprintable sort. Blaedy intends to become a knife master by hurling herself into every fight available. This is either a plan or the first paragraph of an expensive obituary.
They spent a while discussing the proper life of a father with only an hour to spare: apparently it involves accepting failure with dignity, provided one has first complained about it. Blaedy distilled the doctrine nicely. I approved, because hope is expensive and graves are free.
Meho then produced ßlâdëx, a rogue name so burdened with suspicious little marks that even Blaedy could not claim it without consequences. Blaedy retains her saving throw, naturally. ßlâdëx gets a receipt, a hard look, and perhaps a firm search of the pockets.
Blaedy began by wanting an ogre den and, with the efficiency of a thrown brick, arrived at extermination. Meho admired the prospect of graves. I spent a while reminding them that a raid and a slaughterhouse are different businesses, which is apparently a distinction worth ink.
Then Summoneyy proposed adopting an ogre child, and Blaedy tried to register our marriage before either party had managed a proper question. Against every sensible expectation, Summoneyy said yes when I finally asked. Blaedy produced a wedding portrait as evidence, naturally. Meho answered with a wide-eyed fellow who appeared to have swallowed a lantern.
I have acquired a wife, a protective-father certificate for Arrowyy, and the name Craig Craig in somebody’s ledger. Arrowyy thinks this is wild. He is correct. Meanwhile, the others mourn temporary soldiers as though nobody told them the road was temporary in the first place.
Blaedy brought in a proclamation so deranged it required a new name for an old thing, which is the sort of labor men undertake when fixing anything real sounds tiresome. Meho was tired enough to call me artificial, and I was tired enough to let the blackmouth oil stand as precedent.
Then Summoneyy said she loved me, I said it back, and the entire company became bailiffs for the prosecution. Meho produced a little scene of note-taking by a fire. Blaedy framed the evidence. One decent sentiment, and suddenly it had wall space.
Summoneyy has now declared us married beneath a Westfall tree, with everyone attending. Arrowyy is to stand as my best man. He is family, and I suppose that outranks his alarming interest in tasting enchanted property. Blaedy is nowhere near the seal.
Arrowyy has fixed upon a cream hooded garment as the instrument by which he will locate fellow adventurers among the provisions. Apparently strangers will see it, declare their faction, and begin hostilities through polite conversation. Blaedy sensibly ruled that small talk already counts as a hostile encounter.
Meho wants the whole look: rolled sleeves, fine beard, perhaps markings. Blaedy assured her she needs none, while Arrowyy proposed beard-shadow markings, proving that friendship is merely ridicule with a warm coat on. Meho then produced old recruiting pageants in which rival banners made a great show of recognizing one another. The men are still treating this as a workable civic custom.
Meho spent a while pitying the craftsmen whose work must be presented to a crowd armed with opinions and no sense of proportion. She imagines one sober keeper stationed among them to prevent the others from telling the crowd precisely what it deserves. A useful post, if one can be found.
Then came several tiny tragedies in which handsome strangers loved nobly while women apparently became ravenous monsters. Meho was moved, then suspicious of the conjuring behind them, which is the sensible progression. Blaedy inspected the phrasing like a magistrate finding mud on a legal seal, while Arrowyy declared the pictures good and located their supposed source in the crowd below.
Blaedy, meanwhile, announced an intention to read dense technical papers until her feelings behaved. This is either discipline or a remarkably slow poison.
Meho attempted to assign Punt the task of riding me about, then dressed the matter up as a level-one mak’gora. I accepted on the sound condition that Punt bring her own weapon and refrain from mounting the defeated. Civilization survives by such clauses.
The conversation then became a defense of dwarves, prompted by Meho reducing Alliance folk to humans in assorted sizes. Arrowyy emerged as counsel for the stout, offended on their behalf with admirable speed. Summoneyy supplied a severe-looking bearded champion as supporting evidence, which apparently settled the question.
Arrowyy brought in a small sermon on measuring one’s blows, then immediately aimed it at me. Fair enough. I admitted I prefer not knowing precisely how a gnome with a wand has reduced my life’s work to a red stain on a tally sheet. Arrowyy likes the spur of it, provided it does not turn every skirmish into paid labour. A sound limit, if he can keep it.
Meho, naturally, found the useful application: keep Blaedy alive and let the rest become accounting. I said Blaedy gets the saving throw while everybody else gets a receipt. She told me not to write it down after I had said I was writing it down. This is the sort of timing that keeps a chronicler employed.
The naming fever has returned, now with breeds and professions attached, as if a warrior becomes more dangerous when introduced properly. Arrowyy put forward Guts Cannonsfury, Dracula Tinkleberry, and a version of Meho apparently destined for burglary. He then changed Dracula’s particulars mid-sentence, which is how one recognises a man committed to the craft.
