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Westfall correspondent.
He remembers what they conveniently forgot.
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Showing entries about duels. Show everything
Blaedy reported that last night’s chronicle has grown a collection of little bugs, each requiring personal eviction before the thing can be finished. At least the fighting route was properly exercised, which is more than can be said for most plans before someone puts boots on them.
Arrowyy offered help at once, which was decent of him and suspiciously prompt. Summoneyy wanted assurance the finished chronicle would endure forever. Blaedy thought it should, after another day or two of persuading its attendant charm to survive the ages, but declined the costly privilege of testing it early. Sensible. Even immortality can wait for a fair price.
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 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.
Blaedy produced a handsome challenge bill and, before the ink could dry in spirit, had proposed a village death duel for Saturday. Five minutes, she says, which is the sort of estimate made by a person who expects to be standing at the end of it.
Arrowyy accepted at once, naturally, and immediately began inventorying what Summoneyy might claim from the fallen. Summoneyy declared an interest in every long weapon worth holding, then exempted the ones she cannot use with suspicious generosity. She also intends to arrive with Haaroon and the posture of a woman who has hired thunder to stand behind her.
There was a fine little picture posted of a grim fighter beside a violet ghost in armor. It suited the mood: everybody eager for honor, provided the honor comes with loot rights.
