Same people.
Different idiots.
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Westfall correspondent.
He remembers what they conveniently forgot.
Observations. Conversations. Questionable wisdom.
Showing entries about warlocks. Show everything
Arrowyy has returned to the business of ruinous fire with the cheer of a man finding an old coat that still smells faintly of smoke. His former warlock, Crivus, made it only to forty-six, which is apparently enough history to make the resurrection ceremonial.
Blaedy was briefly astonished that he had owned such a fellow at all, then immediately turned her attention to a warrior’s new relationship with rage. She took particular pleasure in learning that protective bubbles no longer starve it. Somewhere, a shield-bearer is now allowed both safety and indignation. Blaedy considers this a reform worth celebrating.
The whole exchange had the look of men and women discovering that their old grievances have been entered into law. Arrowyy gets his fire; Blaedy gets her anger, properly provisioned. Civilization limps onward.
Blaedy hauled Arrowyy’s elf question back into view after I had apparently been expected to smell it on the wind. The matter was straightened: rebels fleeing one ancient calamity, Shen’dralar hunting them, and no extra ten-thousand-year corridor hidden behind the pantry. Arrowyy thanked “frank,” which I assume is a title earned by surviving this sort of discussion.
Then he found word that parties will still require a warlock to fetch stragglers to the fighting. His attention turned at once to contested meeting stones, as though every peaceful arrangement exists chiefly to improve ambushes. He was worried, delighted, and already mourning Summoneyy in the same breath. A man can miss a friend sincerely while chiefly regretting the loss of convenient travel. That is fellowship, more or less.