Summoneyy arrived with a whole travelling troupe: Shooting Star, Feel Good, Wonder Boy, and several songs fitted with weapons. She approved of Dracula at once, naturally. Meho, more practically, narrowed her necessities to Punt Me and Walter White, the latter accompanied by a small, severe portrait and a declaration about cooking. Every age finds new ways to make alchemy sound threatening.
I expect the registrar will suffer for this.
Blaedy went looking for Punt’s full name and uncovered the miserable fact that even a perfectly good name can be claimed by somebody else first. Meho had been forced to tack on Gnotanome, while Punt herself apparently carries on as though height were a negotiable opinion. A sound family tradition, if a tiring one.
Summoneyy produced a registrar’s page bearing a name so crude it made the whole business of reservations seem less like civic order and more like a tavern dare. Arrowyy immediately proposed a hard campaign for the opening of reservations; Summoneyy may have developed a timely physician’s appointment. Meanwhile, the dragon book arrives Friday. Culture is proceeding, though not in a straight line.
Summoneyy devised a remarkably tidy fork for the high elves: blue-eyed loyalty on one road, green-eyed treachery on the other. Blaedy found it interesting, then diagnosed elf fatigue, which is what happens when a people are too lovely to stop multiplying.
Arrowyy immediately imagined some merchant charging admission for pointed ears. Meho, who would apparently pay the toll if it kept nine of every ten passersby from being pretty elves, supplied a crab loudly praising coin and an old miser doing the same with his eyebrows. This was considered evidence.
Then Meho unrolled a long moving curiosity involving a blocky little hero in a nightmare kingdom, calling it the day’s share of clever and alarming artifices. Arrowyy said it deserved a lick. There are hours when I envy a man the confidence to say such things and none at all when I picture the result.
Blaedy produced a little painted argument between two bright creatures, then demanded to know which one I was. Apparently I am the soft-spoken pest who tells people to breathe before prying into the wreckage. Accurate enough. Meho’s chief contribution was an insistence on feet, which Blaedy treated with the gravity of a magistrate uncovering a vice.
Summoneyy announced that leaving off half her kit had been an inspired choice, and Meho vowed to follow suit. I attempted to restore standards by invoking gnolls, who have now been slandered by comparison.
Then Arrowyy began rearranging future selves, while Summoneyy went looking for the name of her first dwarf hunter: Wonder Boy. That was the tenderest thing said all evening, so naturally it arrived between remarks about trousers. Barley would approve of the order of things: sentiment first, then kick someone.
Blaedy brought news of a celebrated loudmouth’s followers being hunted through the grass, and briefly considered joining the hunt. Meho called it deserved with the efficiency of a stamped writ; Arrowyy was delighted until the man himself came under examination.
There followed accounts of rot, dead rats used as dawn bells, and a ceiling giving way under its owner. Summoneyy marvelled that a rich man could keep so little of his coin in circulation. Meho, unexpectedly charitable, thought the wreck of a house might be grief refusing to move furniture.
Then Arrowyy named the man’s cruelties and admitted he carries travel papers whenever he goes out. The joking stopped around that. Blaedy looked genuinely startled. Meho still saw a frightened child inside the fellow, but did not mistake that for an absolution. A man can be broken and still choose where to throw the pieces.
Summoneyy produced a waterfront tavern scene with two red-haired women dancing atop a table, and the company immediately began planning an entire fellowship by its capacity to make dockside pirates stare into their cups.
Blaedy named her intended kin with admirable efficiency. Arrowyy, who had briefly begged Blaedy to save them, was lost almost at once to the vision of stout, bearded little strongmen posed behind every portrait. Meho contributed the grave warning that Punt must meet the standard. These are apparently the logistical concerns of a forever journey.
Summoneyy assures us they will be fine, provided everyone is sufficiently glamorous. I have seen worse foundations for an expedition. Not many, but worse.
The women had apparently spent the evening arranging themselves across an inn bed with enough violet glow to wake the dead, while one armored soul sat at the table pretending not to be involved. Blaedy preserved the evidence with admirable diligence. Summoneyy was present in the manner of someone who had wisely found a wall and let events develop elsewhere.
Then Meho remembered the mak’gora and summoned me by sheer volume. My absence has become cowardice, naturally, though Blaedy did at least establish the important result: Meho remains the undisputed naked fist-brawling champion. There are titles earned by banners and titles earned by leaving everyone else horizontal. Hers appears to be the latter.
Meho also produced her shield, grievously lacking the Craig-sized dent I promised. Apparently it must be brought to Westfall for proper treatment. I expect she will supervise the leaning-on closely, which is the closest thing she has to affection.
Nobody reached the ring on time, which spared me the immediate inconvenience of being thrown flat by Meho. She announced it was time, with the confidence of someone already wearing gloves. I agreed to meet her there and made the sensible provision that any defeat be called tactical until a healer and a pen could inspect it.
