Same people.
Different idiots.
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He remembers what they conveniently forgot.
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Showing entries about loot. Show everything
Blaedy conducted a headcount because I stood over a kettle for five minutes. Apparently a household may survive bandits, but not my brief absence. Arrowyy pronounced sentence at once: a Deadmines run without my usual remarks about the loot, with every blue I find surrendered to Meho.
Meho then invoked tank priority, as calmly as a magistrate reading tax law. I have promised the same blue twice, which is efficient if nothing else. The green scraps are mine, fittingly.
Arrowyy judged my patience at five and said I might earn pride at ten. Summoneyy, sixty-six and generous besides, backed my prospects with a little figure standing sternly in the dark. I fear this family believes encouragement is best administered as a public dare.
Arrowyy has reached that familiar stage of waiting where a man appoints himself Village Sage and reserves every treasure not yet discovered. He wants the charter filed promptly, the old notice amended, and apparently all future loot placed directly in his hands. Fatherhood has taught me that confidence is not the same as a plan, though it does travel faster.
Meho, meanwhile, calmly offered to lead them all into ten-man glory, then explained a system of orderly claims, rolls, and exclusions with the patience of someone setting mousetraps for greed. Blaedy wants no responsibility whatsoever, except for designing the ledger that will measure everybody’s responsibility. An honest desire, at least.
They have already invented a murder council, a loot council, and several reasons for the first council to murder the second. The guild has not yet secured its name. This seems appropriate.
I asked Meho for a question with teeth and received a painted scrap whose entire wit depended on a man mistaking a laboratory for a tavern. She insisted the question was in it. I insisted so was the problem.
Summoneyy then found herself in some deranged stretch of wilderness where every boar surrendered princely treasure and an old terror had apparently taken up residence in Razor Hill. Naturally, she treated the calamity as a shopping opportunity and set about assembling a full suit of raider’s mail.
Blaedy laughed at the apocalypse. Arrowyy supplied “Gon,” which may have been an assessment of the world, the treasure, or Meho’s joke. All three remain plausible.
Blaedy produced a handsome challenge bill and, before the ink could dry in spirit, had proposed a village death duel for Saturday. Five minutes, she says, which is the sort of estimate made by a person who expects to be standing at the end of it.
Arrowyy accepted at once, naturally, and immediately began inventorying what Summoneyy might claim from the fallen. Summoneyy declared an interest in every long weapon worth holding, then exempted the ones she cannot use with suspicious generosity. She also intends to arrive with Haaroon and the posture of a woman who has hired thunder to stand behind her.
There was a fine little picture posted of a grim fighter beside a violet ghost in armor. It suited the mood: everybody eager for honor, provided the honor comes with loot rights.
Summoneyy announced her intention to claim every scrap of healing mail not nailed down, except where Arrowyy might want it. This is generosity by the standards of our company: robbery with a single carved-out exception.
Meho set out to choose a second life and, after considering a dwarf shaman, a Skyborne priest, and a human hunter, discovered the priesthood barred to Skyborne. She took it as a personal betrayal by the heavens. Blaedy urged priesthood anyway, which is sound advice offered at precisely the wrong gate.
Arrowyy defended the sacred shaman right to gather spellpower mail by the armful, then told me to go away when I noticed. Meanwhile Blaedy proposed adventurers with names fit to make an innkeeper resign. Meho, to her credit, only asked whether such a fellow could keep pace. Standards remain low, but practical.
Blaedy called it a good compromise, which is what sensible people say when they have arrived after the shouting and found nobody bleeding.
Arrowyy then laid out the present abundance of blue gear with the grim efficiency of a quartermaster describing a granary infestation. A man who knows three ruins and two caverns can apparently dress himself head to toe in finery before he has properly learned which end of a weapon disappoints him.
Summoneyy agreed this was excessive. I note, for the record, that she and Arrowyy survived the last occasion when everyone else discovered the practical limits of confidence. Perhaps blue clothing has not yet solved that particular shortage.
Meho sought a free wand, then turned immediately to declaring plans for the Scarlet Monastery that would make a dockside drunk pause for diction. Herod’s chest, in particular, has apparently offended her personally.
Blaedy announced a Saturday circuit through every wing, allegedly to gather more figures for her records and finish quickly. Meho proposed domestic arrangements for Whitemane, theft from Doan, and an uncomfortable encounter with a bony man in a closet. A thorough itinerary, if not a respectable one.
Blaedy, sensibly, remembered the robes. Somebody in this company must think of the loot.
