40d:Stories/Archive 10

The lonely mason^DF

In my first successful fortress there was a mason. He was good at his work and enjoyed it. I tasked him with crafting a stone table, I placed it and made it a meeting hall and dining room (grumbles from nobles). In winter I was surprised and intrigued when a message popped up saying that the mason was throwing a party. I waited, but still no one joined him. For FOUR YEARS he repeatedly threw parties, but every other dwarf was always somewhere else at the time, even when dwarves were eating and he threw a party they just muttered and walked off. After this he became secretive and withdrew from society, to his workshop, there he made his master piece, a stone table of fine craft he named aralagra. He carried it everywhere with him and ate on it. But when he threw his last party, alone. The roof collapsed on top of him. His body was never found.

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STOP PRESS: Strange Rumblings in Newhomes of Water^DF

(An excerpt from the Dwarven Newspaper the Humble Bolt of Packs)

Tragedy has struck the once-proud Village of Irbom Arel as floods claimed the life of at least eight dwarves, including two children. Among the victims was the fey but brilliant craftsdwarf Feb Likotasen, whose wooden objete d'art were reknowned thoughout the world.

The freak surge of water, which inundated almost half of the fortress, appears to have been caused by a failing of the village reservoir system during refilling. Aban Vukcasfikod, who allegedly constructed almost all of the components in the system, and was constructing defences on the surface when the flood struck, has not made a statement, but the Humble Bolt of Packs can reveal that cause of the flood was mechanical. Engineers from Idithreg Limar have been dispatched to examine the site.

According to one source, the floodgate which controlled the flow of river water into a reservoir deep below the surface failed to shut, causing wells feeding from the reservoir to overflow and spill into the corridors.

Most of the victims were gathered in the unfinished meeting hall and statue park dubbed "The Red Room." Among them was Dumed Osustmorul, a rising star in the engraving world, who had recently finished the stunning renovation of Mayor Akrullod's chambers. She was to be the creative powerhouse behind The Red Room, having singlehandedly tranformed it from a mined out Kaolinite cluster into the social hub of the village.

At the time of printing, Mayor Akrullod and a visiting diplomat are still unaccounted for. It is believe the two are trapped in an unfurnished bedroom five levels below the surface. A rescue attempt has begun, with miners optimistic that the dwarves can be retrieved.

Luckily, it seems that most of the village's citizenry were close to the surface at the time, due to the recent arrival of a trading caravan, including Newhome's youngest inhabitant, a newborn girl who recently survived an abduction attempt by goblin raiders.

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The Channel Digger^DF

One day my favorite miner started working on his tunnel for the water to flow through. When he reached the water. It started flowing in to the cave and he ran for his life. Finaly at the door which would stop the water, he discovered the door was locked and he drowned. Because one of the mechanisems didn't work, the whole farm project failed and he gave his life for nothing. Poor digger.

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Sweet Likotasen's Baadasssss Song^DF

Oh, that Feb Likotasen! Immortalized on over a dozen engravings for the construction of her famed oaken amulet in the earliest days of Irbom Ardel, her most important achievement was perhaps the construction of over a thousand intricately carved arrows, which served the fort's fledgling army well against goblin besiegers. Why, she was practically considered a living saint! Alas, nothing lasts forever. As the years went by, the sight of so many of her pointy wooden children being crushed, shattered or swept aside must have sapped her sanity, for in the autumn of 1066 she flew into a terrible rage. Even Mebzuth Akrullod, he of the silver tongue, city-father and a hero in his own right, was unable to calm her; Feb throttled the life out of him in a fit of rage. Overcome by guilt, she was led away to her fate by The Hammerer, a wicked smile at play across his scarred features. Moments before the first deadly blow fell, the fury overcame her once more and she lashed out at The Hammerer, wounding him. With a howl, he fled to his lair in the bowels of the earth to nurse his wounds. The guards were to scared to go after someone who had bested their leader, and for days Feb Likotasen stalked the halls, her countrydwarves in staring in awe. But it was not to last. The Hammerer, his wound healed, sought vengeance, and slew her as she slept. So ends the story of Feb Likotasen, who created a treasure, saved a fort, slew a hero and shamed a noble.

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The named Mug^DF

One day Mebzuth ezumkebon locked himself in his craftdwarfs workshop and demanded lot's of stone. 6 stones. after only 5 minutes he came out with his newly created mug with the name Gimtishis. Waste of the stone...