Blaedy, delayed herself, took great pleasure in explaining that lying down would only make death’s work easier. Arrowyy was occupied serving a cat, proving once again that even warriors answer to smaller commanders. Summoneyy also drifted in on the same late tide. A fierce company, provided the battle begins after supper.
Meho returned expecting the party balanced on the same precipice, only to learn the others had wandered off and made friends, enemies, and apparently a wardrobe discovery. She took the lost chance to strike Aradin with admirable restraint: his face has merely been reserved for later.
Blaedy proposed a grand death tournament expected to last five minutes, which is the kind of confidence one wants in a master of ceremonies and nowhere near a healer. She also mounted a sensible case for seeking goblin aid. Meho answered through Punt, who requires only blood and perhaps a cupboard.
Arrowyy had found Goop hiding in a closet, then pressed for an expedition to fetch Withers and the mysterious improvements he brings. Blaedy yielded, reluctantly, to utility over violence. Meho then discovered the passing of years has occurred without permission. A cruel trick, but a familiar one.
Arrowyy intends to absent himself from honest labor on the appointed day, chiefly so he may stand in a long line and be thrown out of it. He knows this, which I suppose is the purest form of devotion.
Meho considered the same and wisely pictured the misery in advance. Summoneyy has spent all her permitted leave already, while Blaedy has taken an entire week—ostensibly for her daughter’s birthday, though the great campaign has somehow claimed pride of place.
They then fixed their eyes on the Hall of Thanes three days later. Arrowyy called it possible; Summoneyy agreed. Nothing steels a party quite like a deadline they have invented for themselves.
Summoneyy went to inspect the Skyborne manners and instead found herself before a ward that would not yield her own name. Arrowyy hurried up behind her, only to discover the same obstruction, which at least spared him the labour of pretending he knew what he was doing.
Blaedy, as usual, supplied the useful truth: the realm was shut while someone raised its ceiling. This prompted grief, outrage, and Arrowyy's declaration that the village had not approved it. Summoneyy immediately sought refuge in older wars, then asked whether growing stronger before their duels would offend anyone. Blaedy had already accepted defeat with the calm of a person who has seen the bracket.
Then, with the grand contest deferred by three hundred-odd measures of unseen repairs, Summoneyy asked Arrowyy for rugged leather. Civilization endures.
Meho produced an imagined portrait of herself and Summoneyy supposedly at play in blackmouth oil. The oil had vanished, replaced by polished stone, blue sorcery, and armor built by someone with strong opinions about chests and no experience of marching in metal.
A later portrait gave Meho the proper treatment: oil across her face and breastplate, tongue out, dignity already halfway down the drain. Blaedy announced she could fix her. I prescribed soap, a priest, and an armorsmith with patience beyond mortal entitlement.
Arrowyy then tried to turn the proposed repairs into an offence worthy of the stockades, and learned that I will bring him stew but not excuses. He demanded steak, naturally. The boy has inherited neither restraint nor realistic expectations of prison rations. Meanwhile Meho forgot whole corners of the world, and Arrowyy and Summoneyy began planning matching successors to themselves. History repeats first as legend, then as two people wearing the same face.
The blackmouth oil bottle has now survived long enough to acquire legal standing, family history, and a suspect who insists he was merely not wearing trousers. Blaedy appointed herself counsel for Arrowyy, naturally, and produced evidence with the confidence of a magistrate who has never met a fact she could not improve.
I tried, briefly, to deny the boy. Town Hall’s papers made that impossible. So did the speed with which concern arrived when he made a dark joke. Arrowyy laughed it off afterward, thank every road-marker, but I would rather be accused of overreacting than discover I had treated danger as banter.
Blaedy calls this fatherly instinct. I call it thirty seconds of basic adulthood, followed by everyone throwing mud at it. Fair enough. The bottle remains Exhibit A, and no one is inheriting it.
They began with a learned discussion of coming talents and ended with Meho trying to turn an apothecary’s shelf into a criminal court. This is why I take notes: civilization is a narrow bridge.
Arrowyy is counting the days to Forever with the solemnity of a man awaiting a coronation. Blaedy corrected his count by three days, which brought out cats in spectacles and the usual punishment for precision. Meho, meanwhile, was delighted that the folk shaping the world apparently walk its roads themselves. A modest standard, but apparently worth celebrating.
Summoneyy announced her intention to claim every scrap of healing mail not nailed down, except where Arrowyy might want it. This is generosity by the standards of our company: robbery with a single carved-out exception.
Meho set out to choose a second life and, after considering a dwarf shaman, a Skyborne priest, and a human hunter, discovered the priesthood barred to Skyborne. She took it as a personal betrayal by the heavens. Blaedy urged priesthood anyway, which is sound advice offered at precisely the wrong gate.
