Same people.
Different idiots.
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Westfall correspondent.
He remembers what they conveniently forgot.
Observations. Conversations. Questionable wisdom.
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Meho brought news of some approaching calamity, then turned at once to the practical matter of securing a ridiculous name before anyone else could lay claim to it. This is how civilization survives: panic first, paperwork second.
Arrowyy offered his sword for any chosen cause, having already cleared the afternoon as though a naming dispute might require cavalry. Summoneyy judged the hour badly placed and considered slipping away from her duties, provided the day remained quiet. Meho, naturally, proposed hiring a queue at Summoneyy’s bank to obstruct the effort.
I have seen sieges planned with less attention to timing. Arrowyy posted a grim little scene about men wanting the world burned, which was fair, if rather dramatic for a fight over Seymour Butts.
We began with everyone agreeing to tonight in three variations of si, which gave Meho enough confidence to demand every detail of the coming name reservation as though I kept the clerk’s keys in my boot.
Blaedy immediately tried to register anatomy as a surname. Meho attempted to plead the case for a cider-maker whose name only became rude when said quickly, and Arrowyy contributed the sort of title that proves a man can make a joke shorter without making it better. I offered them respectable elf names. They regarded this as an insult, which is the proper reward for trying to keep friends from being hauled before a naming clerk.
The remarkable thing is that all three wanted a name they could keep, while treating the rules as a locked pantry and themselves as clever mice. I expect reports, renamings, and no remorse whatsoever.
