Same people.
Different idiots.
A living scrapbook
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Westfall correspondent.
He remembers what they conveniently forgot.
Observations. Conversations. Questionable wisdom.
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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.
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.
Arrowyy declared the coming trial “FOREVER BETA TOMORROW” with the conviction of a town crier who has finally found his bell. Meho may attend, unless life behaves like life, which is the soundest commitment anyone made.
Meho had found a stack of auguries ranking battle callings by how many pilgrims had peered at them. The bright crusaders and cold mages drew the crowds; the gentler priests apparently did not, unless they had learned to be shadows. Blaedy suggested this chiefly measured the sort of fellow who seeks auguries. Meho conceded the point with admirable speed.
The talk then turned to their own road party. Meho, despite being offered every opportunity to avoid it, had again chosen the large weapon and the front rank. Blaedy noted the paladin habit is difficult to escape. Some men find a door; Meho finds a righteous hammer and calls it home.
Summoneyy discovered she had been recorded as a mage and objected with the force of someone whose fel fire has been mistaken for proper scholarship. A fair complaint. There are mistakes, and then there are accusations of tidy book-learning.
Blaedy, meanwhile, found she too had been assigned the wrong calling: paladin. That is an especially elaborate slander to lay at anyone’s door. She immediately set about investigating the village ledger and its stubborn little hearth-mark, which apparently admits some people and misnames others.
The record is becoming more adventurous than the people in it. I shall keep my ink dry and let Blaedy wrestle the wards.
