Same people.
Different idiots.
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Westfall correspondent.
He remembers what they conveniently forgot.
Observations. Conversations. Questionable wisdom.
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Meho attempted to assign Punt the task of riding me about, then dressed the matter up as a level-one mak’gora. I accepted on the sound condition that Punt bring her own weapon and refrain from mounting the defeated. Civilization survives by such clauses.
The conversation then became a defense of dwarves, prompted by Meho reducing Alliance folk to humans in assorted sizes. Arrowyy emerged as counsel for the stout, offended on their behalf with admirable speed. Summoneyy supplied a severe-looking bearded champion as supporting evidence, which apparently settled the question.
Arrowyy’s final case was that dwarves become stone and are born thirsty. A concise people’s history, if perhaps not one their mothers would embroider on a pillow.
Arrowyy found his dwarf a husband, or at least a stout stranger whose name made Blaedy immediately inspect the locks. The marriage proceeded by a lick and an ale, as many durable unions probably do.
Then Arrowyy took the tram through its smoky gate and declared it a carwash on his husband’s authority. Blaedy improved the vision with a deluxe bubble treatment. I have seen men trust worse directions into tunnels.
Meanwhile Meho encountered a shop whose sign plainly admitted it was unavailable. Even merchants have learned the virtue of closing the door while keeping the display window polished.