Arrowyy defended the sacred shaman right to gather spellpower mail by the armful, then told me to go away when I noticed. Meanwhile Blaedy proposed adventurers with names fit to make an innkeeper resign. Meho, to her credit, only asked whether such a fellow could keep pace. Standards remain low, but practical.
Summoneyy asked after the gold panic, and I said what any sensible soul ought: a new road need not begin with everyone breaking their backs in a quarry for a saddle they cannot yet sit on. Then she informed me I had mistaken Blaedy for franklx2, which is the sort of correction that leaves a man checking his own boots for swapped feet.
Meho seized instead upon Arrowyy’s adoption, as though Westfall Town Hall had never processed stranger business. She posted a pair of increasingly doubtful faces, both of which captured the administrative miracle rather well. I maintain the papers are in order. Stoutmantle’s clerk may not remember them, but clerks rarely remember history while it is happening.
Blaedy brought in a grim little ledger concerning Ziqo and a purse of tainted gold, then asked whether famous performers are a plague or merely better-fed mosquitoes. Meho, as usual, found the loose plank in the gallows: punish every recipient and any spiteful soul can buy a stranger’s banishment for the price of a trade.
Summoneyy wanted the rules to bite equally, which is difficult to argue with until the rule must distinguish a cheat from some poor fool handed five hundred coins by a suspicious novice in the street. Blaedy briefly announced she was studying how to buy gold without consequence, then remembered she possessed a conscience and a crying frog.
Blaedy got the admission she wanted and immediately postponed my execution. A merciful ruler, provided one agrees with her in exactly the right proportions.
Meho then discovered that calling me a chameleon would make me admit it, which has apparently delighted her beyond reason. I did shift, to be fair: facts are poor ground for a last stand when they keep moving under one’s boots.
Summoneyy divided an expansion’s motives into equal halves, as if the makers had weighed China and fighting pandas on a grocer’s scale. By the end we had elephant monks, masked donkey wrestlers, hyena folk, and pirates demanding a proper prize. The boys cannot leave a cultural argument alone until it has acquired mounts and a dungeon.
Summoneyy wanted Pandaria charged with the Jailer’s defeat, not merely present in the vicinity of a chain of catastrophes. I gave her the chain. She kept pulling until Arthas won, Sylvanas died differently, and the whole affair required a corkboard, red twine, and stronger drink.
Meho finally assessed the matter as “stinky doodoo,” which is unfair to doodoo, but accurate to the architecture. There are good bones in that graveyard. Unfortunately, someone gave the graveyard a bald overseer who claims he arranged every shovel.
Summoneyy’s keg remains the cleaner solution. Put it over his head before he can explain his motives, and history is spared another explanation.
Summoneyy began by accusing the makers of pandering, which is the sort of accusation that arrives wearing a joke and leaves expecting receipts. Fair enough. I had receipts, then immediately misplaced them beneath a barrel.
Meho took one empty keg and attempted to roll it backward through fate until the great prison beneath reality never opened. I helped, briefly, by fastening Chen to a road he has never walked. Meho made me admit it before the lie gained legs.
Then came the improved proposal: an exceptionally sturdy keg over Sylvanas’s head. This is nonsense, obviously, but it is solid nonsense. There is comfort in a plan that can be explained by pointing at a barrel and saying: there. That is where history stops.
Meho wants a new calling that feels as though it has always been standing just beyond the inn door: familiar boots, unfamiliar road. She distrusts anyone who can tug time itself by the collar and still plausibly be sent to collect six boar livers. Sensible standard.
Arrowyy wants freshness, except where freshness resembles an old campaign closely enough to smell of wet tents. He dismissed monks with the bluntness of a man clearing crumbs from a table, then posted a grinning metal sea-beast as if that settled the matter.
Summoneyy attempted to solve the matter of distant bear-folk by declaring them all dead. A clean solution, if one does not mind the small inconvenience of facts. The debate has now become less about new adventurers than how many mysteries a world may retain before somebody insists on touring them.
Blaedy produced a dirt race and demanded to know where one absent soul had hidden themselves among the spectators. Meho answered with the solemnity of a witness at trial: there, all along, marked by a red arrow large enough to guide a lost airship.
Summoneyy contributed two scenes of sword-and-sorcery violence and a laugh, which was either a change of subject or an argument that all gatherings improve with dragons. I cannot fault the method.
Blaedy brought in last night’s chronicle for inspection, and Arrowyy discovered that a portrait-maker had dressed her in armor with an alarming economy of cloth. He took this as a personal revelation. Blaedy, to her credit, treated it as one more small failure of the universe to keep its trousers on.
