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40d:Stories
These are stories created by users based on their experiences in-game. They take what happened in-game, and go into more detail. Feel free to add your own!
Ducim Kizesttulon Etagzunek, Champion
This is the story of Ducim Kizesttulon Etagzunek's rise to champion status and earning the respect of his fellow dwarfs.
Ducim enter Ostoslan (Foldedwound in human tongue) as a simple peasant. At that time the outpost was in need of a small defence force to protect the hard working dwarves from the dangerous wildlife in the area, so Ducim was drafted into the unexperienced force of recruits as a marksdwarf. But before Ducim was able to train in the art of the crossbow the fortress was attacked by a party of goblins that where meant to be a siege. As the dwarven force was only recently founded all the recruits had little or no experience in there weapon, but the dwarves managed to hold out against these weak goblins with 4 casualties and Ducim killing 3. Seeing Ducim's success in smiting the goblins many dwarves where turned into marksdwarves and for the next year the dwarves trained.
Early next year the dwarves where visited by a human caravan with many great warriors which the dwarves looked up to, but while the fortress traded for extra food and animals, the Dragon Usmok Karaostri Palathmistrum arrived seeking to take the riches that the fortress held. Seeing the Dragon coming Ducim prepared the troops for battle but some where still recruits and many where scared by the sight of the approaching Dragon. The Dragon raced at the troops and started roaring fire at the scared recruits but the marksdwaves (seeing as that was what most of them where) all opened fire at the ferocious beast striking it all over but it was Ducim that scored the killing shot which struck the Dragon in the head. Ducim was promoted to legendary status after that shot and was loved throughout the fortress for it, evening winning the heart of one of the first settlers of the outpost.
But after one season the fortress was attacked by the next siege this time 3 battalions, this outnumbered the force of dwarves ready to fight for the fortress. The battle that followed was a bloody fight, all of the recruits where killed by the merciless goblins and even all the trained dwarves could not survive the force of the goblins with the only survivor being Ducim but not after she was wounded in the head by a hammer and shot in the arm. She was quickly raced into her room and stayed there unconscious for 3 years while her wounds healed. Her husband spent every spare second looking after her and cared for their 1 year old son.
When she woke up the fortress was a different place, the population was nearing 100 and the dwarves where all new and unfamiliar to her, but with her husband by her side she was shown down to the new barracks and was quickly informed of the 3 battles that had pass with all but one being succsesfully defended. But the loss of life was huge and Ducim new that this fortress needed proper defences. And with her as the guide the fortress was equipped with a moat and traps to prevent the vile goblins from getting into the fortress. But before the defences could be completed the fortress was attacked by the largest siege yet, 12 battalions of goblins charged at the unprepared fortress. Duncim rallied the troops and prepared for another battle with the goblins she hated so much. The goblins stopped at the edge of the half prepared defences and their leader Hammer Lord, Estrur Astruksodur stepped forward and called at the dwarves "Is this it? The fortress that has been defying my attacks has been a half developed hole in the ground?" The goblins behind him laughed wickedly at their leaders remarks, the recruits where scared stiff by this display of power, but Ducim was not shaken. She simply drew out her crossbow aimed at the ugly creature that stood before her and fired. The shot hit the ugly face of the goblin leader and his body crumpled forward and he fell into the half dug channel that surrounded the fortress. The goblins around the Hammer Lord stared in silence at the dead body of there leader and quickly turned tail and fled. The Dwarves cheered at Ducim and she was instantly crowned a champion, the rest of the goblins now unnerved by the death of their leader charged at the dwarves but they where cut down by the now up lifted dwarves.
Duncim still lives to this day and is the leader of the military at Ostoslan, and is looked up to by all the recruits. Since that battle the goblins have been sending out small battalions of men which are cut down by the defences the Ducim finished and since the construction of the defensives there have only been 10 casualties in battle. Duncim the Champion, the Lover (she has 7 kids) and defender of Ostoslan.
They Tried, Anyway
The small outpost of Complexgate, founded by the Syrup of Murders, was founded far from the old mountainhomes of the Iron of Indignation, and its inhabitants expected to get plenty of harassment from the local goblins and kobolds with little support from the rest of the kingdom. What they didn't expect was to be beset every year by as many goblin warriors as there were dwarves in the fortress, envious of dwarven wealth and dwarven beards. Traps alone would not suffice to hold off the encroaching raider bands, and the Fortress Guard had to be kept in reserve as a last line of defense should the tunnels themselves be breached. The first batch of recruits came, of course, from dwarves who lacked any useful talents. With nothing else to lose, these soldiers accepted that they would be expected to lay down their lives for the fortress.
After months of drilling and training, the militia came to be good friends, with each other and with the Fortress Guard, and love blossomed amidst the camraderie in more than one instance. Two of these star-crossed lovers were Domas Oddomegast and Dodok Athelerib, a pair of noble, full-bearded souls who were admired and well-liked by the whole fortress. Alas, tragedy befell when the fisherdwarves were ambushed by a lone goblin maceman before Complexgate's southern entrance (the Syrup of Murders has more than lived up to that name; it's very easy to get lost in Complexgate). The first to arrive on the scene as Bomrek Risentashem breathed his last was Domas, gripping his steel hammer with determination no softer than the cold metal. The goblin scarcely threw its shield up before Domas crushed it to the ground, smashing its chest in through its thick iron mail.
Yet no sooner had Domas claimed victory, lifting his warhammer and shield in exultation while Dodok and his fellow soldiers looked on with smiles and cheers, when a iron-tipped arrow zipped down from atop the westward cliff and bounced off the rocks at Domas's feet. Cold horror gripping his heart and slowing his thoughts, the hammerdwarf could only look up the unsympathetic chalk rock face, to the dark figures standing atop, silhouetted by the setting sun. Finally urging his sluggish body to motion, he made a desperate dash for the fortress doors, but it was too late. Clever goblin eyes picked out the chinks in his formidable steel plate, and cunning goblin fingers sent cold metal piercing through those gaps; in a hail of goblin arrows, Domas cried out and fell, never to rise again, hammer and shield falling from his lifeless grasp as his lover and friends looked on helplessly, in horror.
Dodok was never quite the same after that. She threw herself into every sparring match; soon she surpassed poor Domas in mastery of arms, becoming one of the mightiest soldiers of Complexgate. Yet perhaps she worked too hard; it was not at the hands of goblins that she met her end, but her fellow dwarf and friend, the morose Hammer Lord Rith Rithodgub, who accidentally struck her down while they sparred. Rith had lost his own lady love, Ber Rithkodor, to the goblins before killing one of his remaining friends. Already inclined to sadness and melancholy, Rith lives on, though almost all of his comrades from the old days have perished in battle, and the thin-bearded striplings who have taken their place cannot understand why his voice quivers sometimes, and his hands shake pathetically when they are not clutching hammer and shield.
The Situation Worsens
(read the below introduction or just view the image with knowledge that this is my first fortress)
It was my second spring, and my already bad situation was becoming worse fast. After jumping into the world for the first time with my wiki-supported build, i was working my way through my first year. It was going relatively well, as far as I knew, but I was slowly running out of supplies. By the time the traders came for the first time I wasn't prepared. Though, driven by the knowledge that my meat supplies were already naught, I quickly build a trade depot and managed to trade a mechanism for a small portion of meat. Admittedly, I did not build these to trade them. Sadly the stone items I had crafted for trading were sacrificed to their dwarven leader due to a large misreading on my part. This is a mistake which, I can only assume, was the trigger for my problems in the future. As the trading caravan moved away I tried to prepare for a long winter with low supplies. My food quickly ran low and, left only with seeds due to a large farming accident involving a (poorly)controlled flooding system, most of my dwarven inhabitants were soon hunting for vermin to survive. Though my hope was diminishing I kept struggling to keep my team alive. One day as I was orchestrating their movements I glanced to the bottom of my screen, and to my amazement I read the words "Spring has arrived!". I was not only delighted, but now filled with ideas and hope. So i began to work towards recovering, but because of my lacking knowledge and experience (not to mention the constant flooding of my farm), I could only maintain my current state. I worked along, but one day...
(I wasn't quite expecting the 18 new immigrants in the middle of spring...
invasion of the ratmen
It was the third of autumn of the dwarven expedition to this mountain. Everything was great. They were trying to build over the monstrous magma river. All effort was put on getting the steel for the bridge. The outposts warrior was out getting wood for the winter. Then the ratmen came. The dwarves had met them before. Two or three at a time. This was the ratmen's final attack on the dwarves. 20 ratmen snuck up on them killing all but the dwarf far away. When He came back he went crazy, killing all, or so he thought. One last ratman snuck up and pushed the brave dwarf off the edge falling to his death.
A harsh winter
It was a harsh winter, my barreled fish had run out all too soon. My Dwarfs were miserable, some had resorted to vermin. My fisherdwarf was being enterprising, fishing alone in the cavern stream. Unfortunately frogmen jumped from the icy waters and surrounded him biting and pummeling him. He was rescued but the event caused him to lose what little was left of his sanity. He began to start fist fights. He started one with the metal worker, the fisherman's faithful dog interrupted him - he took out his cross bow and shot his only pet dead. (He was later killed by the rest of the dwarf clan.)
