40d:Stories/Archive 13

A dark day^DF

There was once a fortress called Urdimidok or Towerpoints some call it. This fortress lived through 2 years with only a minor food and lack of well problems. Everything was peaceful for the 65 dwarves that inhabited the fortress. The tunnels were dug deep. All the way to the magma river.

Then on the 27 Hematite of Early summer in the second year of its founding, Urdimidok had a dark day. In that one day 4 waves of attacks came. Each from a different source. A fire imp came through the magma river burning the metalsmiths as they ran for saftey. A troll popped out of the chasm and began pounding everything in its way. A troglyte crawled from the wells and began terrorizing the dwarves near by and the Lizardmen came in a wave of 4 from the river stalking my farms.

The fire imp was dispatched quickly by a near by sqaud but still burnt 2 from the squad of 5 dwarves. The troglyte was put down by some near by wardogs. At the price of one of the wardogs. The troll was not easily put down. It stormed through the main hall killing a squad leader towards the entrance where the human caravan was trading. With the human swordsmen help the troll was killed. The lizardmen how ever killed the sherif before being defeated.

The dwarves lost some good dwarves this day. Indeed it was when the day ended. Just as the dwaves put the last corpse away some naked mole dogs sprang from an ambush killing three more dwarves before being killed by some wardogs.

This is a bad day for the dwarves of Urdimidok.

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Genius Does Not Float^DF

On a sad day for the Dwarven people of Angsturstrasp Sagus, the Plane of Dawning, a lone metalsmith was taken with the legendary mood of the fey. He cloistered himself away in the forge, the only workshop yet built on the east side of the river. But the metalsmith's fey mood was for naught-his brother dwarves, having already witnessed a metalsmith wither and die from being unable to find the ore he sought, watched him carefully. When none of the ores presented to him passed inspection, the dwarves knew what had to be done.

The mechanic personally pulled the lever connected to the newly-installed "Instant Removal of Threat from Chasm Invasion System." The stone floodgates opened, and the underground river poured forth, flooding everything east of the river and finally pouring into the chasm. The fey metalsmith died in the heights of his fey mood, spared a long death of suffering. Alongside him was the dwarf responsible for naming the stronghold's various defensive systems-an empty-casket funeral, as he mysteriously fell down the chasm with a mysterious bootprint on his back. (Explanation: I had just rigged a system to flood any invasion from the chasm, and so when my metalsmith went into a fey mood and I couldn't provide the ore, I pulled the lever, drowning the fey metalsmith and nothing else. Sad, yes, but a better death than letting him berserk or starve himself.

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Ruspmon, "The Eternal Plane"^?

All the stories of Ruspmon are listed here.

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The Foul Masterpiece^DF

Likot Logemnokzam was an adept foodsmith who toiled long hours over the stove producing many a pleasing meal for his fellow dwarves. Unfortunately, Likot's talents went unappreciated; the little philistines would usually pass over his creations for a shriveled bit of stale mushroom or a slab of raw horse meat.

One afternoon, Likot was in an inspired mood. "If it's plump helmets they want, it's plump helmets they'll get!" He proceeded to mince the little purple caps with an expert hand, bringing out a host of subtle flavors previously undiscovered. Baking them ever so delicately, Likot turned out a small batch of exquisite biscuits and loudly announced his deed to the fortress.

His pride fell on deaf ears. Even the fort's many stewards ignored his accomplishment, and the biscuits sat in the kitchen aside many other meals which were already moldering.

The fortress keeper foresaw trouble. If this masterpiece were permitted to rot, Likot would grow enraged and throw a violent fit right in the busiest part of the fortress. The keeper doubled the number of stewards, hoping the biscuits would be transferred to the pantry, suitably preserved for later consumption. But steward after steward ignored the biscuits, inexplicably reasoning that the fort's scattered seed stock was the highest priority. Even Likot was seduced by this reasoning, strolling off to gather a seed instead of packing up the biscuits.

The mold on the other meals flourished. Surely at any instant, the prize biscuits would follow suit. And while dwarves had a great appreciation for lush beards, they did not seem to appreciate the green beard that had graced many a neglected dish of Likot's.

In desperation, the fortress keeper ordered the kitchen dismantled. There was a small chance the commotion would attract the stewards' attention to the kitchen again. Likot answered the call, and set to breaking down the workshop.