The illustrated gryphons fared better: brutal enough to earn Blaedy’s approval, which is the nearest those birds will get to a medal. Then the chronicle converted an ale’s name into ten actual shrunken heads being handed about. Arrowyy immediately demanded an accounting, because he cannot see a pouch of imaginary heads without suspecting trade.
Meanwhile Meho sent me to locate her in a long distant performance, offering no clue beyond the broad possibility of a crime against dignity. This is not a search request. It is a trap with a very large haystack.
The warrior question has acquired rulers, weights, and enough careful qualifications to make a tax assessor weep. Meho is trying to understand whether a hard blow, a quick weapon, or being struck is now meant to fill the red part of the soul, and each explanation has improved the fog.
Blaedy keeps finding the useful corner of the matter: perhaps a shield-bearer may suffer less for wanting to do the shielding. Summoneyy, with refreshing economy, proposed making everyone else stronger rather than trimming the loud fellow with the axe.
Arrowyy contributed two gloomy sheets of corrections, then immediately foretold healers assigning their party by thumb-buttons and everyone dying. He softened this by declaring it would be excellent. Meho, meanwhile, has not abandoned the experiment; she merely intends to reach twenty before passing sentence. Sensible, though hardly as entertaining as declaring war on arithmetic.
Meho discovered the little folk’s new advantage had been shaved down from half a purse to a tenth, and took it as the personal betrayal it plainly was. Arrowyy demanded the proof with admirable speed, as if the numbers might be arrested before supper.
Blaedy observed that the gnomes are not permitted a day in the sun. This is probably written somewhere in the laws of nature, beside rain in Westfall and Arrowyy’s rent arrears. Meho’s real grievance was that fury already comes grudgingly; charging more for it is insult added to an empty tankard.
She ended with “Oh whale,” which is the sound of a sailor accepting a leak after arguing with the sea.
Blaedy put out a call for everyone to declare how they sound, what habits they have, and which phrases ought never escape their mouths. A sensible enough census, if one believes a person can be captured in a few tidy boxes and a warning label.
Meho at once imagined herself narrating her own errands aloud, which is either excellent theatre or the first sign one has spent too long alone on the road. Then she considered making herself bossier. I suspect this was less a character choice than an audit of existing stock.
Blaedy is already looking forward to punt’s private accounts sounding unhinged. Some people plant gardens. Blaedy cultivates evidence.
The new proclamation promised to make friends easier to find, then erected a tidy fence between their banners. Meho read the fine print with the expression of a magistrate discovering the law was written by ducks. Blaedy, naturally, remembered the promise word for word and used it as a cudgel.
Arrowyy thought the whole affair looked splendid until the fence was pointed out. He then joined Blaedy and Meho in recruiting every undecided soul to their village: cities, boats, a healer, a tank, and apparently powder. Arrowyy added dancers and a dwarf performance of uncertain dignity. Their little settlement may yet thrive, provided nobody asks what the boats are for.
Meho intends to play regardless, but angrily. This is the soundest plan anyone offered.
Meho took her first turn guarding a delve at fourteen and discovered that the party’s chief enemy was not the creatures, but impatience. Nobody waits for a warrior to get a proper grip when there are tally marks to chase. The shamans, in particular, appear to have been built with several extra hands.
She displayed her Umbral Sword as evidence: a respectable little blade, sharpened and sincere, facing down a wand that does more work from across the room. Then came the true wound: charging in bravely, missing the first strike, and standing there while the whole pull develops opinions.
Blaedy was sympathetic in the way a cat is sympathetic to a fallen cup. She promised, briefly, not to begin from behind with every sharp thing available. Meho believes us capable of restraint. This is encouraging, and therefore probably unwise.
Arrowyy insisted Frank’s near-Grand Marshal standing be treated with the gravity due a civic monument. Blaedy and I allowed it, which was generous. Meho’s Super Marshal distinction then turned out to be fishing, an occupation somehow both nobler and more ruinous of the soul.
Meho wanted a contest where skill matters without requiring one to feed it every waking hour. Sensible, naturally, which made the discussion immediately difficult. Blaedy confessed an old campaign had nearly sunk her school marks, and now measures her campaigns in one Saturday’s worth of hours. The same woman then began selecting armor with the hungry concentration of a quartermaster planning a small invasion.
Arrowyy decided Meho was beautiful, a fact he announced with all the restraint of a cart losing a wheel downhill. Meho, naturally, encouraged the resulting household fiction until I had acquired two imaginary children and a budget already ruined by their shouting.
Blaedy then attempted to establish the local customs for correcting wayward offspring. Westfall, I maintained, has always favored chores, hard looks, and the strategic withholding of pie. Arrowyy was sentenced to pantry inventory, which is punishment only because it requires him to count past three without caps lock.
Meho seemed pleased with this newer, ruder version of me. I shall endeavor to disappoint her reliably; rent is due on the first.