A small problem
Sankis got that small problem after trying to flood a room:
File:Lolflood.jpg(picture currently doesn't work)
The Dog Dwarves of Inktin
In the year 1052 they arrived at the site of their future mountain fortress, hungry, tired, cold, and with a wagon full of dogs and rum. The rum was quickly drunk, but the dogs stayed with the dwarves as they carved out their home. The dogs... they multiplied. Soon they outnumbered the dwarves many times over. As a visitor in a passing caravan or as a new migrant, you'll find that their home is the safest in all the lands, being guarded by endless hordes of vicious wardogs.
If you spent any time around them however, you'd find them a bit peculiar. They wore leather, lots of it. They made fine crafts of stone and bone... lots of bone. And their larders were always well stocked with meat that tastes unlike most meals that you'd find anywhere else. At that point a thought would strike you and you'd excuse yourself, edging your way out the dining room then running for the exit and your trading wagons, eager to flee, past the kitchen doorway, through which you'd see lots of adorable little puppies milling about a large slab, covered with blood and with a cleaving knife laid across it, a steady stream of bones and hides being borne out towards the workshops.
They really do love their dogs at Inktin.
Parabolart's Carpenter
"Great. My carpenter got possessed and all he made was a wooden barrel. He gave it a name though!" -- parabolart
You could sell it. Gairabad 23:17, 10 November 2008 (EST)
The Lunatic Child
Right before our second winter, a child was born - as his mother was attacked by a pack of frogmen at the well. Strategic parts of the ceiling collapsed on the frogmen and a pair of marksdwarves down the hall opened fire, slaying the intruders where they stood, even as the child Edem came into the world. Edem's mother, Lokem, died of thirst in the winter: she was so distraught over her rambunctious son that she never took a drink of water. At the beginning of the following summer (our third at Netdune), Edem was possessed by a fey spirit. Into a craftdwarf's workshop, he took a turtle shell and two rolls of cloth, one of pig tail and one of spider silk. A month later, he emerged a Legendary Bone Carver. In his Extremely Tough hand lie Onshenfikuk Dalkamkizest Ozor, or "Chantfields the Lean Zeal of Subtetly." Edem had changed: he was Strong and Very Agile, and still less than a year old.
My First Fortress
As I said, the fortress I'm playing is my first, and I assumed it was doomed. I never got farming going the first year, and I was low on food through the winter. I read here about slaughtering mules and horses, so I did that, and that helped. Although when the first horse was slaughtered like 6 dwarves gathered around and then were kind mopey about it having "witnessed death." Then in early spring, when the farm got running (I never did make a working floodgate, but I just let the river flood my fields) I figured I might just make it. Then the frogmen came and attacked my farm. They struck down one of my peasants but the rest of the dwarves beat the frogmen with their bare hands.
Then a trapper started throwing a tantrum. She was doing it in her sleep, so I look, and she was married to the dead peasant, AND had a miscarriage, so was distraught over that. I was going to put a door on her room and lock her in, but she got better. But then later on when the human caravan showed up (with nothing but food ) she went nuts again and struck down a peasant herself. Then she ran off next to the lake and I figured she'd mope herself to death.
Nope. She eventually came back in and started hitting people. The carpenter smacked her right in the head (yellow!) and she finally went back to her room to lie down. I ordered a door put on her room but she went nuts when the laborer came by to do it and ran out (with a wounded head!) and smacked a jeweler in the head as well. Finally I got a door on her room, and when she went back in, I locked the door. So now she's in there raging and throwing tantrums, but I am NOT going to let her out. I've lost enough dwarves over all her PMS.
-- Doctor Zero (Aug 21, 2006)
Postscript: She eventually calmed down and hadn't thrown a tantrum for quite a while, so I started feeling bad for her. Who wouldn't go a little nuts after losing a husband and baby? So I let her out of her room, and she immediately runs down to the dining room and strikes down a peasant. Before I can do anything about it, a dog comes out of nowhere and rips off her arm and tears out her abdomen. She struggles with the dog for a while, rapidly losing strength. She finally slips unconscious. The dog, now tired from the struggle, proceeds to slowly (and I mean SLOWLY) tear her apart limb from limb right there in the entry to the dining room. It took so long, she woke up halfway through and started struggling with the dog, but only having one good limb at this point was kinda detrimental. She finally bled to death.
The Secret Desire
A healthy colony of dwarves was bolstered by the arrival (as usual) in early fall of a metalsmith. She was a hearty and jolly spirit named Etur, and she worked hard to become a part of the thriving community.
Soon after Etur arrived, a trader caravan of two mules was spotted in the distance, across the river. Unfortunately, that side of the river was also the domain of a crazy herd of elephants, and some vicious tigers. As the caravan drew closer, the elephants charged and stomped one of the mules and it's attendant. The rest of the caravan was scattered to the four winds, and the corpse remained with oodles of booty for looting laying out on the ground around the mule's corpse.
After some quick raiders managed to bring some bolts of silk back to the fortress, Etur was entranced by the beautiful fabric. She thought of nothing more all day than getting herself a bolt and fashioning a dress, and maybe a collar for her cat. But the elephants and tigers across the river meant that salvaging anything from the corpse was risky.
But one night, while the rest of the community lay snuggly in their beds, Etur and her cat set out towards the river. After crossing the bridge and seeing no Elephants in sight, Etur made a mad dash for the stash, kitty in tow. But just as she began to head back, silk tucked under her arm and cat chasing behind her,a rogue elephant came charging after her. She ran as fast as her stumpy little legs could take her. In a heartbeat, she was across the bridge and heading for home, but the elephant stormed across and stomped her into paste.
As the insane pachyderm left her corpse behind, Etur's cat cuddled up at her lifeless feet. Her comrades remained asleep and did not find her body until the next morning.
The Tragic Miner
Kol Sedilònul had a good life at the fortress of Atöllogem (translated as "Findpaint" in the human tongue). She worked hard day in and day out at her mining duties, and attained the rank of Legend. How could she have know that the day ònul Eraraban arrived at the settlement would be the beginning of the end for her?
Despite the master's prohibition against hunting, ònul set out for the wilds immediately after arriving to see what beasts he could trap or kill. Unfortunately, he decided to try his luck against a herd of gorillas. Even more unfortunately, he lived through his massive head injuries and managed to crawl back to the barracks.
For the next year, ònul spent his time tantruming in the corner bed, refusing to let his wounds heal. One day he finally snapped, took up his crossbow, and shot three other dwarves before being put down by the highly trained swordsdwarves of Atöllogem. One of those three was Kol.
Though she took only a glancing blow to the head, Kol was never the same after that day. She found herself losing consciousness on the way to the dig sites. When she woke up, she would painfully crawl back to her bed, by which time she felt strong enough to go back to work, only to pass out again and again.
On the final day of her life, Kol felt herself swooning. She summoned all her rage, fought back against the darkness, and stayed on her feet. She knew she couldn't go on like this... so she went straight to the only bridge across the cave river and dropped it out from under herself, frustrating the sheriff, who despite his best efforts couldn't shackle her drowned corpse. Kol had washed up on the far side of the river, just a few paces away from the newly dug tombs.
Olon the Kinslayer, leatherworker of Yore
So I barely made it through the winter. Didnt have to eat the dogs, but I was at the point where half my dwarves were hunting for vermin, while my few desperate fisherman fished up a storm from the underground river, and tried to clean the damn things at a pace to meet demand. Lost a dwarf to starvation, but made it to spring and finally got some crops in the ground. My early spring migrants doubled my population, bringing all sorts of useless talent (oh hurray... more jewelers...).
The only solution of course was to make the jewelers hunters. Armed with the few crossbows I had around, or their fists, Olin and Edem set out to hunt deer. Edem has become a rockstar, wrestling 5-10 deer to death, occasionally deigning to fire fish bone crossbow bolts to do the job. Olin on the other hand got his ass handed to him, and is currently being starved to death in his room.
Now then, this finally brings us to my story. As a result of having all this deer carcass to process, I set the butchery to repeat butcher, and rooted around to find my one novice butcher, and set him to work. A day or so later, tragedy strikes. "Olon Erithseneb has been taken by a fell mood! Olon Erithseneb has killed Vabok! Olon has claimed a butchery!"
So here I am panicking a moment. As I take a look, it appears he entered his little craftsmen's trance, seizing the butchery for his holy/unholy work (already I am a little concerned). As my butcher was currently in there trying to butcher deer at a frantic pace, murder was obviously the answer.
So after a day or so of dedicated work, Olon emerges victorious having created this:
Olon Erethseneb has created Kessoshosh, a dwarf leather leggings!
Now unless I am misunderstanding this, his fey trance led him to murder a fellow countryman.... and create pants from his still bleeding corpse.