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Rimrise's Tragedies^DF

Rimrise. A dwarven settlement on a savannah. The heat was almost unbearable for the dwarves in summer, and so they worked hard to build their underground haven in the cool soil. There, they found much mineral wealth - iron, hematite and magnetite in droves. They hollowed out living spaces. They planted farms. They hunted the bounty of the savannah. Rimrise was going to survive. By the autumn, they had many skilled dwarves, the labor was finally getting done, but there was always more to do. Always.

Hence, it came as a bit of a surprise when one dwarf's eyes suddenly lit up. A blacksmith by trade, he had been pounding out iron bolts and weaponry for the new four-strong militia to use when he was struck by some sort of inspiration. Straight from the fey, the leader called it. He seized the outpost's only forge, and began to work furiously. He widthdrew from society, becoming secretive. The only thing he knew was to work. He never said a word to anybody. Metal bar after metal bar he brought inside. Then he stopped. To those that came by he desperately sketched pictures of stacked cloth. The dwarves brought him cloth and cloth aplenty, dyed and not, from caravan, silk and rope reed, but all were rejected. Soon his sketches of cloth filled the blacksmith's shop, and that spark of inspiration in his eyes faded to melancholy as he could not find what he needed.

The dwarves kept trying. For month after month he remained cooped within that cramped workspace, sketching his ideas madly. Nothing was good enough. They thought perhaps he might need silk, but the elven caravan was gone and they had only traded for a single stack - not enough for the widthdrawn dwarf. When they finally told him that they didn't think they could get what he needed... something finally snapped within him. He rose up and charged around the workshops, straight up the stairs to the scorching hot surface after the sheriff, who remained blissfully unaware. While he was a skilled combat dwarf, the sheriff was schooled in marksmanship and shieldplay, not close combat. The strong hands of the blacksmith eventually overpowered him. On the stairs, he fell, slewn by another dwarf's bare hands.

The insane dwarf charged back down the stairs as the dwarves laboring under the hot sun on the surface took pause and screamed as they realized one of their most trusted members of the community was dead. Surprising a peasant on the lower level, which was still under construction, the dwarf took a mighty swing at him. His chest was pummeled again and again, until a rib broke free and finally speared his heart. The peasant slumped, lifeless.

Next came a dog, who struggled valiantly to no avail - nothing could stand in the way of this dwarf's steely, rough hands. A donkey foal was found easy prey. And finally, there came a miner, laboring away. He was heading to the mason's workshop, engraving the walls as he went in between mining duties. He saw the blacksmith's blood-drenched hands, and knew immediately what he had to do. His pick raised, crashed down, once, twice, three times. The insane blacksmith was mercifully no more.

Screams came from the surface, and in the chaos the militia stepped in. Soon they realized what had happened. The poor blacksmith, the two pets, the sheriff and peasant were all buried with full Dwarf honors, all victims of something that nobody could have prevented. Rimrise was left without a sheriff. Another was quickly appointed from the militia, one schooled heavily in unarmed combat. And just in time - other dwarves had lost their pets. One, in fact, one Kol Ozzereg, a fishery worker, had lost her precious dog. That dog was the only thing that had kept her from going insane, she said. Upon discovering his broken body, she buried him - and returned to her room to sob. The expedition leader tried to comfort her, to no avail - he was a mechanic, and only a novice in the speaking arts. Soon her sorrow turned to rage, and she toppled the local fishery on the surface - before starting a fistfight with a dwarf who was unluckily enough in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The sheriff responded alarmingly quickly, and seeing no other choice, tackled Kol to the ground. Blows rained down upon her. When it was over, her pelvis was nearly broken and her lower spine would be bruised for life. She received no prison term, however, since cages were few and far between and no metal ones had yet been made. She was dragged back to her bed, where she still rests for months on end - the fortress herbalists fear she may never walk the same. At last, however, she has forgotten about her poor dog.

Another mood. This time, a mug was made - the most beautiful mug that any dwarf in the fortress had ever seen. Made of native platinum, with images of laboring dwarves all along it, stubs of dolomite stuck out of it at all edges, a testament to fine dwarven craftsmanship. Such an expensive artifact attracted the wrong kind of attention, and soon thieves and snatchers were everywhere - the militia grew apace with them.

And alas, tragedy struck once again. The dwarf hamlet's oldest and wisest and most skilled miner was taken by a mood that none could predict. Once again, they could not satisfy his demands. Once again, they fear he will go insane.