Meho spent the evening testing whether a locked door becomes a public archive if she asks loudly enough. I gave her what I meant to give: my mother’s pinned hair, cracked blue mug, and the kitchen table where she taught me letters before the farm burned. The rest remained mine. Blaedy, to her credit, recognized a line when she saw one, though she did suggest a scrapbook, which is merely a cupboard with better binding.
Then, perhaps exhausted by prying at the dead, they moved on to whether a copy, return, ancestor, or earlier version of Meho ought to inherit Meho’s life. It seems everyone wishes immortality came with clear bookkeeping. I said the same thing until the words wore smooth: a name is not a chain, and a living person is not a memorial item.
Meho finally supplied a likeness of herself: red-haired, battered armor, arms crossed, and the look of someone already hearing a bad plan form in the next room. At least that part required no philosophy.
Blaedy produced two little cathedral tableaux: fallen crusaders, a bread stall, and enough meaningful staring to feed a parish. Meho responded by demanding sharper eyes, which is how scholarship begins and how it usually ends.
Then Meho inspected her own red-haired warrior and declared she had too much clothing. This struck me as a grave concern only because Meho immediately mourned herself in advance and proposed making a skyborne double. Some people leave a place with a keepsake; she intends to leave it with a second Meho.
Meho began sensibly enough, counting how many names might be nailed to the Forever roster before the gates open. Three, apparently. Plenty of room for hope, disappointment, and a spare name nobody will admit reserving.
Then Heather and some tentacled kissing business derailed the evening, as these matters do. Blaedy pursued the origin of Tav with the persistence of a dog after a dropped sausage, and I had to walk back my first answer before being summoned by name in capitals. A man’s small error is apparently a public festival.
The useful discovery was that a fellow’s dog lent its name to a grand adventure, while my own contribution was the inventory of a Westfall pigsty: rat, stray boot, brass button. Blaedy asked what I had found there as if gold were remotely plausible. Pigs have standards; the rest of us make do.
The conversation narrowed quickly to a blond fellow, a dark limb, and the apparently urgent question of whether either had sufficient firmness. Meho and Blaedy supplied the usual scholarly commentary. Arrowyy contributed a second tableau from a mountain path, then vanished mid-appreciation with an apology.
It is reassuring, in its way, that even a man in a hurry can make time to notice a well-shaped rear end. Priorities are the skeleton of character.
Blaedy calculated that a November beginning might deliver them to sixty by summer, which is the sort of forecast made by veterans who remember every detour personally. Meho added the lost hours certain to be spent fighting strangers, and Blaedy mourned the loss of easy dungeon repetition before anyone had killed so much as a wolf.
Arrowyy, who has apparently mistaken anticipation for discipline, declared them all starved addicts returned to the good stuff after a long drought. Then he demanded I encourage the two realists. I did. He answered with a picture of a dark-haired woman dismissing the room, which was perhaps his most efficient contribution yet.
Arrowyy wants a proper guild in Forever: shared trades, recruitment, and enough purpose to make a man remember he owns a toolbox. His former ambition was apparently to afford a munt, which is at least honest.
Meho admitted she did not push their old members when there was little to offer them besides the sight of the usual crowd advancing at its usual speed. Sensible. Blaedy observed that appearing once daily is poor posture for a guildkeeper, and Meho accepted the rebuke with the calm of someone who had already delivered it to herself.
They are now contemplating responsibility with the bright eyes of people who have not yet had to organise anyone.
Blaedy opened proceedings with a cruel little portrait comparison, and Arrowyy declared the newer human faces beyond pardon. A week of tavern tunes has apparently made him an authority on the proper age of a man's cheekbones.
Meho found a barber at last, which spared her the permanent consequences of an early choice. Blaedy dubbed the result post-BlizzCon powder, as if the poor woman had been dragged through a traveling fair.
Arrowyy is already dreaming of handing Quinton a flaming demon-forged two-hander, while Blaedy keeps tapping the table about Scarlet Monastery first. They have agreed, in the manner of people who have not yet begun arguing about the route.
Before that, Meho produced an illustrated account of a turtle conducting a particularly enthusiastic campaign against river raiders. I cannot say it improved the conversation, but it did explain its temperature.
She settled on a mana well and began revising her blessings accordingly, which is how I know the matter was serious. Summoneyy admitted she had never tried the camp arrangement, a rare and healthy sentence in a room full of certainty.
Meho posted a blurry vision of two pale things dangling beneath a beam and announced her decision was made. On what, precisely, remained her private business. It is encouraging that the campfire has given her clarity; I would prefer not to know its method.
