Well, today didn't solve anything. Even if it was unusually festive for no particular reason I can discern.
The Grylock / Jeffrey conundrum doesn't feel like it should be a conundrum. Get one guy talking to another guy! Maybe over a cool, refreshing brewsky! Simple as that! Yet drawing Jeffrey away from his wife is like drawing water from a stone (stones don't have water, y'know), and any suggestions that Grylock might be able to pay him a visit are rebuffed with equal certainty. Daena's equal parts immovable object and unstoppable force.
As I often do when I'm stymied, I went looking for help. In retrospect I needn't have bothered, because in this case, everyone 'round here is useless.
"Grab the goblin by the neck 'n drag him to Jeff's bedside," Libby offered. We were playing four-man Pygmy Sticks, and she was leading with five debutantes. "Wring an apology out of 'im."
"Peh, you try it, see how well you do." I countered Libby's rock-and-roll combo with a clumsy cul de sac, then scored twelve for the crossover. "Grylock ain't apologetic. He wants to chat 'bout Logan. Squared. Your go, son."
"Er... five pygmys, please." Fynn moved his piece across the board, committing two rather egregious fouls. We all let it slip. He's slow on the uptake with board games. "Couldn't you invite them over to a picnic? Get 'em together? Then they'd have to talk. Bora could make some soup. Her soup's great."
"'tis true, the maiden brown boils soup of great renown." Edmund shoved two sticks into the Bol de Fromage, scoring a Quadra-Dutchman. We all whistled. "But need our goblin green appease a man obscene? What 'pologies are owed to his untimely foe?"
"I'd say a 'sorry' for poisoning is high on the list." I growled and threw three cards into the Bol de Fromage. "Cromulance Declared. Who's up first this round?"
Libby raised her fist, smashing the Bol de Fromage. We replaced it with a new one and began the next round, Libby going first. (Fynn looked shocked, as always. He's questioned that rule a few times.)
"A sorry ain't gonna cut it, I say. We should get Grylock outta here." Libby tossed a card into the Bol de Fromage, hooting as she did. "He's dangerous."
I scratched my head. "Huh. I thought you liked Grylock."
"Sometimes. When he's not being an ass."
"So... never, then?"
"Pretty much. Ya gonna play, or what?"
I jabbed a stick into the playing field and circled the table once. Ed and Libby gave me high fives; Fynn just barely missed. "Ahh, double negative scoring. Sorry, kiddo. Gotta be faster."
"Darnit," Fynn murmured. He shuffled his cards nervously.
"To toss aside a longtime friend / Is to start an ugly trend." Ed tossed two cards into the Bol de Fromage and stole one replacement from Fynn's hand. "To coin a phrase / Your callous ways / Will spark a phase / Of glad betrays."
"Stick to one rhyming scheme, will you?" I scored a third Pygmy, though grimly. Three is a bad number. "So confusing. And I've never heard of that phrase. Pretty sure you made it up."
Ed bowed. "At your service, lords and ladies."
Libby rolled her eyes. "Whatever. You just want him 'round so you'll have a guilt-free drinkin' buddy. You two get sauced so often it's tough to tell when you're drunk or sober when you stagger into work in the morning."
Ed's eyes narrowed. "Methinks your wifely maiden fair / Is pregidous 'gainst those of greenish glare."
When they first met, Libby couldn't understand more than two or three words out of Ed's mouth. Since then, though, she's gotten pretty good at translating. "Hey! You callin' me a racist, ya fancy-pants ditz?"
Ed smugly tossed three sticks into the Bol de Fromage, scoring a quadra-Dutchman. "Nay nay, Libby the Loud! / I know that thee / So content be / With skins of diff'rent crowd!"
Libby reached across the table and grabbed Edmund by the collar. She jabbed a finger towards Fynn. "My son is a different colour, motherplucker. You don't tell me I'm a damned racist 'cause I wanna ditch an asshole."
"C"mon, now, c'mon, this is just a conversation." I stood to interpose myself between them. "Friendly conversation. We don't need to have another fistfight over a board game."
"Like hell we don't!" Libby shoved me aside. "Take it back! I ain't a damned racist! Racists are too dumb to be engineers anyway!"
"Might explain why my heating vent isn't working," Edmund growled. No hint of a rhyme.
"HEY! THAT'S AN INSINUATION! I'LL FUCK YOU UP -"
And so it went. They fought for a few minutes, I struggled to restore order, and I'm pretty sure I heard Fynn say "I really don't understand this game." I'm a little disturbed that he's able to ignore a brawl erupting in his face, but, hey, he's a stalwart kid.
That's that. Another day down, no communications established. Sigh.
Sincerely,
Dragomir the Wanderer
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