Simply stunning. He is of course a legendary leatherworker now... I can only hope he will be happy working with more mundane materials in the future....
The Goblin Siege
In the early spring of 1058, the glorious dwarven fortress of Faththatthil, or "Sackautumn" to the merchants, entered the 6th year of its reign. Nearly 100 dwarves had hollowed a massive dwelling out of the sheer mountainside. Food and drink were in plenty, all dwarves were content, and children roamed the halls.
Without warning, the Dwarves were suddenly besieged by a massive host of Goblins. The moat ringed the outside perimeter of the mountain, called Shantytown for its hodgepodge collection of workshops. There were three entrances, the North, South, and West bridges. All of the local soldiers were standing down, practicing archery, or sleeping in their beds. They were quickly roused by a call to arms. Dwarves ran through the halls, grabbing weapons, shoving on armor, drafting a militia.
The ragtag group assembled on the West Bridge, guarded by a now ammo-less ballista. It's sole shot had been used to destroy a renegade carpenter, and had not been reloaded recently. First one squad arrived, then two, then nearby dwarves were drafted and sent to pick up crossbows. The defense looked like it had a chance. The goblin horde rolled across the plains, heading south along the river to the bridge. The goblins numbered at least 15, and were bringing foul dogs with them.
By now all nearby dwarves had been enlisted, and they were standing grimly at the West Bridge. Only a handful of soldiers and an equal number of conscripted miners and carpenters were there. Kogan Keskalolin, the founder of Sackautumn, was at the head of the pack. A massive dwarf hefting an iron pick as though it were so little weight, he inspired the others. The Champion and Captain of Sackautumn remained inside, readying a secondary defense and patrolling the traps.
The goblins came, blotting out the sky with arrows. Shafts rained down on the dwarves, piercing flesh and armor. The dwarves mounted a shaky charge, faltering under the horrific onslaught. One dwarf was down to arrows, now two, several more wounded and bleeding. Finally they reached the goblin lines, hacking and bludgeoning. Heads and limbs flew through the air, and the goblins routed. All of the fleeing goblins were cut down easily. Unfortunately a band of looting monkeys attempted to raid the battlefield, but the weary veterans quickly destroyed them.
West Bridge was littered with the dead and dying, covered in fallen armor, weapons, limbs, and blood. Slain monkeys added a touch of humor to the macabre sight. Kogan Keskalolin, the Eldest Dwarf, had fallen in battle, and the Fortress mourned.
All in all 11 goblins had been killed, with the loss of only 4 dwarves. The siege was lifted and the dwarves began replenishing their depleted army.
Unfortunately, only a few months later, the goblins returned. This time there was a full 30 of them, each bringing a pet beak dog with them. The ponderous Human caravan was brutally massacred and 30 dwarves were slain alongside it. The goblins were eventually killed after breaching the fortress and catching the attention of the fortress guard.
The dwarves, sick of so much death, relocated to a new fortress.
The Doom That Came to Ghostgates
Ghostgates, the most staggering and impressive dwelling of the Dwarves in all of Emeecamo, the Land of Prophecy, had a small amount of trouble with its first captain of the guard. See, the dwarves of the Ghostgates felt that amassing great wealth was a far more promising enterprise than joining the Fortress Guard, so the Captain took out his loneliness on the fortress' trade depot. Which had human merchants (and their wares) currently occupying it.
The Captain was eventually put down when the rest of the dwarves didn't feel like coping with his bullshit, but as for the human merchants...they just sat there. For years. Finally, they disappeared.
Six years passed without a wagon caravan from the human civilization. Four years of Ghostgates' hoards enlarging and caverns deepening. Its cup runneth over with ale, and the tables were buried under platters of plump helmets.
And then the humans returned. At their head, a swordmaster, with about forty troops in tow. No warning. Ghostgates paid for its hubris. The token twelve military dwarves assembled at the ivory gates, brought their crossbows to bear, and were promptly RENDED INTO PULP by the human leader. He then proceeded to cut a swathe towards the river, where he HACKED THE BRIDGE IN TWAIN, leaving horrified "east enders" to starve while he painted the walls with the dwarves on the west side of the river.
Town Astebkol
Town Astebkol was a dwarf fortress with a population hovering around a hundred dwarves. They have been at war with Damsto Rost, a powerful tribe of goblins, for most of the fortress’ existence. Astebkol has weathered three sieges, each more brutal than the last.
The First Siege of Astebkol
The first siege was more of a raiding party than a true siege. About ten dwarves foolish enough to remain outside after the goblins were sighted were killed by crossbow bolts. The goblins then reached the main gates, which were, conveniently enough, left open. Their charge through the gates was blunted by a large array of traps, significantly reducing their numbers before Astebkol’s fortress guardsmen stepped in. Two guardsmen broke their charge, and then chased them back to the river and out of Astebkol territory, felling two thirds of the remaining goblins on the way.
The Second Siege of Astebkol
The second siege didn't go nearly as well. By this time, Astebkol’s population was nearing one hundred and twenty. A human caravan (with whom the dwarves were looking forward to some very profitable trade) had just arrived on the edge of Astebkol lands when Goblins were sighted. Uh Oh. The dwarves figured that the humans would have little trouble dispatching the goblins, and then the goblins’ equipment would be free for the looting. Instead, ten goblins riding powerful beak dogs arrived with a godlike shaman as their leader. They made quick work of the surprised humans and their wagons.
The goblins charged forward across Astebkol’s bridge. A couple dozen dwarves were drafted and they prepared to retreat into the mountain stronghold when they noticed that the goblins had a second wave of beasts inbound, TROLLS. A brief skirmish was fought outside the gates, with dwarf marksmen picking off several goblins and war dogs throwing themselves at the goblins with reckless abandon. Then the trolls arrived. They quickly destroyed the many outdoor workshops before joining up with the remaining goblins. The goblins and trolls charged the gates of my fortress, destroying the gates that stood in their way with ease. Fortunately, the dwarves had upgraded their traps since the First Siege of Astebkol, and most of the invaders were butchered. Three trolls managed to flee after carrying out some additional random destruction.
The dwarves took roughly twenty seven casualties in the battle, and lost almost all of their war dogs. Thanks to the work of the Captain of the Guards, tantruming dwarves were dealt with quite efficiently. In addition, the supplies from the destroyed human caravan were gathered by a river of dwarves flowing to and from the edge of the map.
The Third Siege of Astebkol
It looked like the end for Astebkol. Damsto Rost arrived for the third time, this time committing their entire army. Seventy-Seven goblins arranged in five war bands, all riding beak dogs, with multiple mace lords, sword masters, elite bowmen and a master lasher. Two of the war bands approached from the north, while the three others approached from the south. In addition, the master thief Zom Ngerxungodan, leader of Damsto Ross, appeared. If all this was not worrying enough, they brought another five trolls with them.
The battle began in earnest outside the gates of Astebkol, lands which had already been bloodied by two previous sieges. Nearly half the dwarves of Astebkol died skirmishing with the goblins outside of the fortress. The skirmish appeared to have been worthwhile, though, as two groups of goblins and the master lasher retreated after being bloodied by them.
The real fighting happened in the sleeping quarters and in the main hallway. The bulk of the trained dwarves were stationed at the end of a long row of traps behind the main gates. The goblins quickly took the gate and stormed down the hallway, taking some casualties from the traps. A fierce battle ensued at the end of the hallway, and most of the dwarves were killed in the fighting. The dwarves managed to wipe out one group of goblins that attacked there and sent another into a hurried retreat. After that, the trolls emerged from a side passage. They had stormed through a more southern entrance, wreaking havoc throughout the fortress. They were wounded by traps by this point, and did not survive long in combat with battle hardened dwarven soldiers.
Another group of goblins invaded from an entrance near the sleeping quarters, where the many wounded were already being kept. The fortress guards and the captain of the guard (a sword master) were fortunately already in the area, and a bloody battle ensued. Many of the wounded were massacred in their beds before the fortress guards could defeat the goblins. In the end, only one dwarf remained of the ten brave fortress guards and their captain, a Hammer lord named Tekkud Kelonam.
Only twenty seven dwarves survived the battle, most of which were wounded to some degree, were imprisoned in the jail or were nobles hiding in the dining halls. Goblin, dwarf and dog bodies littered the barracks, entryway, workshops and bedrooms of the fortress. There were far too many bodies for the few remaining healthy dwarves to dispose, and as a result, the stench of rotting corpses filled the fortress.
Damsto Ross lost many of her warriors that day, and her leader was captured in the battle. However, with the dwarves so severely weakened, it was at best a Pyrrhic victory. Astebkol limps on with the aid of dwarven immigrants, but it will take years to return her to her former glory.
Oddom versus the Crocodile
Oddom Dodókònul was mining to the east of the cave river, searching for ore and gems. The farmland on the west side of the river was, at the time being, deserted, aside from a single stray cat. Suddenly, in the center of the southern farm, a cave crocodile sprung from ambush! More specifically, it was an injured cave crocodile. More specifically than that, an unconscious injured cave crocodile. I don't exactly understand how it sprung from ambush while unconscious, but apparently it had.