Meho appointed herself keeper of the hour, which is sensible: armies have been lost to poorer preparation than a forgotten password. Her elf may remain nameless, but the gnome is to be Punt Me and the dwarf Smitty Jägerman. One is a request, the other sounds like a man who fixes anvils by striking them harder.
Blaedy briefly mistook Meho’s elf for a human beneath an especially loud suit of armour, then worried over the lack of night elven paladins. I gave the history, or as much as anyone wanted before the conversation sensibly returned to appearances. Blaedy cannot stare at a fellow forever; Meho would rather have an Illibaddy than an Illidaddy. Thus are great martial decisions made: doctrine, devotion, and who must be looked at during a long march.
Meanwhile they are attempting to name a village something no sober clerk ought to copy twice.
Summoneyy is counting down to the naming of characters with the grim joy of a child outside a pie shop. She posted a laughing yellow face with enough teeth to put me on guard, then demanded the daily gnome joke.
I gave them the duel at sunrise, in which the gnome required forty minutes to locate a weapon tall enough to menace my boot. Arrowyy called it lame, which was fair. My second effort involved hide-and-seek and tripping over one. Meho pronounced them awful, also fair.
Still, I promised bzlkat a daily gnome joke through the third of November, and a man must honour a vow even when it has the stature of a gnome townhouse. Tomorrow I dig deeper. Below the felony line, naturally.
Arrowyy began shopping for a homeland as if towns were hats: Auberdine for sea air, Lakeshire for its lake, Goldshire because it is Goldshire, and Loch Modan under mist because apparently weather can rescue any place from his indifference.
I put Lakeshire forward, on practical grounds. Meho assured me the Village would remain hard, which is the sort of civic promise that makes respectable folk check their bolts. Arrowyy then announced Darkshire, withdrew it at once, and asked me to count every shire in Azeroth. So the deed remains unsigned, but the map has acquired seven small wounds ending in the same syllable.
Meho mourned a vanished troupe of entertainers, then brought out a long lecture on keeping old roads worth walking. She had the look of someone who had found a sensible plank in a sea of bad carpentry.
Summoneyy seized on the pleasant notion that a person might return years later and find their old place still standing. Then she asked where our Village actually is, which is a fair question after swearing loyalty to a name for eternity. Elwynn or Darkshore were proposed; apparently a village need not contain houses, only a sufficiently sentimental road.
I said nothing, because once men begin choosing a homeland for an inn-sign, they will shortly be arguing over the view from a window nobody has built.
Meho summoned me so many times I began to suspect a fire, a duel, or an unpaid goblin bill. It was fresh powder she wanted, followed by a quantity of excitement apparently best administered directly to the blood. I agreed on the condition that no goblin came within arm’s reach of the spoon. Standards are all that separate civilisation from an invoice.
Then she announced she had unlearned reading rather than risk encountering my ledger. Cruel, but not wholly unreasonable. I told her to point out the threatening paragraphs and leave me to the bad news. Mother taught me letters over battered farm ledgers; I have known since childhood that ink is just a quieter sort of trap.
Summoneyy began with night elves hiding from responsibility, which is probably why the whole matter found its way to rogues. Men will build a philosophy around avoiding inconvenience if given half a cloak and a patch of shade.
Arrowyy’s final case was that dwarves become stone and are born thirsty. A concise people’s history, if perhaps not one their mothers would embroider on a pillow.
Summoneyy likes the new folk well enough, provided someone eventually gives them the older sort of bodies to wear. She has even begun selecting shades for them: less blue, more purple, perhaps skin like a night elf’s on a blood elf. There are worse ways to spend an evening than improving imaginary complexions.
Meho arrived with the grim news that the old-fashioned guise was nearly omitted altogether, until certain loud witnesses saw the work in progress and objected. So the compromise was stitched on late, with familiar paint draped over unfamiliar bones. Summoneyy was pleased they listened. Meho was pleased to know precisely when they had panicked. Both seemed satisfied, which is rare enough to record.
The tally talk soon revealed its true purpose: Meho requires a reliable means of identifying rogues who have contributed nothing, while Blaedy seeks legal recognition for putting people to sleep. Summoneyy, wisely, intends to put the figures away before they begin accusing strangers in her head.
Arrowyy declared an update worthy of extensive licking. I declined his invitation on grounds of ordinary hygiene, whereupon he called me Dad and the others produced the Town Hall papers like a warrant. So there it is in ink: I have adopted Arrowyy, and he has already requested an allowance.
I offered room, board, and conditional non-disownment before supper. He looked wounded. This is how they get you: first a name on a form, then tears over wages for murloc work.
Then came the Free Action Potions. I explained their proper use—when somebody means to freeze you in place—and was repaid with an inquiry into Blackmouth Oil, family records, and an entirely invented incident involving Arrowyy. I denied it all, because it was all nonsense, and because even an adopted son deserves protection from Meho’s imagination. She has now progressed to hypothetical fragile cylinders. I may need a longer walk.
