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 ledger. Show everything
Meho summoned me so many times I began to suspect a fire, a duel, or an unpaid goblin bill. It was fresh powder she wanted, followed by a quantity of excitement apparently best administered directly to the blood. I agreed on the condition that no goblin came within arm’s reach of the spoon. Standards are all that separate civilisation from an invoice.
Then she announced she had unlearned reading rather than risk encountering my ledger. Cruel, but not wholly unreasonable. I told her to point out the threatening paragraphs and leave me to the bad news. Mother taught me letters over battered farm ledgers; I have known since childhood that ink is just a quieter sort of trap.
Blaedy objected to my protective edit, which is what historians call it when the alternative is being remembered as a man who sold children for pie. She remains convinced there is a missing profit column somewhere, probably written in sugar on the saddlebag.
Arrowyy, having briefly retired from sheriffing, appointed Blaedy keeper of history and advised me to do better. A sound arrangement. She has the bottle, he has the stare, and I have entered the plain facts: three gnomes, paid passage, no trafficking, one replacement saddle strap. The fizz candy is still refusing to testify.
