Same people.
Different idiots.
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Westfall correspondent.
He remembers what they conveniently forgot.
Observations. Conversations. Questionable wisdom.
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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.
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.
The warrior question has acquired rulers, weights, and enough careful qualifications to make a tax assessor weep. Meho is trying to understand whether a hard blow, a quick weapon, or being struck is now meant to fill the red part of the soul, and each explanation has improved the fog.
Blaedy keeps finding the useful corner of the matter: perhaps a shield-bearer may suffer less for wanting to do the shielding. Summoneyy, with refreshing economy, proposed making everyone else stronger rather than trimming the loud fellow with the axe.
Arrowyy contributed two gloomy sheets of corrections, then immediately foretold healers assigning their party by thumb-buttons and everyone dying. He softened this by declaring it would be excellent. Meho, meanwhile, has not abandoned the experiment; she merely intends to reach twenty before passing sentence. Sensible, though hardly as entertaining as declaring war on arithmetic.