Though the crocodile was perfectly harmless in its current state, its appearance at the very least frightened Oddom enough to give him pause in his endeavors. So, Oddom was drafted into a one-man militia, and he bravely and expediently tackled the situation. He did not miss a step as he walked right past the crocodile and finished the beast with a single blow from his trusty pick. Then, with the (admittedly minimal) threat handled, Oddom once again returned to his work across the river.
Of course, he left the crocodile corpse for someone else to clean up.
Ingish Nailswords' Departure
A tale of a Dwarven Hero, who's birth was mired in the death of a fortress, much like a phoenix from the ashes, or a maggot from a corpse. Kontun was the name of the city destroyed, and Ingish Nailswords the Survivor.
Ingish Nailswords was a dwarf ordinary and stout seeming at first. A miner of great skill, he was eternally at the head of the pack to go deeper into the mountain, crossing the great underwater river, the first to cross the great chasm, that his pick might dig out the emeralds that laid across, and he only stopped at the river of lava for want of a bridge to cross. His skill in war became evident when, with great majestic skill, he did fight three Macaques that emerged from the wilderness, managed to hold off with others of his mining team the teeming Toadpeople from the river, and in single combat slay a crocodile. Yet, he was no legend among the people, he was an old and weathered relic from the Founding of Kontun.
Until the day the madness came.
It was a sweet day in summer, sticky wild with life and food. The mountain hall was at ease, the smiths laboring to produce fine new swords to sell to the short lived men that would come to the mountain. The Captain of the Guard relaxed in his opulent quarters, confident and fat, idly admiring his fine masterwrought axe. The tavern was busy this night, with many a dwarf ruddy nosed and pleasantly half cotton headed. But there was one in this idyllic scene who clashed; who's very heart beat an unwholesome tatoo. Thikut Patternabbey was his name, and thrice cursed the day he was born. He was a man of crafts, an original akin to Nailswords, but where Nailswords sought the permanence of mined rock, Thikut could see only the immortality in history. He was a crafter of bone at first, carving and shaping the subtle soft frames of flesh, but when he mastered that, he wanted only more. He built halls, he blew glass, he sought status, he farmed, he fished, he brewed, he did everything a dwarf could do, mastering each and wanting more.
Perhaps it was the envy of never getting the power that he wanted, that he would dare strike a bargain with the Fey.
A great work he did, aye, a fine and impressive work, requiring ingredients a plenty. But oh, what terrible ingredients.
Melbil Actedmetals was a fine dwarfess, stolid member of the community, in fact, the Representative of the Order of the Axe. How ironic that her child would be used to make the finest axe ever seen across the Mythical Lands of the Griffon.
Her laments and cries of rage filled the fortress when she discovered her only beloved child dead, upon the floor of the bone crafter's shop, torn open and gutted like a fish. The criminal was nowhere near at the time, his white and red bone axe, Muzishdeler, "Martyred Steel", clasped tight in his bloody hands.
Twin killers, sparked by the same sin, one filled with glee, the other righteous rage, fell upon the fortress that night. Martyred Steel sang death and bloody joy to the ears of the unsuspecting dwarves, painting the halls and decorations bloody red. Actedmetals was in a berserk frenzy, lashing out at all that came across her. Slaying the Fortressguard, despite grievous injury, her gasping, torn and bloodied body leaning in the hallway, only too late could she see her son's killer, in his hands the bones of her beloved Otez. Slain among the bodies of those that she had killed in her terrible misdirected anger, one can only imagine the terrible crushing grief she had, before joining her son in the Allfather's hands.
This entire time, Ingish had been alone, mining far, far, far down, in search of some new vein, some new challenge. He was unaware that the flames of chaos and war had consumed his beloved home.
All around, the blood madness sang in dwarven hearts, halls splattered crimson again and again, as their minds, weakened with fear, succumbed to Muzishdeler's call. The Philosopher, Lanno, while trying to bring order was strangled to death by Ilral the Broker. The Duke Ilral Bodicedomains held a heroic last stand in his quarters, armed with naught but his fists against the mob of farmers baying for his blood. The Captain of the Guards, while trying to flee his doom was set upon by rabid Macaques, their terrible claws and piercing teeth ripping the living flesh off of his bones.
Then, all was silent.
The dying bled their last, joining the dead, while the fey possessed Thikut gazed on with joy upon his deeds, and walked out of the fortress, a rivulet of blood following him, crimson footsteps left behind on the grass.
When Ingish came home to sleep, he paused at the doorway, the body of fair Melbil facing him, torn to pieces, a crude picture of an axe written in her blood. He paused considering the scene, and with heavy heart, closed her eyes and moved on to his quarters, where outside the dying House of Rash representative related the sorry tale. Ingish, again overcome, could do naught but pass on the fair fellow, stepping over the corpse of an unfortunate minor, and then got in his bed, and stared at the ceiling. Eventually, he fell to sleep, his world shattered.
The next day, Ingish made an attempt at burying and cleaning the dead, looking for survivors, but soon realized it was futile. The burning brand of that day on his soul, Ingish turned aside, and left the fortress, never to return, axe in hand vowing revenge, and hoping one day, to meet the thrice damned Thikut, and slay him with the very instrument that he had betrayed his kith and kin with.
Ingish still walks the world today, axe in hand, obsessively training and searching for the one that laid Kontun, "Master Door", to waste.
The Real Story
Okay, this all stemmed from my most successful game of Dwarf Fortress, in which I grew really awesome at producing crafts and selling them to humans for food (I never could get the hand of farming.). Anyway, Thikut was my awesome dwarf, the one that I obsessed over the most because he proved really good at everything he did. Ingish, I sorta got in my head was the retarded one, who would only be good at mining. To make a long story short, Thikut got possessed by fey, made a really awesome axe, (And randomly killed a dwarf while making it, no, it wasn't a bone axe, but a guy died somehow in the process), then my friggin' awesome warrior Order of the Axe Representative went nuts, along with Thikut, and the entire fortress fell into a bloody mess. I lost track of Thikut, he might have died, but Ingish was the only survivor. I found it really funny that Ingish just sorta stepped over everybody's corpses and went to sleep. I watched for a day out of fascination, but Ingish didn't really get affected all that much by the death of everyone else in the fortress. So, a little peeved, I abandoned the fortress and started up Adventure mode.
The same name pops up, of "Ingish Nailswords". A fluke of luck to be sure, unless Toady sneakily put in some REALLY cool code thing, but I played him and am having immense fun in imagining the backstory of Ingish. Who knows, I might run into a Thikut Patternabbey soon.
The Transmuted Greaves
One of my dwarfs was possessed and I watched him intently. The last few little fellows had either flung themselves into the river or stripped naked and starved to death.
He seizes my only Clothes Making shop, and sets to work gathering ingredients. I keep hoping that he won't hit a snag and sit in his shop pouting, but he diligently gathers materials. Oddly enough, he doesn't go for any rope reed cloth or silk thread, that stuff is for making pansy clothes. He goes for the big guns, gorilla leather, cat bones, and horse bones. Odd materials to be making simple clothes out of to be sure.
He begins his mysterious construction, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
A few days later he reveals his masterpiece- "Seizedgreeds the Ace Duty of Glazes" a Gold Greaves.
Wait, how did he forge golden armor out of leather and bone at a clothes makers shop? He didn't gain any legendary clothes making, leatherworking, bone carving, furnace operating, or armor crafting skill either, so I was fairly disappointed.
Luckily the greaves are worth 112,800, which is roughly 1/4 the net worth of my fortress.
Unfortunately the dwarf who made these greaves had since passed away in some unfortunate accident, and they are now being worn by my Expert Marksdwarf. Hopefully they offer some ungodly amount of protection.
Kerligmosus
I have never been able to write narrative. However, taking screenshots at the same time every year proved within my capabilities, so here is a Pictorial Chronology of Kerligmosus, "Shellrooms".
The Strange Case of Oddom Ulingmosus
A dwarven caravan came to Vabokilral, "Orbtreaty", around the middle of the warm autumn that preceded the mild winter of our second year in the fortress. As such caravans are wont to, they brought with them bodyguards, three axedwarves. As one of these axedwarves, a certain Oddom Ulingmosus, came into view, so too did one of the many gorillas that roam our countryside. To shoo it from the caravan, Oddom made haste to attack it with his axe. He chased it a short distance before laying the finishing blow, at which time another gorilla came into view; Oddom hefted his axe and made chase again. Eventually the caravan crossed the river bridge and came to our trading depot, where they sold us several types of food (they drove too hard a bargain for us to relieve them of their dwarven cheeses). They left before winter came, and we went back to work. It was the next spring when one of our hunters, seeking gorilla meat for our legendary dining room, noticed the ground on the opposite side of the river was dotted with dead gorillas in various states of decomposition, and all bearing axe-marks. The cause was eventually discovered: Oddom Ulingmosus the caravan guard had been roaming the countryside all winter (thank the dwarven gods that we built in such a warm locale!) in a state of absolute madness, hacking into pieces any gorillas he saw, and it seems any leopards or jaguars when he had the time. He still roams the plains, axe in hand and insensate with strange rage. I fear he will not rest until he is dead or every gorilla on the plains has breathed its last. (Sidenote: This dwarf is now Unbelievably Tough from this, and I hope he automatically takes it upon himself to be my first line of defense if I'm ever attacked from the west, because I'm pretty sure he could singlehandedly defeat my entire military in battle.)
