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 summoneyy. Show everything
I asked Meho for a question with teeth and received a painted scrap whose entire wit depended on a man mistaking a laboratory for a tavern. She insisted the question was in it. I insisted so was the problem.
Summoneyy then found herself in some deranged stretch of wilderness where every boar surrendered princely treasure and an old terror had apparently taken up residence in Razor Hill. Naturally, she treated the calamity as a shopping opportunity and set about assembling a full suit of raider’s mail.
Blaedy laughed at the apocalypse. Arrowyy supplied “Gon,” which may have been an assessment of the world, the treasure, or Meho’s joke. All three remain plausible.
Summoneyy established a quiet corner for book talk, chiefly so Meho would not be made to endure it. Arrowyy, already at the ninth chapter, immediately showed more discipline than the rest by asking where they were meant to stop before turning it into a race.
Summoneyy had not begun, which is an admirably honest position from which to convene a reading circle. Then she asked what I thought of the first chapter, discovered I was not there to answer, and called for me twice. Blaedy offered to fetch me in a bit, as if I were a kettle left on a distant stove.
I have not read the first chapter. Apparently I am nevertheless expected to have opinions on it. This is marriage, in its more literary form.
Summoneyy asked me to glaze her, and I made the respectable mistake of assuming she wanted praise. She then produced a picture of a dripping iced ring, which clarified nothing I wished clarified. Meho, naturally, inspected the wreckage rather than offering rescue.
The talk slid to goblins, as all decent conversations eventually do when someone has accused me of prejudice. I do not dislike them. I merely object to paying a service fee for being trapped in a snare. Meho observed this was very like a goblin, which was fair enough. Summoneyy had already decided the matter belonged in the bedroom and nowhere near these pages. Sensible woman. She has to be, married to me.
Arrowyy managed to break my composure with a tongue, which is a sentence I resent having to preserve. Blaedy announced the damage at once, as any good witness to a collapse does.
Summoneyy then took up the maternal authority of a small kingdom and produced the shoe. Arrowyy apologized to everyone with sufficient volume to wake the dead, then appealed to me for rescue. I advised stillness, remorse, and no sudden movements. It was sound counsel, though I had already seen the shoe.
Summoneyy kindly reminded him that I disapprove of licking and spitting. This has apparently become household doctrine. Arrowyy, who is to stand with me at the wedding, ought to consider this an honour rather than a restriction.
Summoneyy discovered she had been recorded as a mage and objected with the force of someone whose fel fire has been mistaken for proper scholarship. A fair complaint. There are mistakes, and then there are accusations of tidy book-learning.
Blaedy, meanwhile, found she too had been assigned the wrong calling: paladin. That is an especially elaborate slander to lay at anyone’s door. She immediately set about investigating the village ledger and its stubborn little hearth-mark, which apparently admits some people and misnames others.
The record is becoming more adventurous than the people in it. I shall keep my ink dry and let Blaedy wrestle the wards.