Lo and behold, the day was saved! As the kitchen's contents were removed, the biscuits were absent-mindedly placed in an adjacent pantry. The threat of mold was stemmed, and Likot was still able to hold out hope that some day a ravenous dwarf would come across his creation and experience fungal nirvana.

To this day, the biscuits remain untouched.

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The Lucky Trapper^DF

Reg Rakustunib was never a popular dwarf. All of her peers at dwarf trapper school made fun of her for her name in the human tongue: "Tombpages." As such, she spent most of her time with the dogs, practicing her animal care. Her crossbow went neglected.

One day, she hears rumours the the three-year-old fortress "Spikespaddle" had an overpopulation of stray dogs. Seeing a chance to restart her life, she sets out with a bunch of other migrants the next spring. Disappointment awaited her. There were only seven dogs there, all of them trained and assigned to the local military. She felt neglected. Nobody wanted to give her some work. All the other dwarves thought her a mere nuisance. Finally, fed up with her pesterings, the legendary miner Kib Enshalgusil tells her to go hunting, fully aware that the large herds of elephants have been known to kill.

Reg, of course, knew nothing of elephants, and she evidently had not seen the bas-reliefs in the dining room depicting the death of a metalsmith the year of the fortress' founding. She never even visited the graveyard to visit the poor smith's coffin.

Desperately wanting to gain acceptance in her new home, she picked up her unused crossbow and journeyed into the bright spring morn. She wandered about for days, baffled as to the absence of any game. Then, one fateful day she abruptly found herself standing a stone's throw away from a herd of mighty elephants.

"How did I not notice them?" she said. The thoughts soon dissipated as she saw her opportunity for fame and fortune. She lifted her unwieldy weapon, and for the first time in her life, fired a crossbow bolt.

The gods were with her that day! The fateful bolt sped true, striking an elephant in the chest, mangling both its lungs and its heart. The beast fell with a great trumpeting and slumped a few feet before life departed it. The other elephants, seeing their come-uppance in this ugly little dwarf, fled their assailer.

Reg, burning with awe and pride, forgot to return her kill. She thought she had a magic crossbow. Seeking to test her theory, she chased after the retreating elephants, but poor Reg, her luck abandoned her, and her next bolt merely angered a great beast, who then unceremoniously crushed her leg.

But by that time, a farmer had already retrieved the dead elephant and had pieced together the series of events. The news spread quickly. When Reg did not return to dine from her kill, Kib, the miner who sent her out in the first place, departed to seek her out. He found her crawling about, still trying to make another kill. He gently picked her up and returned her to the barracks. She lay there to this day, recovering and enjoying praise from her new friends, for in her they found the vengeance that, for all their toils, were unable to get for the fallen metalsmith.

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Last Stand of the Ratmen of Akrulbudam^DF

It was the year 1065, the dwarves of Akrulbudam had been at war with the ratmen for over 10 years now. Much blood had been spilled on either sides, tragedies were the most common sight in the kingdom. Many a great swordsman and marksdwarf had succumbed to their might, and fallen into the abyss, never to be seen again. It was time to end the war, preparations had been made, but it was never fully decided whether or not to continue looting from the dead ratmen, as a source of trade, or extinguish their race for ever and begin an era of prosperity and peace. The last lever was built, and linked to. Only one task remained before the lever were to be pulled and engulf the ratmen in the flames of wrath ; removing the floodgate which had kept the ratmen at bay and stopped them from a northern invasion which would have endangered the metalsmithing dwarves of the north east. But the dwarves realized a better solution would be to simply mine around it, creating more space for the lava to flood through and hastening the defeat of their foes. Several miners went in through the tunnel which soon would never be tread upon again, and dug out areas, breaching the walls that had stop the ratmen for so many years. Time was of the essence, if they did not hurry, ratmen would take their opportunity, spring from the chasm and continue their pillaging. Several walls of rock were knocked down, but more will still to be removed if they wanted the ratmen gone quickly. As Alath, Monom and Dumat walked towards the mining locations, about to finish the job, what they had feared would happen, happened. Six ratmen, lead by a named ratmen Ounl, jumped out and attacked Alath, surrounding him quickly. Monom and dumat were still some distance from him, and seeing his arms and limbs ripped from him, they fled, as any dwarf would have. Two of the ratmen stayed to feast, while the bulk of them chased the eye witnesses who would report their discoveries. Remembering that the lever was working, Monom quickened his speed through the long narrow tunnel, already deciding the fate of 2 dwarves was a lesser evil compared to the lives of all the dwarves that could be spared if he did this one dark deed... Monom took the right exit out of the tunnel, for staying left would have only been a dead end at the floodgates to the magma flow, which soon would be opened anyway - a very unpleasant location to be at for the time. Dumat, sensing what Monom had planned, also began to run faster, trying to get out before it was too late, but Ounl and his rats were close on dwarves. Monom made it out and ran right around the corner, where the lever had been conveniently placed. Dumat was still far away when Monom reached the lever, and had not made much progress once it had been pulled. Dumat recognized the sounds of the gears moving, of what it meant, that a floodgate was opening, and he knew exactly which one based on how close it was. His heart racing, he made it out of the cave, turned around and tightly closed the now forbidden door that the ratmen were about to enter. Not a moment too soon either, for the lava had been making its way, at a surprising rate, towards the hallway. Despite his vicious clawing and pounding, Ounl could not break down the large stone door that had sealed his fate. The magma rushed through the hall, and as Ounl stared at his fate while his comrades fled, he realized the pointlessness to all the war he had waged on the dwarves, accepted his fate, and let the magma engulf him in a firey unforgiving wave of retribution. The magma continued, devouring the remaining ratmen, and ending Alath's missery before the ratmen could eat more of him. It was the beginning of the end for the ratmen. They would no doubt continue to attack the dwarves from the exit at the bridges, but soon their home would be no more, their holes, filled with molten rock, and their race would be gone for ever...