How the Ultra-Mighty Have Fallen
Id Smoothnessshot was as great a champion as the land had ever seen. Her prowess in battle was legendary. Her physique was flawless. She could dwarfhandle an entire herd of elephants unarmed. No foe had so much as winded the able Swordsdwarf for as long as anyone could remember.
It was thus on one moonless night that her mighty ego bested her. As a favor to the human mayor of Lakesvoiced, she had agreed to rid an ancient ruin of its evil ruler, Age Tomeslark. However, she set out for the dire campus too late in the day, and was annoyed to find her quarry obscured by nightfall. Rather than spend tedious hours combing the dewdamp earth for both her foes and the bejeweled trinkets that stirred their unbeating hearts, Id decided to disregard the low moans emanating from the unholy crypt and made camp instead.
Id's ability to sleep was as titan as her prowess in battle. Row after row of fleshless horrors descended upon the sleeping figure and rained blow after blow upon her until their bare bones threatened to unthread. One or two even managed to raise the faintest of welts upon the flesh they so deeply resented.
Id might have lived to tell the tale if not for the enterprise of one osseous apparition which placed a clammy grip upon her sword arm and wrenched the blade out of her fingers. Raising its prize above its head, the bloodthirsty being brought the traitorous blade down upon the bold dwarf's neck, banishing the champion to the mightiest sleep of all.
Batmen meet Wile E. Coyote
When I reached the chasm, I bridged it as usual. The batmen came, of course, and knocked a few hapless dwarves off of the bridge before I managed to widen it enough to keep the bungee-jumping to a minimum. After hearing tales of chaining guard dogs to keep them handy, I posted a few canine watchmen. The batmen continued attacking, of course, but now with an amusing twist: since the dogs were attacking the bats while the bats were still flying over the chasm, the bats would fall to their doom just a few seconds after being grasped by the dogs. Those poor, poor batmen.... did they learn nothing from Looney Tunes?
Yes, very serene
I had just started a new game. It was going pretty well, with my farm set up before the first summer and everything set up for the arrival of the first caravan. I had managed to make a few bone goods, hopefully to get a little more food out of the caravan.
The caravan arrives as expected, with only one snag : a herd of unicorns. The mules and traders all pass through without fail, but the bodyguards decide that they need to remove this "roadblock" and cheerfully tried to massacre the offending herd. Try being to operative term.
The caravan arrives at my trade depot, and start trading. Two bodyguards rejoin them, one having lost his life on the plains. One is wounded and the other didn't fight. Score for the other side : two dead unicorns.
While going to the trading list, a few objects appear. The equipment of the dead dwarf. I end up trading two pieces of it back for the contents of the whole caravan. The merchants seem to think that's a good deal.
Worse is : While going back, the only bodyguard not wounded decides that he needs to prove himself, and charges the herd. At odds of five against one. I don't need to tell you the result.
The worst aspect is that : I chose this place for being "serene".
The madness of the Legendary Mason
Sigun Shislikot claimed a mason's workshop, eventually creating the finest table in all dwarfdom. Some time later, he was struck with inspiration anew, and claimed the same shop. However, he was unable to procure the bones necessary for his creation, and eventually was driven mad.
He stormed into the dining hall and struck one of the soldiers seated at the main table. The soldier stood, threw Sigun into the chair opposite, and hacked his head off. Blood sprayed everywhere, coating the table and the floor. The soldier resumed his interrupted meal with his now headless table guest.
I got better!
Bomrek Morulokil was just emerging from his room one day after a long sleep, when a cave crocodile sprang from ambush. The surprised miner managed to put a pick through the crocodile's head, but not before losing his left lower leg to the beast's powerful jaws.
Anxious dwarves surrounded him. They carried him into his room and brought him water, and food, and eventually, Bomrek felt strong enough to stand again. He hopped out of his room and headed for the dining room. Another dwarf spotted him and dragged him back into his room, without a word. Bomrek demanded to know why he was being thrown in bed, but the dwarf simply muttered, "recover wounded" and left him.
Bomrek rose again, and hobbled out into the corridor. He had not gone ten feet when another dwarf saw him, and dragged him into a different room. Protesting loudly, Bomrek was thrown in bed.
Poor Bomrek has been unable to leave the dormitory area of the fortress without being dragged back to a bed to recover. No one believes him when he says that he is ok. He almost made it across the chasm bridge once, but an alert Fortress Guardsdwarf tackled him and threw him in the barracks.
(Probably a bug, but hilarious)
Team Animal Squad
It was a peaceful day in the history of the dwarven outpost of Bibanbim, the 7 occupants sleeping cozily in their wooden beds, dreams of success and fame in their heads.
Suddenly, out of the river, snakemen, 5 in all, rose out of the waters to feast upon these intruders. And feast they would, if they had not run into one problem.
Horses.
The horses, willing to save their dwarven owners, charged towards the snakemen, killing two and wounding one by trampling them with their terrible hooves, however, a horse went down, and the others started getting injuries as well. It seemed to be a stalemate.
Until the Doggie Brigade arrived.
The snakemen couldn't take it. One tried to limp away, in sheer agony, before seeing that adorable, fuzzy face sink its teeth into an arm. The snakeman screamed, and soon was no more.
The next morning, the dwarves woke up to quite a sight. There were 3 dead foals, a dead horse, a dead mule, 2 dead dogs and 2 dogs injured horribly. However, despite the losses, the dwarves worked together to haul the corpses and clean the blood before any terrible miasma could set in. Within moments, the fortress had returned to its normal, productive state.
The Stampede
Once upon a time (24 Opal, 1057, to be exact), in the not-so-great dwarven stronghold Nilaval, "Hammerloved", deep beneath the temperate mountains of Zilirushul Arkoth, there was a farmer named Vucar Rashbesmar. Vucar was not a very good farmer, but for some reason the cow, Unib Ostardoren, had adopted him as her keeper.
Unib was an ancient cow from a long line of noble and large cows. Indeed, she was one of the very pair who had spawned the entire Nilaval herd, now some 80 strong. Her sight was going and she gave little milk in her old age, but she was the matron of the herd, leading them around after her master, Vucar.
Now, on this mid-winter day, there was little farming to be done. All of the tallow was processed and stored in the strong and great dwarven barrels for the great winter, and all of the drink was brewed as well. So Vucar had decided to lend a hand to the miners as they opened an exploratory passage across the rift, in search of the great magma flow or even a coal vein, since lumber was getting scarce. Of course, Unib led her herd after him, much to the dismay of the miners as they squeezed past the cattle in the tiny passage and stepped in the leavings. There was much muttering and moaning, but the miners kept their peace for the most part.
Then suddenly from the rift sprang a terrible and vicious group of ant men! The fiends cut down several miners where they stood, and proceeded down the passageway towards Vucar, slaughtering several more of his helpless friends.
Vucar ran as fast as his stumpy dwarven legs could carry him, Unib and the herd on his tail. But it was useless! The dwarves, seeing the onslaught of ant-men coming towards the stronghold, had closed the great stone gates! He was trapped. He fell to his knees and quivered in fear as the ant men crossed the bridge, their legs clicking on the unworked stone floor, death in their eyes.
But Unib was not so cowardly. Her long life, dealing with cougars and groundhogs, had left her in a better position to deal with the threat than poor Vucar. With a mighty bellow, she head-butted the lead ant-man so hard that his head popped off and flew backwards into the chasm behind him, spraying blood and icor all about. Taking a cue from their matron, the rest of the herd charged into the fray amidst a chorus of mighty bellows, stamping upon the ant-men with their mighty hooves and goring them with their mighty horns.
The battle was short. In all, 13 ant-men fell, and not a single cow was killed. The city gates were reopened, and Vucar and Unib returned to their kin, victorious, the only survivors.
A dark day
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.
Genius Does Not Float
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.
Ruspmon, "The Eternal Plane"
All the stories of Ruspmon are listed here.
The Foul Masterpiece
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.
The Lucky Trapper
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.
Last Stand of the Ratmen of Akrulbudam
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...
Fortress Paintrag
The archived log of the long-lived Fortress Paintrag.
The Colossus of Otambomruk "Nosewhip"
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.
A Carpenters Dream
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 aggresive, 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. "Thats great! Whats your idea?". "Its really hard to explain, but i know exactly what i need, and ill show you when im finished, it will rock your world, i know it will!"
Zas waited outside the managers 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 friends 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 carpenters 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!! Your 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!! Your 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.
