Tale of Trevelyan's Triumph

Fame is a curse. It opens a door to unrivalled scrutiny, public recognition, expectations of impossible perfection, and is generally not conducive to a long life in some professions. Nevertheless, a plurality of the group has embraced this status. Nakor tossed around silver coins to our welcoming committee as if his life depended on it. Now that I have seen how he publicly handles money, I can replace my earlier reservations about fiscal incompetence with major reservations about gross fiscal incompetence! False magnanimity and noble arrogance distilled into a single person; it could, of course, be part of some deliberate charade, and the conversation we had at Gilgenon's Garden 17 days ago leads me to suspect the latter. Though no longer a representative in any official capacity, Nakor still adheres to those standards of "otherwordly" conduct that members of Kang's extensive family are expected to abide by. Perhaps warming up before his act of rebellion? Well, I am one to make many premature assumptions about clinging on to organisational social codes and self-regulating behaviour. Sarcasm.
 
Later that day, I presented an ultimatum without clarifying what would happen in the case of rejection. Indeed, I failed to even word it as such: it probably sounded like an order, or bureaucratic complaining. Thus, I suppose I insisted on the crew employing specialists to better prepare for ridiculous excursions, which happen too frequently, and which lead straight to certain doom and disaster. Specifically, an alchemist. This non-negotiable proposal was met with unanimous approval, and on the subject of alchemy, Conn thought it appropriate to demonstrate his hobby (or hijack an excuse) and produced one of those primitive fuse-lit bombs that have no right to the designation of hand grenade. And he claimed to have single-handedly de-handed 500 Osnarians. To his credit, he initally claimed 1000, so we are dealing with a man of incredible humility. It is no wonder the resistance in Killbarrow appears to be failing; its supposed leaders care more about sawing off hands than they are with formulating battle plans.
 
Afterwards, I brought up the subject of the arenas. Conn, sensing a handy opportunity, was willing to give it a try. This was followed by a trip to it, where we were treated as guests of honour, and we watched the evening fights. The locals had managed to arrange a themed battle which was supposed to imitate our fight against the dragon; I am concerned about how the "dragonslayers" in the scenario managed to somewhat match our physical description. Are we that visually striking? In such a short timeframe? A black-and-white uniform is perhaps slightly out of place here. And Nakor's blue robe screams blue blood. Concrete personal information is, as of now, still personal. In the name of caution, I have decided to pose as Josephine for the foreseeable future. I needed to craft a legend of her regardless, and this is a reasonably good time and place to do so. However, the commemorative fight was followed by a long night of revelry at Master Mountain Respite, where I employed myself as a barmaid. I only changed clothes and combed my hair, but that was sufficient to make the others not recognise me at all! The notable event of the night was when Ohm, whom I have now determined to age randomly, became thirteen years old at around midnight. His cognitive functions are also affected by this, and he evinced a certain obstinate and angsty temperament; in short, he ignored my plea to leave, and plotted with the household troublemaker to consume large amounts of hard liquor. His alcoholic tolerance, even as a teenager, far exceeds my own. This is not a difficult task, but still!
 
The fights at the arena the next day were a simple affair. Josephine Trevelyan, émigre of Helonia, stood against Krork Deathsnarl, overcompensator of surnames. With strength unmatched, Deathsnarl swung fiercely; the air, unable to defend itself, suffered grievously; Trevelyan, seizing the advantage, felled him decisively. Conn was pitted against the local champion and won: not as handedly. Derision aside, it was an earned victory. Perhaps there is some truth in his boastfulness. This I say cautiously. The man charged a dragon, but bravery can be no substitute for survivability.