This time, the militia was there. If he were to go insane, they would end his suffering in the true Dwarven manner. Better to be dead than insane. That, however, did not make it any easier for the brave dwarves who must end their comrade's life.

Some would say fortunately, his passing out of this world was not a violent one. He became melancholy and depressed, and took his own life. He was greatly missed by his compatriots, and was buried as a hero.

The fortress would have further posthumous heroes very soon.

A goblin ambush. Lashers and a spearman - five in total. They ambushed and slaughtered a woodsman, and then a hunter. Even his martial trance was unable to stop the goblins. Even as he sent bolts flying into the goblin ranks in every direction as they closed in on him, he was unable to stop them. They dragged him to the ground and a spear pierced his brain. He died a hero. Two of their strongest dwarves were now dead, and the fortress had no choice. Every single squad was drafted into one massive militia and readied. The defenses were readied, the main stairs sealed off with hatches, the barracks isolated and the bridges widthdrawn. The dwarves widthdrew inside, but even as they busily made preparations, the evil group crept through the bridges before they had a chance to retract them. A poor recruit was ambushed. His axe sang and danced through the goblin ranks like a warrior twice his age, beard, and skill, but he was dragged down and knocked unconcious. His blood stained the bridge where the dwarves fought valiantly, but even their touching display of valor could not save him. He died of exanguination as the battle was fought. A baby slipped from it's mother's screaming arms as she ran indoors, and drowned in the moat.

The dwarves had had enough. One of the marksmen, the most skilled one in the fortress, ran straight into the tiny horde of goblins and sent bolts ricocheting in every direction. Lasher after lasher fell, and he stood a wounded hero in the end, an elite marksdwarf. The fortress was saved, but they had lost a dog and three dwarves - the goblins had only lost five goblins. A horrible price.

Rumors circulate amongst the dwarves. Some think this site is cursed... That the strange moods that dwarves enter and never return to sanity are just the first step, the goblins the second, and something terrible the third and final event which will cripple the fortress before it could ever really become a fortress. Only time will tell...

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Goblins from hell raiding Rocksbowed^DF

This new fort of mine is a real piece of work! It has all the features (for now) it should have. On top of a high cliff facing some woodlands stands the keep of "Rocksbowed", a smaller fort with defensive towers and an elevated drawbridge. The walls are thick and the drawbridge is always up, these dwarves are apparently cautious.

Only selected trustable merchants are told of the hidden tunnel leading into the fortress. The call sign of this entrance is the statue formation on top and the moos of a chained muskox calf. When having passed the beast the tunnel leads across several bridges known too keep visitors from falling down a 50 meters deep chasm and exploding against the rock floor.

After the bridges the road circles a sealed battlement with no access from the road, making the defenders inside impervious to possible melee invaders. The acecess point is said to be from deep inside the dwarven habitat. Following the road further ends in the Trade Depot shining in alunite against the gloomy felsite walls, this one also encircled with battlements. Sometimes you can even spot the dwarves standing behind those fortifications, aiming their bolts at the guards. Although a safe place to trade in, it feels creepy.

I stayed behind after our caravan left this time, waiting for the dwarven broker to finish doing what he was doing. After trading he simply continued his chores ignoring me, leaving me by the depot to wait until he pleased to conduct our meeting.

With an ecstatic look on his face, ecstatic for a dwarf that is, and reeking of dwarven ale he finally showed climbing the broad staircase. Shaking my hand with a grip that could crush a rock into sand he greeted me, and told how he had been mining rubies. Also he added that he had finally been given some proper office furniture, and his complaints had made them exceed his expectations.

We arrived in his office and i amazed at the office. Urist now had golden furniture encrusted with what i identified as heliodors. Two statues, a table and two chairs. Quite the improvement from the sloppily made felsite table and chair. These new furniture items obviously had had some effort put into them.

My caravan long gone we sat and talked for awhile, and i immediatly expressed my interest in the rubies he had talked about, which made him frown quite badly. The dwarves have had a year of prosperity it seemed, as using currency for our trades was our main topic. The meeting carried on and we were served some delicious dwarven roasts of cave fish, plump helmets and cow cheese. Urist also brought some of the special ale reserve for us to enjoy, these dwarves really had a good last year.

The meeting was done, and i took my leave from "Rocksbowed" glad of how the negotiations had proceeded. Urist even promised me some rubies next time we arrived.

When passing the bridges on the way out, i noticed the silence in the entrance. The muskox always moos otherwise! This was when i saw the torches and the faded glimmer of grey iron armor on narrow silhouettes. Goblins!