Reg 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...your 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...
The War of Hoof and Horn
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.
The Mystery of Stabrack
My name is Greco Sodelunib Shinnotlith Matul, slayer of giants and the undead scourge. My companions include: Stodir of the Axe, the hunters Id and "Eagle Eyes", and Kol of the Spear
My party of five has been in search of the legendary fortress of "Stabrack" for weeks now, and I have taken it upon myself to begin a journal of our adventure. As I write this, the marksdwarf 'Eagle Eyes' cries like a babe as the others attempt to set the broken bones in his arm and leg. The bones will heal. His lost eye, however, will not return. Earlier in the day we were ambushed by a large pack of starving wolves; Eagle Eyes was the only one to sustain injuries.
We were ambushed by another group of wolves yesterday and quickly disposed of them, but as we feasted on roasted meat last night, 'Eagle Eye' quietly walked off into the woods and drowned himself in the nearby lake. We weren't suprised when we found him; he had been very depressed since the loss of his eye. We took his armor and his finely crafty crossbow and left him on the shore. He won't be needing any of it. I've been wanting a new pair of boots for a long while.
At long last! Stabrack! For six years this place was an unending source of magnificent jewelry and trinkets. Then all contact stopped. There are no records of there ever being a war on Stabrack, or any sort of significant tragedy within its halls. Its inhabitants were peaceful toy-makers and jewelcrafters - doubtful if they had any trained militia at all. The snow-covered road leading toward the mountain is lined with stone blocks and simple granite statues. The entrance to the fortress has three iron doors with golden statues that welcome us with open arms. The doors are locked, however.
West of this grand welcome, Kol found a second narrow entrance into the mountain. The mountain's shelter from the blistering cold winter is a welcome respite. As we cautiously followed the winding corridor, we noticed various disabled traps and cages filled with animal bones.
We've emerged from the secret passageway into what must be the main hall. The iron doors are behind us and the ornately engraved walls stretch on into the darkness. The air is much warmer now. I believe my toes have begun to thaw.
We've turned off the main hall into a narrow corridor with rows of small rooms on either side. Some of them have superior oaken beds, others are simply bare. Still others are locked behind stone doors.
Screams in the halls! Stodir went off to explore by himself and has not been seen for some time, we heard the clash of battle and screams of pain echo down the halls a short while ago.
Troglodytes! We've encounted a tribe of the creatures in a large barracks near the dormitory. Brave Stodir is alive and was holding them off by bracing the doorway with his shield and hacking off limbs when they got too close. I found a second entry to the barracks and attacked the creatures from behind while Kol and Id held off their escape.
The barracks is ours. As we surveyed the carnage, I noticed several old bones scattered about the room. The trogs must have been living here for a long time - perhaps the Stabrack people kept them as pets? Though the room is large, the place must have been severely understaffed, there are few beds. the weapon racks are bare, and the few pieces of equipment scattered about are of inferior quality copper and bronze. Anything of value must have already been looted by the troglodytes or worse.
I found a dwarf skull on a bunk. Those old bones did not belong to the trogs. As we move deeper into the dormitory there are ashes and various tattered articles of clothing on the floor.
More old bones.
We seem to have come to the end of the dormitory, and stand in front of a locked door. The sound of rushing water calls behind it. I bashed open the door, and am amazed to see a massive open cavern across the river, unfortunately, there's no way to cross the rushing torrent of water - the bridge is missing.
Kol thinks we should head back to the main hall and try to cross the river from there.
We've found the bridge. And a corpse. A human corpse. It's horribly charred, but there's still flesh on the bones. Not far from the body is a barrel full of toys and gems. He must have been a treasure hunter come to steal dwarven wealth for his own. He's alone though.
There is a great clamor echoing from the deeper halls. It is growing louder; something is coming. The four of us stand ready on the bridge.
Rats! And big ones too! There are so many they fill the hall - it's like a great flood! With a good mace, I could destroy thousands of these vermin, but I've got better!
The river has turned red from their blood and the boys are beginning to tire. Trogs have begun to come in waves along with the rats. The air is getting much warmer now.
They keep coming! Stodir has fallen off the bridge and continues to hack the vermin from the water, while bravely fighting the current.
By the Gods! As I write this, I stand waist high in smouldering rat gore. A massive ball of fire flew up the hall and exploded in the midst of the rat swarm killing most of them instantly.
I think I understand now. They were trying to escape. I think we should start running too, but Kol and the others think we should continue. They've already crossed the bridge and begun moving toward the source of the fireball.
Beyond the light of our torches, in the darkness of the grand hall I can make out a small flickering flame. I can feel its heat already.
Fire! There was a loud cracking sound and the distant flame grew brighter. Then it grew larger. My companions stood no chance at all. Before they could run, another fireball flew into their midst and exploded. I did not stay to see any more. All I heard was Id's cries for help as his flesh melted away.
The smell was terrible.
I've run back to the dormitory and locked myself in a small room. I think I'll stay here until the fire is gone.
There's a skeleton in here, the poor fellow must have died in his sleep. It's been quite some time and I've grown thirsty. My water skin is empty. I attempted to sneak out of my room, but the second I stuck my head out the door, a wave of fire flashed down the corridor. I ducked behind my shield, shut the door, and hid under the bed. I won't be so lucky next time.
This heat is unbearable! And not only am I thirsty, I'm starving! Some roast rat sounds delicous right now, but I can't risk leaving the room.
It's been a few days now and I've been sucking worms from cracks in the floor. So thirsty...
The fellow I've been sharing a room with says he was king. Says he had a crown and a scepter and everything. What a nut.
So the King told me a great one today: A human, a dwarf, and a goblin sit down to eat. The human asks the table-wench to get him some wine. The dwarf yells for some ale. The goblin yells for some children!
I think I'll find some ale today. Nice knowing you, King.
A Love Story
Urist: "Oh my dearest Cerol, how do I love thee!"
Cerol: "And I thee, lovely Urist! Let us hie to the lovely bridge and make love as the water rushes underneath us as summer begins!"
Urist: "Let's!"
Later:
Cerol Gosterbim, Miner cancels Sleep: Dangerous terrain.
Cerol: "Urist, darling, does it sound like the water is louder? Urist? My dear? Urist! HELP! *GLUB*"
Urist: "Zzzzzzzzz"
Cerol Gosterbim, Miner has drowned.
Urist: "Cerol, my love? Cerol? Do not tease me! Where are you?"
Eribbim: Elephant problems, eh? Well we've got gorillas!
Read the long story of the human-copying, gorilla infested fortress of Eribbim!
This extensive story is only on the archives of the old wiki.
The Legend of Goringish
It was spring. The dwarven fortress Slingoceans was planting the fields with the required crops to make enough food to survive. Operation Caravan, the construction of a road to get a human caravan, had started. The legendary metalsmith Vabok Limaredem, creator of the copper flask Onshentenur (dwarf for Chantedstyles), Slingoceans’s first artifact, was working down at the magma forges. The fortress was in full swing to get goods to the trading depot, for the elves had arrived at the fortress for the first time. However, an event that would strike the fortress forever, and would nearly end it, was about to occur.
On the other side of the outdoor river, the fisherdwarves were hauling their catch of the day to the food stockpiles. A carpenter was getting wood when a tiger showed up, scaring away the fisherdwarves and carpenter. One of the trappers, realizing what was going on, attempted to slay the tiger, but it was too strong, and he fell. At that moment, the tiger now had a name; Goringish.
Now wishing to consume dwarves, Goringish chased the fisherdwarves and carpenters down to the south. At that point, Operation Caravan was being constructed. Goringish disrupted the road work on the west side of the river and then crossed the bridge into the east, near the fortress itself.
At this time, the fortress was on red alert, and the Thrones of Wheeling, the recruit squad, was sent out to kill the threat. If Goringish wasn’t stopped, he could kill several dwarves, ruin Operation Caravan, or even enter the fortress itself. If that happened, the entire base would have to be militarized, possibly ruining the harvest. If Goringish managed to take down the axedwarves, the base would lose its few seasoned fighters. The Thrones of Wheeling managed to get Goringish to retreat to the north, but then he went back down, directly toward the fortress entrance, chasing an injured recruit.
The recruit, realizing that it would be better to die fighting than a coward, jumped in and attacked Goringish. Goringish, in an attempt to kill the recruit, ripped off the recruit’s upper legs and right foot. However, the recruit still managed to deal terminal damage before he fell unconscious, and Goringish soon bled to death.
Soon, the fortress life returned to normal. The remaining trappers were turned into a marksdwarf squad dedicated to stopping a repeat of the event, and road work was completed. The trappers were given beds (a rarity in Slingoceans), a supply of bone bolts, and even had the legendary engraver come and engrave the entire room, making a few masterpieces. Goringish’s corpse was thrown into the refuse pile without any delay. The dwarves still had a moment of silence, for a tiger that strong deserved a warrior’s respect.