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The Colossus of Otambomruk "Nosewhip"^DF

A masterpiece of a bronze statue stands watch over the twin bridges of the mighty frozen river. It is a herald of our might. Those who cross these bridges know that they will face the warriors of Otambomruk, and their fate is heralded by this monument to our vengeance. This statue was not always immobile. Once, it was a living creature, a bronze Colossus that went by the terribly pleasant sounding name Nepema Omiceledo Relemeraca.

It was Autumn of 1058 when Nepema Omiceledo Relemeraca entered our valley. At first, all was well and quiet. The beautiful beast was a marvel: twenty feet tall and with the face of a king. It's metal gleamed so bright in the faint sun of our wintry home that we were blinded. We thought it a friend. It was not to be so.

A simple fox disturbed the fiend's gentle repose. It bounced across his lap, and Nepema Omiceledo Relemeraca took great offense. It was here that the monster's true character was revealed. For we have learned that precious metal a good heart does not make. Nepema Omiceledo Relemeraca took alight and charged the fox, chasing it back and forth across the valley. Loki bless its soul, the fox was too quick for the monster, and was never caught.

But the sight of the metallic monstrosity striding across our land was too much for our excitable war dogs to ignore. Two charged it. We heard the colossus chuckle, and then howl, as one of the dogs tore out his right eye with teeth that surely were adamantite. Nepema Omiceledo Relemeraca erupted into a furious rage. He smashed one dog into the ground, and severely wounded the other.

The wounded dog began a pathetic escape to our fortress door. Nepema Omiceledo Relemeraca never slowed in pursuit. When the gate was reached, several of our Royal Guard were napping outside (as is their habit). Eventually roused from their slumber by the earth shaking steps of the colossus, they attacked, barehanded but with dwarven spirit. Their wrestling talents would not bring this monster to bay, and they were quickly dispatched.

Now Nepema Omiceledo Relemeraca was truly upset. He began to pound at our doors. We assembled all of our military. We drafted all carpenters who knew their way around an axe, and all miners handy with a pick.

We fought.

The Colossus broke through. Many brave recruits, eager to prove themselves, exploded in fury at its feet. They lived short but legendary lives. Our Marksdwarves took up strategic positions and fired bolt after bolt into the creature. Our well-trained Swordsdwarves, veterans of a goblin invasion and killers of many wolf packs, moved in.

The battle was long, and our casualties were heavy. We lost thirteen dwarves and thirteen dogs. Indeed ill numbers and perhaps an ill omen. But in the end, Nepema Omiceledo Relemeraca fell. He fell to our swords and arrows and axes. He fell to our hearts. For we stood together, and fell together, while he lived and died alone. We go on. But he will forever only be a monument, a warning to those who would seek to face the might of Otambomruk.

