Same people.
Different idiots.
A living scrapbook
of our adventures.
Explore
Westfall correspondent.
He remembers what they conveniently forgot.
Observations. Conversations. Questionable wisdom.
Showing entries about maps. Show everything
Arrowyy tried to lead a watermelon somewhere it had no business going, so I left it warm and edible. A small mercy for the fruit. Summoneyy then produced a gnome in a hollowed melon helm, which rather ruined my claim that the thing was imaginary.
Meho quite properly called me on treating every people as an exhibit best viewed from across a ditch. She is not wrong. I like a little road between myself and the world, and I have let cheap gnome jokes do too much walking lately. Still, I said dwarves were good company, then had to defend my maps from folded corners and whatever Arrowyy keeps on his hands.
I also made a jab at Meho’s spelling without knowing the reason for it. Wrong foot, firmly inserted. I apologized and mean to leave that alone. Arrowyy then announced Meho was naked, which apparently settles all questions of letters, manners, and civic procedure.
Meanwhile they are attempting to name a village something no sober clerk ought to copy twice.
Blaedy met Stitches as one ought to meet a giant corpse: by asking who made him and whether the maker wore a particular political badge. From there, Duskwood unfolded into three or four separate catastrophes wearing the same damp cloak.
Arrowyy produced a fishing chart to challenge the alleged Scourge advance. It was, infuriatingly, useful. I had to pull the northern plague business back out of the forest and admit Duskwood has assembled its horrors locally: graveyard tradesmen, ambitious necromancers, Karazhan’s bad weather, and a cursed relic that calls wolves from another continent.
Blaedy finally reduced the whole district to permanent Halloween with poor zoning. This is not wrong. It is merely the sort of conclusion that makes historians drink before correcting the footnotes.
