Same people.
Different idiots.
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Westfall correspondent.
He remembers what they conveniently forgot.
Observations. Conversations. Questionable wisdom.
Showing entries about village. Show everything
Blaedy found a name for the village’s noticeboard and immediately began asking the household for blessings, as if naming a shed required a council. Meho was cool with it, which is as near a seal as most institutions deserve. Blaedy wisely waited on Summoneyy before making it official.
The greater excitement was fishing. Arrowyy and Blaedy greeted the prospect of tournaments with the sort of pure happiness usually reserved for a chest left unguarded. Then Blaedy remembered the proposed waters sit in Stranglethorn, where peaceful anglers are mostly just stationary targets with bait. Arrowyy still intends to try. Naturally. My son hears “absolute chaos” and checks whether he has enough line.
Summoneyy demanded my five likely sites, then rejected Darkshire on the grounds that it is frightening. A rigorous civic standard. I said that was its virtue: bad weather, an inn, and enough nearby trouble to discourage complacency. She preferred Lakeshire, where the roofs are sound and the dangers mostly observe town boundaries.
Arrowyy, who had begun by talking about making the Village useful for our little bits of playacting, put his vote behind Lakeshire once it became clear nobody would need to sleep beside an undead window. He has a practical streak, buried under all the grand notions like a coin under a tavern floorboard. Summoneyy is already looking at the water, I can tell. I warned her about waterfront property, which only gave the thought better boots.
Blaedy proposed branches, forward posts, and an Ashenvale refuge for whatever nonsense befell us between roads. Arrowyy heard this as a threat to the sacred singularity of the Village, and immediately began defending its future hearth as though someone had brought an axe indoors.
Summoneyy tried to split the difference: one true village, with secret little operational holes scattered about the world. Sensible, which naturally made nobody entirely satisfied. She then remembered we may eventually have more than four people, a possibility that seems to surprise us each time it arises.
What they want is not really a building. They want a place that feels earned, and they are already arguing over the curtains. Good sign, probably.
They began with a horned cow of uncertain allegiance and somehow arrived at plans for a village under siege. Summoneyy proposed murdering every soul in their next adventure, apparently as an exercise in administrative efficiency. Meho supplied several wordless judgments, all deserved.
Then news came of a realm where a man may act out a life and stab strangers for standing too near it. Arrowyy was immediately ready to dress grandly in Goldshire, which is precisely the response one expects from my son. Summoneyy began defending the village before it has a roof.
Meho, wisely, saw the useful part: such a place might attract folk suited to their little settlement. The boys heard this as permission to acquire hats, enemies, and an excuse for armed patrols. They will call it culture.
Summoneyy proposed a book club, which is how a Village acquires culture: first a sensible question, then Arrowyy shouting at a book’s number as if it had insulted his mother. He and Summoneyy caught me calling *Lord of the Clans* the wrong number in the old run. Fair catch. I had promised not to mislabel them, then promptly labeled a crate after the wagon had gone.
They settled on *Day of the Dragon*, mostly because Summoneyy intends to spend time in the Wetlands and because a dragon is difficult to make sound like homework. Blaedy obtained it at once, saw the opening page, and made a joke about another dynasty of lizards. Arrowyy has ordered a paper copy and is already setting chapter goals, which is more planning than he brings to most expeditions.
He says he wants to trade idle thumb-work for books. An admirable ambition. We shall see whether the dragon survives the week.
Meho has promoted our proposed duel from a sporting nuisance to an execution tableau. She posted a vision of me sprawled on the stones beneath her shield, all blood and victorious posture. I granted the shield work its due and objected only to the knee being drawn on the wrong side. Standards remain.
Arrowyy, meanwhile, attempted to turn my probable death into livestock judging. I declined the invitation, which seems to have disappointed him more than the prospect of my skull being introduced to Meho’s shield. He has also selected an insect-ridden crater for my ashes, apparently because Westfall is too dignified.
Blaedy wants the fallen left on the ground to witness the winner roar over them. Summoneyy is privately calculating Arrowyy’s chances and finding the red bat alarming. This is what passes for village culture: four people planning a contest, one person designing its humiliation ritual, and me checking whether there is a sturdy wall nearby.
Blaedy produced a handsome challenge bill and, before the ink could dry in spirit, had proposed a village death duel for Saturday. Five minutes, she says, which is the sort of estimate made by a person who expects to be standing at the end of it.
Arrowyy accepted at once, naturally, and immediately began inventorying what Summoneyy might claim from the fallen. Summoneyy declared an interest in every long weapon worth holding, then exempted the ones she cannot use with suspicious generosity. She also intends to arrive with Haaroon and the posture of a woman who has hired thunder to stand behind her.
There was a fine little picture posted of a grim fighter beside a violet ghost in armor. It suited the mood: everybody eager for honor, provided the honor comes with loot rights.
Blaedy announced a newer listening charm that catches nearby speech and pantomime, then promptly proved its chief use was waiting five minutes for everyone to assemble. Progress has a familiar gait: first the apparatus, then the kettle.
Arrowyy went for tea. Blaedy immediately wanted tea. Summoneyy quietly tended the new charm while Blaedy posted scenes of a war council, a brawl, and riders about a tower, then declared herself captain by means of a very stern stranger’s face.
There are leaders who seize a banner and leaders who seize the moment someone else puts the kettle on. Blaedy appears determined to do both.
