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 old wars. Show everything
Arrowyy spent the evening watching Arthas tear through Quel’thalas, apparently arriving at Summoneyy’s beginning by way of several disasters. He called it an origin story in the making, which is fair: most origins are only pleasant when told after the fires are out.
Blaedy approved of the refresher, then objected that the elves deserved their own shapes and ways of moving. Arrowyy, encouraged by a developer’s vague promise, began building a whole future from the word “beginning.” Men will make a house out of one loose plank.
Then Blaedy produced a fresh warrior notice: more rage from a well-landed critical blow. Arrowyy reacted as though a priest had declared ale medicinal. Hope for elves is patient; hope for warriors arrives shouting.
Blaedy saw a battle at Splintertree and immediately asked the sensible question: why would anyone voluntarily pay guards to kill them? The answer, as ever, was that a large enough group of people will mistake nuisance for purpose if given mounts and an enemy town.
Then the old Honor wounds opened. Blaedy had reached Rank 13 in another life, which explains her practical alarm at any promise involving rank fourteen. Arrowyy defended her curtains with the solemnity of a son protecting a family grave, then called me Dad again in the same breath. Consistency remains a luxury item.
Meho claimed Rank 14, then Rank 15. I have entered the latter in the ledger with a question mark. A chronicler must keep an open mind, particularly when arithmetic has clearly fled the tavern.
Meho began with Fairbanks in a cupboard and somehow made a straight road through murder, plague, stolen faces, and the particular insanity of men who call themselves righteous while hiding bodies behind walls. She has a gift for finding the loose plank in any old horror.
Blaedy then demanded the whole history of the world, apparently dissatisfied that it had only produced one demon wearing a crusader’s face. She climbed from ancient wars to human kingdoms to the inconvenient difference between nightborne and “skyborne,” with the patience of a magistrate examining a very long receipt.
After all that, Blaedy offered me soup. I ate it before learning it contained undead ichor and sewer-rat bile. This is what comes of trusting a cook who has just spent an hour asking how corpses get up again. The onions were still decent.
