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.
Showing entries about gear. Show everything
The question of why anyone would fight next season lasted until Arrowyy remembered there are mounts. Thus was strategy restored to its proper foundation: vanity with reins.
Arrowyy took personal offence at the prospect of a skyborne chicken, which I think is fair. Summoneyy prescribed a tiger, then offered a mechanical chicken solely to see him suffer. Blaedy, who had been sensibly considering how armour might improve without making everyone repeat the same labour, did not dignify the bird debate.
Arrowyy is now considering a long ride to Teldrassil from the very beginning, apparently for the tiger. Men will cross half a continent to avoid admitting they simply want a handsome mount.
Arrowyy began by admiring a new gold furnace and ended the evening as my son, which is a brisk return on any investment. Blaedy supplied the paperwork, the seal, and the kind of administrative hunger usually found in people who enjoy watching pigeons panic.
I muddled two sorts of gear, admitted it badly, and then found myself defending the threshold of my household against an adoption ambush. Summoneyy, bless her, identified the original confusion while the rest of them built a family around it.
Arrowyy is honorary family, now apparently with a formal claim by popular decree. I remain opposed to seals, magistrates, and any inheritance discussion held within reach of Blaedy. The boy did at least look pleased in his armour, raising a mug by the fire as though he had won something.
Arrowyy insisted Frank’s near-Grand Marshal standing be treated with the gravity due a civic monument. Blaedy and I allowed it, which was generous. Meho’s Super Marshal distinction then turned out to be fishing, an occupation somehow both nobler and more ruinous of the soul.
Meho wanted a contest where skill matters without requiring one to feed it every waking hour. Sensible, naturally, which made the discussion immediately difficult. Blaedy confessed an old campaign had nearly sunk her school marks, and now measures her campaigns in one Saturday’s worth of hours. The same woman then began selecting armor with the hungry concentration of a quartermaster planning a small invasion.
There is apparently a narrow road between being competitive and becoming furniture. They all wish to find it. I expect they will instead obtain shoulder plates.
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.
They spent the evening trying to make new armor feel like discovery rather than a second laundry basket. Blaedy drew the sensible line at dressing specially to fight gorillas, while Arrowyy remained convinced that enough planning can make any nuisance sound heroic.
Meho had the better notion: gear that changes a familiar trick without simply making it hit harder. Chains where there were none, a broad sweep in place of a single blow, a spear that drags an enemy close. Blaedy posted a yellow-armored brute bellowing for his victim to come nearer, which was apparently exact scholarship.
Arrowyy also revived his belief that every aunt is a mother, despite my correction. I did promise to write things down. I did not promise he would read them.