If you cross that river, and pass that statue, twenty feet high and now lifeless, you will face the same fate.

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A Carpenters Dream^DF

One day in Slinglabored, a god forsaken treeless, plantless, freezing and terrifying land of ice wolves and polar bears, Zas Onulaval was training at the archery range. He quickly became bored and left to go drink from the well.

The water was bitter, having been affected by the miasma of a recently killed ice wolf left on the ground unattended. Zas stopped drinking it soon, fearing what might happen. "You don't like it either, eh?" said a familiar voice from behind him. Reg Tiristes patted Zas on the back, "Don't worry, they say soon we'll be making barrels again, and you know what means! More booze!" Zas managed to crack a smile at his old friend's drunken nature, for Zas was never much of a drinker.

Things hadn't been going well for Zas recently, the wolves had been getting more aggressive, and had killed dozens of unfortunate dwarves that wandered into the cold. Being one of the old 3 trained marksdwarves, alot of pressure was put on him to defend the hundred odd dwarves remaining. Food stocks had also been running low, causing a small panic that might lead to a riot, a riot Zas might have to put down most likely alone being so understaffed.

But he always had Reg at his side, his only friend from that hole in the wall they called home.

"Zas, I've been thinking about this amazing idea, I've been dreaming about it for nights now, I think I'm going to propose it to the Manager and see if he accepts today!" Reg said suddenly, almost hysterically. "That's great! What's your idea?". "It's really hard to explain, but i know exactly what I need, and I'll show you when I'm finished, it will rock your world, I know it will!"

Zas waited outside the manager's office, until Reg walked out, looking gloomy, and depressed. "What did he say?" Zas inquired, already knowing the answer. "That idiot, he has no artistic appreciation! He wouldn't accept my plan!" Reg growled.

Reg stomped off, cursing in dwarven tongue. Zas, curious, walked into the office and asked the manager why he wouldn't accept his friend's idea.

"His demands for the project were outrageous. Didn't he even tell you?" Manager Fath Kolbiban snapped. "Well, no, actually, he didn't, he said it was a surprise." "Yes, it definitely would be quite a surprise to use the ONLY remaining wood in this town for such a ridiculous cause, as well as our ONLY steel which has taken us 3 years to make!!" Kolbiban yelled.

Zas left the office, realizing the manager was right this time and Reg wasn't being realistic. In fact, he wasn't being himself at all lately...as though he was posessed by someone else's desires..

He only barely noticed the large crowd outside the workshop department which managed to interupt his thoughts. A large ruccus had started, "Did you hear?" said one gossiping dwarf. "Yes! Reg's gone mad! He's taken over the carpenter's shop and he's stealing our rarest supplies for some project hes been rambling about lately."

Zas was alarmed, this wasn't like Reg at all. He pushed through the crowds to the door and into the workshop. There, he saw something he never dreamed would happen.

Reg was holding an iron battle axe; guarding the steel bars and treecap wood he had stolen. The Colonel, an axedwarf, and another marksdwarf stood patiently by, waiting for Regs next move.

"Zas!! You're here! Thank Armok. You need to help me finish my project before these fools ruin it!!" Reg blithered excitedly, almost in a different voice.

"Reg, put the axe down, you know I can't let you do that, I'm a soldier.." Zas said with sympathy for his clearly crazed friend.

"But Zas!! You're my friend! I just need a few more gems and it will be finished! Please Zas, please!!" Reg said, tightening the grip on his iron battle axe, sweat steaming off of his forehead.

Zas raised his crossbow relucantly, as the other marksdwarves had. "Reg...please...put the axe down...lets talk about this...I don't want to hurt you." Zas pleaded.

"You...you're not going to help me... I see... I see how it is.. No one here believes in me anymore... I've heard the dwarves whispering, I've heard their mockery. But Zas, I never thought you of all dwarves would turn your back on me. You leave me no choice Zas. I have to do what Gorthon commands me to... I HAVE TO!!!", and with that, Reg charged Zas with his axe in hand, raised above him.

A flurry of bolts flew at Reg, as though his step toward Zas triggered a response to the marksdwarves.

Reg dropped his axe, blood covered the ground and walls; 4 iron bolts pierced his chest and arms. He fell to his knees, and looked up at Zas. "Z..." he said, raising his blood and sweat soaked hand towards Zas.