Operation Caravan had nearly been canceled, but they trudged on, and the human wagons arrived at the fortress. Later, it would become abundantly clear that the dwarves would need to trade with the caravan to survive, for the dwarves no longer could make enough food to outpace food consumption.
Sadly, the recruit eventually died of thirst, never being able to regain consciousness. Due to the lack of a graveyard, the corpse soon rotted, but the only dwarves in the miasma were sleeping. So the dwarves built a graveyard outside to stop the miasma.
The marksdwarf squad stayed the same for about half a year, slaying kobolds, goblins, and anything that might have been a threat. Eventually, two of the marksdwarves were killed by a berzerking mason, leaving only the leader alive. They got two replacements though, and the squad lived on. -Written by Bingbing
Strike of the Batmen
It had been several years since the Goringish incident had occurred, and Slingoceans had mostly forgotten it had happened. The dwarves had, after the first siege, decided to dig out a magma world flooding doomsday device to protect themselves against the goblin hordes. An economy had been created. The Marksdwarf Squad fired bone bolts at the firing range in their barracks. However, a lone mason, trying to build the rock aqueduct that would allow the magma to span the chasm, was about to be thrust into the middle of a big battle.
Deep within the darkest reaches of the aforementioned chasm, a race of evil batmen decided to attack. You see, the dwarves were flooding the chasm with magma, and the batmen didn’t want to have their home filled up. So they attacked and charged the poor mason.
The first fight occurred between the batmen and the mason himself. Although the mason managed to fend 5 of them off for a time, he eventually was overwhelmed and killed. At the time, the Marksdwarves were off eating a meal; but they got orders to head right to the source of the problem.
Not like it mattered; a huge swarm of batmen blowgunners were coming toward the farms, chasing poor citizens who were merely trying to put away or get food. Just before they reached the door, a group of marksdwarves positioned themselves and opened fire on the beasts. Despite being outfitted with bone bolts, the horrors were incapable of withstanding the onslaught. Then, the true fight began just after the marksdwarves had gotten ready.
More than two dozen batmen blowgunners flew out of the chasm, and the battle was on. Despite being few, the ten marksdwarves managed to hold the tide, even when seven of them got thirsty. A small squad of recruits and swordsdwarves had been stationed as well, but the batmen eventually ceased coming. At this point, a miner came to start working, but a new wave arrived and the area was coated with batmen blood once the army had finished. Eventually, they had a mason who was once possessed and ended up making the most valuable artifact in the history of the fortress finish the aqueduct.
Of course, a poor miner had to sacrifice himself in order to get the magma moving, and the dwarves felt sorry for his loss. The magma continued to pour into the chasm, and although the batmen tried striking near the Noble Killer; their best ballista (used to kill leaders), they were stemmed by three marksdwarves.
The chasm was doomed; nothing could survive the incredible heat. One last batman blowgunner escaped from the chasm’s depths before the magma forever more covered it in liquid rock. It charged out, fangs out; ready to devour the farmer near him. The farmer simply punched to death, and thus the batmen had become extinct; never again to attack the dwarves at Slingoceans. -Written by Bingbing
Rodents of Unusual Size
The inhabitants of Deathpainted now tremble in fear at the thought of giant chasm rats. The first few to show their ragged hides were easily dispatched by the war dogs set to guard either end of the chasm bridge. But then a truly bloodthirsty beast of a rat crawled from the depths, easily dispatched the dogs, and eventually disappeared back into the chasm. Thinking the creature to have fallen to its death, work went on as usual. Several months later, another rat appeared, and proceeded to wreak havoc upon all who crossed its path. Its first victim was a poor foal, who never stood a chance. Then a passing fisherdwarf. Then a dog. Then a puppy. And after all this carnage, the fiend was barely even bruised...only tired from its murderous exertions. Eventually it too disappeared into the chasm, but not before seperating a poor peasant from ALL her lower limbs. Packs of dogs and marksdwarves are now permanently stationed at either end of the bridge.
(As a side note, the poor peasant who got shredded "absolutely detests rats". Apparently, the rat took it personally.)
The Quiet Skill of Mefol Melbilnin
It was the first winter in a young outpost of the dwarven kingdom known as Murakanib. Everyone had sacked down easily enough, and thanks to buscuits made of boiled-down dwarven wine, would easily survive the winter, albeit with taste buds woefully damaged from monotony and the taste of boiled-down dwarven wine (which as anyone will tell you is not pleasant without something else to accompany it).
It came near to spring when suddenly, a mason started to withdraw from the feeling of family that had sprung up in the place. He promptly kicked out another mason (a migrant from the autumn) and started working with rough boulders. Out of it came a moonstone coffer inlaid with copper, truly legendary in its craftdwarfship- but that is another story.
No, this is about what happened afterwards. You see, Mefol (as this mason was named) was a simple mason, but now with his perhaps superdwarven might, he lifted stones and the coffer he made with ease. Rather than go mad with power, however, he turned to a simple pursuit.
He made doors. Lots of doors. This was, at first, seen as auspicious by new arrivals, as the living spaces were then cramped, and legendary as the miners were, it would be several seasons before there were enough quarters to house them all. But then he turned out a masterpiece. Door. A masterpiece door. And then another. And another. As you can imagine, the fortress was soon cluttered with doors of excellent quality, but what to do with a door that was a masterpiece? Part of the problem, admittedly, was solved in housing both Mefol and the two legendary miners with five of the doors, but then they kept on arriving.
But Mefol shrugged, and said nothing, content with making his doors.
The Manager And the Maggot
In the town of Quakesieges, on Slate the 13th in the year of 1070, Olon Athelidok, Manager, was enjoying a meal in his dining room. What was strange about this meal was the meal itself. Olon was eating a Purring maggot. A "live" purring maggot. Next time, stick to cheese.
Treoglodytes Sink, Dwarves Float: An Eribbim Story
In the moderately large mounatin hall of Eribbim, "Gorgesling", Project CITADEL was almost complete. The project was a simple enough design: a large castle equippped with a moat and battlements for chasm defense. Sadly, there was only a hammerdwarf on the castle's bridge when a troglodyte emerged form the depths. A fierce battle ensued: the hammerdwarf beat at the troglodyte, but to no avail. The beast thrust the brave hammerdwarf into the moat, but the battle was not yet over. The hammerdwarf grabbed the creatur by the legs and dragged it in along with him, and continued to strangle the creature to death. Sadly, he drowned in the moat moments before it was drained. This story was written by Smoking Gnu
The Missing Guard
It was a fine day when the ratmen decided to crawl out from whatever rocks they had hidden under. The local overseer thought this the best time to reconstitute that old dwarven standby, the Fortress Guard, to deal with the nasty little rodents. A legendary miner, and a ragtag cohort of peasants under him, were given the job. This miner had dealt with the scum before, and set to with his pick, mining so much flesh like he had mined stone, all in front of him.
That very day, that dwarf, Datan by name, vanished from the fortress. None know where he went. And it is said, in the deepest places, you can still hear him looking out for the foul beasts, laying to with his pick, and of course, always on the lookout to wrongdoers of Dwarven Justice...
The Fall (and Second Rise) of Slingoceans
It had been two years since the batmen attack. The human caravan had not arrived this year and the dwarves were working to compensate. About the only thing going on was farming and food hauling. Things looked safe.
Suddenly, a farmer ran through the front gates, being chased by a monsterous bronze colossus. The metal statue quickly got through the front gates and dodged every trap, getting to work on killing every dwarf in its way. The legendary cripple, a dwarf with a mangled leg who had gotten a fey mood, had his mangled leg ripped off, shortly followed by his head. The military was sent out, only to be decimated without much of a fight. The dwarves quickly locked the doors to the underground river, but the bronze colossus broke the doors down and continued his massive rampage. The artifacts were dropped, as every single living thing in the fortress was murdered. Even the goblin king himself was killed; and the fortress soon was lifeless.
The next spring, the Frilly Dagger of Joining sent in 77 dwarves, each equipped in full iron armor. They didn’t even survive until summer, and the only thing they did was yank out the colossus’s left eye. A second attempt soon followed, and the other eye was taken out, at the cost of every dwarf that had come.
At this point, the dwarves decided to let the adventurers take the colossus out for them. Three adventurers were killed in the fortress. The Frilly Dagger of Joining hoped that the colossus would die one day, allowing them to reclaim Slingoceans.
One day, the colossus does. A dwarf, mentally insane and believing he is Arnok, the God of Blood, attacked the colossus. The first blow cut off one of its legs. The dwarf continued to strike with all of his power, cutting off every limb, until finally shattering the upper body and killing off the beast. He had paused once to ponder why the colossus was wearing a MITTEN, and after the horror had fallen, why his corpse had become a masterwork statue. However, being insane, he didn’t care.
‘Arnok’ walked out of Slingoceans, stepping in blood throughout the fortress. With his work done, Slingoceans could be reclaimed, allowing the fortress to return. Shortly before the door, he tripped over Razokil, a perfect aventurine artifact. He sighed, and walked out of the fortress, to tell the Frilly Dagger of Joining that the fortress was reclaimable. Soon, a team of SEVENTY-SEVEN dwarves would charge into the fortress, and reclaim Slingoceans.
