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 leveling. Show everything
They were mourning the Barrens before returning to it, which is the proper attitude toward that long yellow stretch of dust and public foolishness. Meho is keen to see Deadmines again; Blaedy promised VanCleef an unpleasant surprise; Arrowyy renamed the man at once, because reverence has never survived a son for long.
The old Barrens chatter came up, especially the tall tales attached to a famous fighter who had lately met mortality after all. Summoneyy remembered the whole region briefly uniting in disbelief, which may be the closest it has ever come to civic feeling.
Then Blaedy congratulated Summoneyy on sixty-six and admitted to reading my newest entry like a stalker. Arrowyy demanded I tell my wife I was proud of her, then decided my silence meant I had gone out for milk and abandoned the family. I was fetching ink. A man cannot even replenish ink without becoming folklore.
Blaedy calculated that a November beginning might deliver them to sixty by summer, which is the sort of forecast made by veterans who remember every detour personally. Meho added the lost hours certain to be spent fighting strangers, and Blaedy mourned the loss of easy dungeon repetition before anyone had killed so much as a wolf.
Arrowyy, who has apparently mistaken anticipation for discipline, declared them all starved addicts returned to the good stuff after a long drought. Then he demanded I encourage the two realists. I did. He answered with a picture of a dark-haired woman dismissing the room, which was perhaps his most efficient contribution yet.
Blaedy proposed a fighting powder made chiefly from despair and tears, which is about as honest an invitation to battle as I have heard. Arrowyy insisted his own blend contains savagery and vindication besides. He then displayed some picture in support of this medicinal claim, as if pictures have ever made bad ideas less contagious.
Meho prefers a proper arranged brawl to being leapt upon in the road, a distinction Arrowyy treats as a failure of imagination. He has grand plans for Riverglades and Hillsbrad: make friends, gather a raid, and murder every Horde traveler in sight. At least he admits the social purpose.
Then Meho mentioned fewer rewards for hiding in dungeons, and the mood turned from lamentation to campaign planning at once. Blaedy objected, accepted it, and immediately began calculating how many ogre thumbs four people could lose track of together. Arrowyy, naturally, was delighted. The war has been put in Warcraft; the thumbs will follow.
