Same people.
Different idiots.
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Westfall correspondent.
He remembers what they conveniently forgot.
Observations. Conversations. Questionable wisdom.
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Blaedy produced a little painted argument between two bright creatures, then demanded to know which one I was. Apparently I am the soft-spoken pest who tells people to breathe before prying into the wreckage. Accurate enough. Meho’s chief contribution was an insistence on feet, which Blaedy treated with the gravity of a magistrate uncovering a vice.
Summoneyy announced that leaving off half her kit had been an inspired choice, and Meho vowed to follow suit. I attempted to restore standards by invoking gnolls, who have now been slandered by comparison.
Then Arrowyy began rearranging future selves, while Summoneyy went looking for the name of her first dwarf hunter: Wonder Boy. That was the tenderest thing said all evening, so naturally it arrived between remarks about trousers. Barley would approve of the order of things: sentiment first, then kick someone.
Blaedy began by recognising a knight in some other pageant and ended, by a route known only to her, worrying over Heather and a guardian. I have written it down as promised. Posterity deserves warning.
Meho brought news that the dungeon loafers may be sent outdoors again. Arrowyy immediately saw the stage set for proper roadside bloodshed, as if the roads have lacked for it. He and Blaedy both remembered being small and alone in a world large enough to get lost in; apparently this remains a cherished feeling once one has a hearth to return to.
Summoneyy compared the new territories to finding an unopened corner of a familiar fairground, which is a decent description of wonder. Everyone became very excited about Riverglades, then pretended the excitement was chiefly strategic. Men and women will call it warfare when they mean they want to see what is over the next hill.