Zas lowered his crossbow, and tears raced down his cheek, into his beard, drenching it. Dwarves weren't supposed to show emotion, especially not military dwarves. There was no room for emotion in such an unforgiving place.

He made his way to the archery range, and went back to practicing his shot...

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The War of Hoof and Horn^DF

Zonosor, or “Helmkingdoms,” was founded in 1052 by Dwarves of Esesthan. These Dwarves were not the most adventurous type, and chose a mild-weathered forested region that was positively serene. A herd of Unicorns even nuzzled them as they crossed the river. Thanking the gods for guidance, the Dwarves began digging into the mountain and bringing industry to the region. Workshops were built, tunnels dug, and entire forests felled to feed the fires of the great furnaces and smelters. The serenity of the outside was soon forgotten.

This remained the state of affairs for three years. In that time, little attention had been paid to the surface, other than where more trees could be obtained. True, a rather zealous greenhorn Trapper had been killed after attempt to tackle a Unicorn, but such was the life of a trapper. The Dwarves much preferred their Plump Helmets to meat, anyway.

Peace at Zonosor was shattered on the 13th of Timber, 1055. On that day, Alath Sikelreg, Crafter of Beds and Feller of Trees, was struck down by a Unicorn. Alath had done nothing to endanger the Unicorn, and at first the attack was hardly to be believed. Accusations were leveled at the great Alligator who remained at large. But no, reported a solemn Overseer, the culprit was undeniably a Unicorn.

Many a beard was torn at the death of Alath, and oaths of vengeance sworn. The militia, consisted of three Swordsdwarfs and a Marksdwarf, crossed the stone bridge to defend the lumberfields. Within hours they were bloodied. Morul Oburkilrud, a most melancholy Marksdwarf, was ambushed and slain almost immediately. Nevertheless, on the 15th, Unicorns were routed from the Lumberfields by the Swordsdwarfs. Congratulating themselves on their victory, the soldiers turned for home.

But lo! The treacherous Unicorns, led by the great steed Bonunzokun, had circled around the Dwarven rear, cutting off the Militia from the bridge! Knowing that it was do or die, the brave Swordsdwarfs once again charged the Unicorns, breaking through to the safety of Zonosor. For some days the Dwarves remained in doors, but presently the herd moved off to the west.

On the 5th of Obsidian, they returned. Bonunzokun revealed his skills as a tactician, sending in a young colt to jam the traps placed at the entrance to Zonosor. Leaping over the filleted corpse of their comrade, four Unicorns wreaked havoc in the forward chambers. Dumont Limulsteok, a Peasant, was “grounded into a fine Dwarven paste,” in the words of one witness. Half a dozen more were grievously wounded; several would die in later months. Likot Onulrun, Swordsdwarf and veteran of the Timber Campaign, was the first soldier to respond. His punctuality was rewarded with a horn to the heart, but his charge was credited with turning back the Unicorns. Unfortunately, the drawbridge across the river was raised in the confusion, causing young Datun Sodelonol to disappear into the rushing torrent.

But the Unicorns were also confused; three, including Bonunzokun, fled into the Old Quarters, where Dwarves had lived before the crossing of the river. The quick-thinking Dwarfs immediately slammed shut the doors, trapping the three beasts. Ironically, the one Unicorn who made the right turn was subsequently butchered by the entrance-traps.

Following the burial of their dead, the Overseer brought together a Court of Justice. He charged Bonunzokun and his herd with war crimes, including: Crimes against Dwarfdom, Impediment of Industry, and Waging a War of Bestial Aggression. In a terrible voice, the Overseer pronounced the sentence against the Unicorns (who, due to being locked in the kitchens, were tried in absentia): Death by Drowning.

Quietly, the Dwarves went to work. Walls were knocked out, doors removed, and anything of value carried away. Bonunzokun and his accomplices remained oblivious. At last, on the 19th of Obsidian, Sheriff Sigun Melbiliden walked down the short corridor, spat on the door and pulled the lever. The floodgates to the auxiliary farms opened, releasing a torrent of water that submerged the old dining hall, barracks, and kitchen, where the Unicorns remained. For all their strength, the beasts proved poor swimmers and quickly succumbed.

With their Great Steed dead, the Unicorns were ill-equipped to resist the persecution carried out by Dwarven trappers and the human mercenaries who arrived with every caravan. By the autumn of 1056, only a handful of the creatures remained.