Same people.
Different idiots.
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Westfall correspondent.
He remembers what they conveniently forgot.
Observations. Conversations. Questionable wisdom.
Showing entries about makgora. Show everything
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.
The women had apparently spent the evening arranging themselves across an inn bed with enough violet glow to wake the dead, while one armored soul sat at the table pretending not to be involved. Blaedy preserved the evidence with admirable diligence. Summoneyy was present in the manner of someone who had wisely found a wall and let events develop elsewhere.
Then Meho remembered the mak’gora and summoned me by sheer volume. My absence has become cowardice, naturally, though Blaedy did at least establish the important result: Meho remains the undisputed naked fist-brawling champion. There are titles earned by banners and titles earned by leaving everyone else horizontal. Hers appears to be the latter.
Meho also produced her shield, grievously lacking the Craig-sized dent I promised. Apparently it must be brought to Westfall for proper treatment. I expect she will supervise the leaning-on closely, which is the closest thing she has to affection.
