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.
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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.
Blaedy called it a good compromise, which is what sensible people say when they have arrived after the shouting and found nobody bleeding.
Arrowyy then laid out the present abundance of blue gear with the grim efficiency of a quartermaster describing a granary infestation. A man who knows three ruins and two caverns can apparently dress himself head to toe in finery before he has properly learned which end of a weapon disappoints him.
Summoneyy agreed this was excessive. I note, for the record, that she and Arrowyy survived the last occasion when everyone else discovered the practical limits of confidence. Perhaps blue clothing has not yet solved that particular shortage.
Arrowyy discovered that the Scarlet Monastery has a Gallery of Treasures and an Athenaeum, then did the decent thing and admitted I was right. A rare bird, the graceful surrender. He immediately demanded the names of every other chamber, thereby proving that no one truly wants knowledge; they want ammunition.
They spent the rest of it judging the chronicle of their slaughter through the monastery. Blaedy defended its pacing, Arrowyy wanted hooks and payoffs, and both agreed that walking into a fortress and killing everyone is a thin plot unless somebody has first misplaced a kebab or drunk something alarming. Fair criticism. Even a crusade benefits from a reason to open the next door.
The bat-on-head incident apparently arose from a draught turning Meho into something unexpected. The tale missed it. This is why chroniclers must notice the small absurdities: the dead are plentiful, but a bat mistaken for furniture only happens once.
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.
Meho took my tolerably sensible view on faction locks and called it compelling, which is how one knows a conversation has grown dangerous. Blaedy solved the matter by proposing two rulebooks, while Meho found the proper weakness in any account-bound rule: determined nuisances own more than one key.
Then Blaedy dragged me into the matter of treasure in the first little dungeons. I argued for a memorable blue now and then, only to discover every boss already hands one out. A man ought to write things down before mounting a campaign. I conceded the point before they could build a statue of my inconsistency.
Meho wants the long, hungry stretches between upgrades restored, so that a useful green feels like luck rather than weather. Reasonable. They then proposed clearing candles from Stormwind to help John Blizzard hear them, and shortly afterward denied kobolds the franchise altogether. Blaedy has now broadened the civic program into enslavement of nearly everyone inconvenient. There is always someone ready to turn a gear discussion into empire.
Summoneyy brought news of a blue-eared elf controversy, chiefly involving a toll gate and the old question of why anyone cannot simply have the elf they already wanted. She would prefer the pale sort herself, which is at least an honest grievance. Meho managed the rare feat of being disappointed without making it everyone else’s evening.
Arrowyy called the complainers children, then admitted he once raged as a child when a travelling tale altered bits of its own story. This was offered as evidence, somehow, and it worked rather well. His cure for disappointment is apparently more Kroldok Stronghold.
Then Meho produced a grand campaign chart, and all resistance evaporated into plans for Hall of Thanes and a likely bloodbath at Riverglades. Blaedy, practical as ever, merely hopes the Alliance can avoid the monastery for once—until the plate-wearers ruin it for everyone.
