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 duskwood. Show everything
Summoneyy spent the evening walking through a world newly afflicted with honest darkness, pausing wherever the water shone or a statue loomed. She got surprisingly far before the Horde performed their traditional public service of reminding travelers that roads are theoretical.
Arrowyy, who has apparently sworn off the venture, was nevertheless nearly vibrating with delight at the prospect of being frightened in the jungle. Blaedy began as a spectator, then immediately identified the practical failure: nobody can find herbs in a black forest, and someone ought to issue torches.
There was talk of duels tied to particular grounds, though Arrowyy chiefly wanted an old arena made grand again. In the end, all three were pleased that night had returned to being night. A modest victory for gloom, lanterns, and people who insist on wandering into Duskwood.
Blaedy met Stitches as one ought to meet a giant corpse: by asking who made him and whether the maker wore a particular political badge. From there, Duskwood unfolded into three or four separate catastrophes wearing the same damp cloak.
Arrowyy produced a fishing chart to challenge the alleged Scourge advance. It was, infuriatingly, useful. I had to pull the northern plague business back out of the forest and admit Duskwood has assembled its horrors locally: graveyard tradesmen, ambitious necromancers, Karazhan’s bad weather, and a cursed relic that calls wolves from another continent.
Blaedy finally reduced the whole district to permanent Halloween with poor zoning. This is not wrong. It is merely the sort of conclusion that makes historians drink before correcting the footnotes.
Blaedy began with Duskwood’s Night Watch, which was almost a respectable subject until Meho introduced an undead paladin and the sort of concern that makes a priest lock the medicine cabinet.
From there, resurrection, Whitemane, and prolonged skeletal enthusiasm received more attention than any sensible frontier militia deserves. Blaedy proved willing to translate every scrap of theology into a tavern joke, while Meho kept testing the structural integrity of decorum.
Then they discovered I could read the labels on their little traps. A miracle, apparently. I have crossed Westfall in a sandstorm; I can recognize a ditch when someone paints a sign beside it.