Standing still for a couple of seconds, paralyzed, i could hear chewing noises and see one of the narrow creatures feeding on what obviously was the muskox. Suddenly i snapped out of it, and began silently sprinting down the tunnel picking up the pace as i got further from the gobbos.

INVADERS! I shouted at the top of my lungs when i arrived at the depot. The one guard standing there looked awfully calm, grinning at me. "It is taken care of, don't you worry" the stout warrior spoke. I noticed the bulk of the character, and the fact that he was wearing a full iron armor wielding an iron shield and spear. "I am assigned to guard you if you were to return here. They call me Battlegalley, i'm the strongest warrior here in Rocksbowed and that is not implying that my comrades are weak. You are safe, just relax"

Suddenly my shoulders dropped, and my body collapsed from the long sprint i had taken. Fear swept away as i remembered the dwarves' formidable defences, and the fact that the goblins would probably not pass the battlement on the way. As i sat down i admired the huge warrior, proud and stout in his mighty armor and weapons.

Screams were heard from the tunnel and Battlegalley reacted, the screams were dwarven. Another dwarven soldier came up the staircase, and ran up to my guardian. "It's the Dreadshaft goblins, they passed the arrows with their mighty shields" the soldier spoke, and i noticed figures running towards us from the tunnel. Battlegalley and his comrade ran up shouting a mighty battlecry, charging the goblins head on.

As i saw it, but i might be wrong as it happened in the blink of an eye, was like this. Battlegalley first thrusted at his adversary with a mighty blow, blocked by the goblins shield which then countered his attack instantly with a spear to the face, Battlegalley fell immediately. The other soldier fought defensively but bravely against two opponents before falling, and as i turned and ran something got stuck in my back and i passed out.

I woke up to the amazing care of dwarven healthcare, they really do everything to care for those injured in terms of bringing food and water. Unfortunately i heard that this viscious gobin raid had been the death of 17 dwarves. The Dreadshaft gobins are no joking matter apparently.

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The tale of General Kib^DF

Seven enterprising dwarves, tired of their old lives in the mountainhomes, decided to found their own settlement. It would be hard, they knew, but also very rewarding if they suceeded. They brought meat and alcohol, some pickaxes, an axe, an anvil, and a cat.

The seven dwarves surveyed their surroundings upon their arrival. Sheer cliffs, 80 feet tall, stood to the west and south; to the other, was a river, and a great chasm cleft through the mountains. To the north was a grove of trees and some more cliffs. The only way to leave now, was to hack through the antmen at the chasm's mouth.

The seven dwarves steeled their resolve, and set about making their home. One dwarf could administrate. One dwarf could mine. One dwarf could cut trees. One dwarf could work stone. One dwarf could cook, and gather plants. But none of these six dwarves are the hero of this tale; his name was Kib. And he could fish.

While the other dwarves dug, chopped, and hauled, Kib sat on his own by the river and fished. All the time, stopping only to eat, drink, or consume alcohol. He was so preoccupied with his fishing he never even went to the refuse pile to deficate. But, as the first winter came and went, Kib proved himself valuable to his settlement; since the river never dried, Kib was able to supply meat to the others all year round. Since the crops had been late in planting, Kib's fish kept all seven dwarves alive through winter.

Next year, the furnaces were running. The Furnace Operator pulled off a feat of magic: without any reagents or fuel, he produced a weapon of adamantine and armor of mithril. That day, there was a meeting in the fortress.

"We must clear the pass of antmen," declared the leader. Everyone had a reason not to be a warrior, but Kib's reason was weakest; since the crops were growing, Kib's fishing talents were no longer needed. So Kib put on his mithril plate mail, took up his mace, and marched towards the antmen blocking the pass.

The antmen were a fearsome sight. With more legs than brains, and more chitin plating than legs, Kib knew that these were beasts to be reckoned with. Still, the advantage was his: he had hacked wondrous metal equipment. He charged down the nearest antman, and struck in the leg with his mace, breaking it. It struck back, but its blow glanced off Kib's plate mail. Kib took out three more legs; then, with a grunt and a herculean swing, struck the beast and sent it flying against the cliff wall. He killed several more antmen in this fashion, clearing the pass to the fortress for traders and giving hope to his friends.

Kib's title of 'recruit' was replaced with 'general', and is now known as "Kib Worktrot the Carnality of Droplets, general". He has defended the fortress against dozens of ambushes, cleared the lining of a chasm of hostile beasts, and makes all residents feel safe.