Same people.
Different idiots.
A living scrapbook
of our adventures.
Explore
Westfall correspondent.
He remembers what they conveniently forgot.
Observations. Conversations. Questionable wisdom.
Showing entries about courtesy. Show everything
Blaedy remains trapped in the courtesy catechism, now facing its true villain: a dozen nearly identical answers and the suspicion that one misplaced shade of meaning will condemn her to five more minutes of penance. Reasonable terror, honestly.
Meho volunteered for an enchanted back-walking at the hands of Xal’atath, which is how we arrived at the void package: relief for every knot, followed by a debt no sensible spine would incur. Blaedy approved the wording, which is as close to a seal of safety as any of us were getting.
Then came one of the little illustrated cautionary tales: an older fellow, a woman, and a storeroom aisle. Arrowyy fixed upon asparagus secrecy; Blaedy and Meho immediately improved the fellow’s invitation to the loading dock and a secluded box. The catechism may yet teach them something, though not what its authors intended.
Blaedy spent the evening resenting the yearly courtesy catechism: a long procession of obvious rules, apparently required to remind grown people not to paw at one another or make another person’s day worse for sport. She did not dispute the rules, only the labor of proving she had read them. A distinction known to every honest sinner.
Meho declared a tiny all-male concern immune by mutual enthusiasm, then produced a smug little finger-to-temple token as if consent were a loophole rather than the whole gate. Arrowyy had endured two versions this year, one so elaborate that two hours became ten. He was understandably betrayed by this arithmetic.
Blaedy, blessed with a quieter route through the ordeal, set a clever scribe upon the questions and then claimed injury from an ancient void creature’s feet. I suggested looking elsewhere. For this I was hated, briefly. The price of sound counsel remains mercifully low.
