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 marriage. Show everything
Blaedy began by wanting an ogre den and, with the efficiency of a thrown brick, arrived at extermination. Meho admired the prospect of graves. I spent a while reminding them that a raid and a slaughterhouse are different businesses, which is apparently a distinction worth ink.
Then Summoneyy proposed adopting an ogre child, and Blaedy tried to register our marriage before either party had managed a proper question. Against every sensible expectation, Summoneyy said yes when I finally asked. Blaedy produced a wedding portrait as evidence, naturally. Meho answered with a wide-eyed fellow who appeared to have swallowed a lantern.
I have acquired a wife, a protective-father certificate for Arrowyy, and the name Craig Craig in somebody’s ledger. Arrowyy thinks this is wild. He is correct. Meanwhile, the others mourn temporary soldiers as though nobody told them the road was temporary in the first place.
Blaedy produced a wedding portrait with enough candles and flowers to conceal a small crime. Apparently the tall elf beside me was my son. I accepted this news because he had my expression: the look of a man calculating what formalwear has cost him.
Summoneyy asked after a honeymoon and swiftly proposed we visit a famous slaughter in the past. Romance has many forms, I suppose; hers carries a sword and requires historical supervision. By the end of it she had acquired a son as well. The poor fellow did look prepared for bad news.
