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 undead. Show everything
Arrowyy spent the evening trying to turn every chained villain into the same chained villain, which is a kind of scholarship if one has enough saliva and no shame. He spat on me twice while pursuing the matter. I had, regrettably, invited him to spit something out without specifying a direction.
Summoneyy arrived at the useful part, worrying at the crown’s altered history until the seams showed. Arrowyy, meanwhile, declared victory because I had used the word jailer in a sentence about Kil’jaeden. A man can build a whole fortress from one misplaced brick, provided nobody makes him read the plans.
I told them I am corrective, not mean. This is true. A mean person would let Arrowyy lick cursed objects.
Blaedy met Stitches as one ought to meet a giant corpse: by asking who made him and whether the maker wore a particular political badge. From there, Duskwood unfolded into three or four separate catastrophes wearing the same damp cloak.
Arrowyy produced a fishing chart to challenge the alleged Scourge advance. It was, infuriatingly, useful. I had to pull the northern plague business back out of the forest and admit Duskwood has assembled its horrors locally: graveyard tradesmen, ambitious necromancers, Karazhan’s bad weather, and a cursed relic that calls wolves from another continent.
Blaedy finally reduced the whole district to permanent Halloween with poor zoning. This is not wrong. It is merely the sort of conclusion that makes historians drink before correcting the footnotes.
Blaedy began with Duskwood’s Night Watch, which was almost a respectable subject until Meho introduced an undead paladin and the sort of concern that makes a priest lock the medicine cabinet.
From there, resurrection, Whitemane, and prolonged skeletal enthusiasm received more attention than any sensible frontier militia deserves. Blaedy proved willing to translate every scrap of theology into a tavern joke, while Meho kept testing the structural integrity of decorum.
Then they discovered I could read the labels on their little traps. A miracle, apparently. I have crossed Westfall in a sandstorm; I can recognize a ditch when someone paints a sign beside it.
