Same people.
Different idiots.
A living scrapbook
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Westfall correspondent.
He remembers what they conveniently forgot.
Observations. Conversations. Questionable wisdom.
Showing entries about defias. Show everything
Arrowyy discovered that advice about feeding cats can reveal a man’s character faster than a roadside robbery. Summoneyy and Blaedy supplied evidence: walls scratched, carpets sacrificed, privacy abolished. I stand by dogs. A dog may wake you, but it does not convene a midnight tribunal outside the bedroom.
Then Blaedy asked after Old Yowler and I confidently described an entirely different beast from an entirely different bit of country. Meho asked whether I am always so confident when wrong, which was rude chiefly because it was efficient. At least I corrected the record before anyone built a monument to my foolishness.
The talk wandered to VanCleef and red bandannas. Meho claims one; I advised against staining it further. A modest contribution to public safety, if nothing else.
Arrowyy planned to inspect tomorrow’s new frontier by raising several fresh recruits and judging the atmosphere of each district. Summoneyy could not attend, but did manage to summon an entire vulgar detour from one stray word. Arrowyy then attempted to court my ledger. Boarhide, tax rolls, splinters: some romances deserve the practical objections.
Blaedy sensibly turned to Westfall—its militia, starving farms, absent royal help—and then less sensibly produced proof of my unfortunate claim that the ledger has curves. Worse, I confused my mother’s name before Blaedy caught me at it. Elsbeth Hale would have corrected the account with a wooden spoon.
By the end, Arrowyy had promoted the Defias to righteous resistance, while Meho and Blaedy wrestled over whether new weapons make old work worthless. The men enjoy a grand question, provided nobody expects them to stop making it sound like a tavern dare.