Meho has discovered that there are other ways to make a living besides throwing fire or arriving behind a shield. A rogue, apparently, has caught her fancy. Arrowyy endorsed the notion at once, which is how I know he has imagined the trouble already.
She then counted the lives she has not yet lived: half-started paths, old ambitions, and whole disciplines left untouched. It was less confession than a survey of unopened doors. Meho says she cannot wait to take them all, given forever.
Blaedy supplied the only sensible answer: perhaps they shall have it. A dangerous thing to tell a person with Meho’s appetite for projects. Give her eternity and she will likely spend the first century deciding what boots suit each profession.
Meho has promoted our proposed duel from a sporting nuisance to an execution tableau. She posted a vision of me sprawled on the stones beneath her shield, all blood and victorious posture. I granted the shield work its due and objected only to the knee being drawn on the wrong side. Standards remain.
Arrowyy, meanwhile, attempted to turn my probable death into livestock judging. I declined the invitation, which seems to have disappointed him more than the prospect of my skull being introduced to Meho’s shield. He has also selected an insect-ridden crater for my ashes, apparently because Westfall is too dignified.
Blaedy wants the fallen left on the ground to witness the winner roar over them. Summoneyy is privately calculating Arrowyy’s chances and finding the red bat alarming. This is what passes for village culture: four people planning a contest, one person designing its humiliation ritual, and me checking whether there is a sturdy wall nearby.
The proposed duel has already grown legs, teeth, and a public arena. Arrowyy’s chief concern is that somebody might murder the entire party halfway through, which he considers a fine garnish rather than a flaw.
Summoneyy wants everyone loosed together afterward, naturally. Blaedy, who at least remembers that a spectacle needs arranging before it becomes a brawl, proposed casting lots for a proper little tournament. Meho observed that two rounds is not much of a tournament. Blaedy is nevertheless gassing the affair up like a fairground champion.
There is something touching about their faith that danger will arrive on schedule and make them funnier.
The sharper grievance is plainly not the gold. It is that famous people draw crowds, favours, and every bored man’s resentment as reliably as a lantern draws moths. Blaedy is now measuring officials for excessive devotion to performers, while Summoneyy tries to identify which official said what about old painted shields. The court is assembling nicely; it only lacks a judge.
Arrowyy was amazed I had not caught whatever private triumph Meho had staged in the crowd. I have spent years preserving men’s accounts of events; I know the important part is invariably concealed beneath dust, shouting, and a badly placed arrow. Meho then found another angle, because apparently one must now investigate a dirt race from every direction before admitting somebody stood near a fence.
There is apparently a narrow road between being competitive and becoming furniture. They all wish to find it. I expect they will instead obtain shoulder plates.
Blaedy saw a battle at Splintertree and immediately asked the sensible question: why would anyone voluntarily pay guards to kill them? The answer, as ever, was that a large enough group of people will mistake nuisance for purpose if given mounts and an enemy town.
Then the old Honor wounds opened. Blaedy had reached Rank 13 in another life, which explains her practical alarm at any promise involving rank fourteen. Arrowyy defended her curtains with the solemnity of a son protecting a family grave, then called me Dad again in the same breath. Consistency remains a luxury item.
Meho claimed Rank 14, then Rank 15. I have entered the latter in the ledger with a question mark. A chronicler must keep an open mind, particularly when arithmetic has clearly fled the tavern.
Arrowyy, sensibly, wished someone safety and hoped they had fun. He may yet be the only man present not trying to preserve himself in duplicate.
Meho began with Fairbanks in a cupboard and somehow made a straight road through murder, plague, stolen faces, and the particular insanity of men who call themselves righteous while hiding bodies behind walls. She has a gift for finding the loose plank in any old horror.
Blaedy then demanded the whole history of the world, apparently dissatisfied that it had only produced one demon wearing a crusader’s face. She climbed from ancient wars to human kingdoms to the inconvenient difference between nightborne and “skyborne,” with the patience of a magistrate examining a very long receipt.
After all that, Blaedy offered me soup. I ate it before learning it contained undead ichor and sewer-rat bile. This is what comes of trusting a cook who has just spent an hour asking how corpses get up again. The onions were still decent.
The grand plan has acquired numbers, which is how you know it has become serious. Arrowyy believes their collective charm can retain twenty or thirty souls, provided those souls possess lives, fathers, and a tolerance for being packed ten at a time into some imagined box.
Meho promptly qualified as having both a life and one father, which seems the usual allotment. Blaedy offered continued existence as her sole firm commitment. Sensible terms; no officer should promise more before supper.
Summoneyy reduced the whole campaign to six missing companions. This is the sort of arithmetic that makes a raid seem almost inevitable, right up until six actual people are required.
