turning red

That Lance! Asking me personal questions in public, I mean really. And Sir Suitov there is no help. Those... those males! They'd let me blush myself into a red death!

Don't tell them, because I think they already know, but I love every minute of it.

So there's some newer folks around the Inn, and some old faces (Holy cheese, guys, we're OLD!), and everything's going amazingly well. I'm not sure what to make of it. Aren't there supposed to be ginormous dramas that give no-one time to actually think? Isn't my most pressing matter supposed to have cosmic significance beyond "damn, Weft's annoying?"

Oh well. Boo drama! Hooray beer pancakes, apparently!