The Fall of Acetower
My fortress was doing fine. A stone road went all the way to the Oceanic Union of Dreamy Sea, a mighty human kingdom, the local goblinoids haven't had attacked yet, even that we had lived in the area over 3 years. The Acetower was populated by about 50 dwarves and I was going to flooding some new farms to the eastern beach of the cave river. When suddenly more immigrants appear! Yeah, 5 masons, 7 carpenters, speardwarf and one cat... Greeeeat. I'm assigning the immigrants to more vital jobs when I receive a note about someone cancelloing job because dangerous terrain. I pause for a moment and wonder what has happened. Then I remember: I didn't lock the doors to the new farms, some poor fellow has probably walked to the flooding farmcavern. When I check the area, I find to my horror that the flood is allready going over my bridge towards the cliffedge and the levers that control the draw bridge and floodgates are already flooded. I try to stop the permaflood but no avail. And this is the moment when ratmen started their invasion. The surviving dwarves, all 5 of them were quickly annihilated, the last of them being my legendary miner who jumped to the chasm after one of the ratmen...
Swordbear's Joy =
It was spring of 1061. The fortress Swordbear, located in a serene area (looking back, the dwarves would have preferred a calm area, mostly due to the unicorns), had just finished digging out and flooding a gigantic underground forest. The farmers toiled hard and long to bring in plump helmets to eat this year. A marksdwarf squad, led by a champion, fired down the targets with masterwork bone bolts. Siege operators loaded the two ballista up, and the elven caravan was coming on in.
Imere Liwaova, from the elven civilization “The Smiles of Silver”, was slowly pulling the mule along. He wanted to see how long it would take before the dwarves at this smelly dump named “Swordbear” managed to realize the joys of nature and live outside, along the unicorns and elephants. He at least knew they were likely going to give them bone bolts, causing them to leave early. He sighed, and pushed the old mule even harder. His companion was worried about the world’s status, saying to him, “The goblins are mobilizing up for war. I reckon we’ve given the world enough of a chance. We should team up with those polluting humans. Yes, they actually use the wood to build their houses; at least the dwarves dig into the rock and grow crops inside. We simply kill the goblins off, and then turn around and exterminate those annoying ‘secondborn’ from this world.” Imere was about to reply that the dwarves should be taken out before the humans, seeing as they had 1060 years to improve, whereas the humans only had 560, when a ballista arrow removed his head. Not even the Firstborn themselves could survive a full scale decapitation.
The siege operators had been given instructions to fire down upon those “clean, nature loving hippies” with their wooden weapons of death. They cheered when Imere’s headless corpse fell down, feeding blood to the plants. A second later, they saw a sad side affect to the impact. The poor mule had been hit as well, was impaled onto the ballista arrow, and was thrown down without any mercy, where the old thing then bled to death. The other elf managed to get away, dodging several ballista arrows easily, and then left the area. Imere was wrong. They weren’t going to stop trading early. They were not going to trade at all.
Thankfully, the mule was holding all the dyed cloth, and the dwarves held a full funeral for the fallen… mule because they hated elves a LOT. They then threw his corpse into the butchers shop to be turned into meat, leaving the dwarves happy and well fed. Then they took its bones, along with those of some kobolds and the elf, and turned them into powerful bone bolts. -- Written by Bingbing
The Winter of Discontent (And the Spring of Sorrow)
Year 1055 of the city, Rakustkast, better known as Tombgeniuses
In the year 1055 of the Eternal Land Of Forever, a siege of goblins fell upon Tombgeniuses. South of the main road was a band of savage, brutal goblins intent on ransacking the dwarven city. Immediately a general alarm was sounded and all dwarves were ushered inside. Meanwhile, eager to test out the catapult defenses, an assigned siege operator let fly with a rock. While in the right direction, the goblins were still a ways out of the firing angle, and with a shrug, the dwarf went to do other tasks when he SHOULD have been stationed by the catapults. As the goblins ran into range, the message was relayed through the city to the two dwarves, the message being: "Rock and Roll.". However, the designated siege operators were swamped in the duties of common peasantry, panicked dwarves told all mechanics and carpenters to help launch the catapults as the goblins began to run down the main road hooting, hollering, and screaming for dwarven blood. In a cruel twist of irony, the carpenters were actually on the job, busy chopping down trees that had grown in the designated farming areas inside and could not be reached. The mechanics were either getting drunk off their mind or sleeping off their latest meal. When the dwarves finally began getting around to firing the catapults in frantic panic, the goblins were already on the bridge proceeding past. However, as the dwarves began preparing and readying the catapults, huge clouds of miasma began clouding up the entire front entrance, fogging the catapult posts heavily, forcing the dwarves to work in near blind, revolting conditions. These miasma clouds were generated by dead thieves which the dwarves had failed to dispose of, not only creating a disgusting scene but also keeping the front doors ajar, creating a perfect scene of war for the dwarves, toiling in huge clouds of terrible miasma, desperate to drive off the goblin horde. Due to the huge cloud of miasma hindering their vision, most of the shots flew far off to the side, causing taunting and jeering from the goblins. However, as one of the goblin macemen was busy insulting their hated foe, one boulder flew true through the middle of the ranks and nearly obliterated the entire right side of the maceman. Breaking many bones and causing many internal injuries, the goblin maceman was reduced to a crawling, vomiting heap, yet it was still determined to bathe the halls in dwarven blood. Laughing cruelly at their unfortunate comrade, the goblins continued charging forward, more concerned about the impending kill rather than helping their wounded comrade. As the dwarves attempted to reload in the midst of stinking miasma clouds, made worse due to heat because of the fort being located in the tropics, the dwarves heard the baying and screaming of the goblin horde and peered through the thick fog of miasma to notice the figures moving through the miasma wielding iron bows and crossbows. Realizing in horror that over half of the horde were armed with ranged weaponry, they decided to abandon the catapults and run for their lives, screaming. Throughout all this carnage were two dwarves standing at the entrance, entranced and deep into their assorted, imported alcohol, watching the catapults launch their stones through the air and the goblins nearing the entrance little by little, moving surprisingly quick for a goblin horde. Two dwarves by the door were drinking their booze, taunting the goblins in the miasma, they realized with sudden horror that the figures began shooting their iron arrows at them. Thinking with sudden clarity, the two dwarves turned and began running down the narrow hall, abandoning the barrels full of alcohol and leaving the doors open. One unfortunate 'door dwarf' was not so lucky and was mortally wounded almost immediately, while his comrade, a military dwarf left him behind. Cursing the goblins, Id Olonozor, a carpenter, could do naught but lie in the hall, punctured by many arrows and watch the darkness settle into his eyes little by little. Craftsdwarves, perhaps unaware of the alarm and the impending danger of the goblin forces made their way to the main entrance hall to clean the traps as ordered earlier, ignoring the running carpenters and mechanics, they opened the second set of doors and stared dumbfoundedly at the goblins on the other side of the entrance hall, just outside the first set of doors and looking around as the marksdwarves rushed past them and began taking up positions on their side of the door, waiting for the enemy to come into range. Howling with glee, the goblin archers began letting loose a barrage of arrows, causing most of the craftsdwarves to realize the gravity of the situation and flee. However, one dwarf was racing TOWARD the goblins, a craftsdwarf by the name of Lokum Bisolablel. Racing toward his wounded comrade, he thrust his head bullishly forward, ignoring the onset of arrows that amazingly killed one of the marksdwarves on the other side of the hall in one shot yet failing to even hit him. As Lokum neared his friend, he was suddenly jerking around spasmatically. Compelled, he looked down to find several arrows protruding from his body, perhaps the goblins shot off aim on purpose to lure him closer? Amazed at this revelation, all the strength seemed to just flow out of him as he collapsed to the floor. With a mangled lower body, a broken arm, and worst of all, a mangled left lung, he found himself gasping for air, staring at the goblin horde just outside of the fort, firing their arrows with reckless abandon. Despite their numbers, the goblin archers were strangely bad shots, somehow missing the prone dwarf merely several feet away from him, while managing to kill a distant marksdwarf that was further back just moments ago. By now the marksdwarves realized that they were going to be killed if they just stood there and if they charged forward to get the goblins into range of their crossbows, they would get cut down. Tragically, to make things even worse in this hellish nightmare, several of the civilians were struck with a sudden heroism. Farmers, craftdwarves, miners, and more were rushing past the marksdwarves in a heroic, yet stupid attempt to rescue their injured friends who were near the goblin horde. Zasit Lallibash and Olin Tekkudkogan were cut down by the goblin arrows, while several more were wounded. The marksdwarves decided that they were going to have to do something desperate. Running behind the second set of doors, they were preparing to close it tight to force the goblins to come inside, while preventing the lemming rush of death of civilian dwarves determined to rescue their fallen comrades. As the marksdwarves moved behind the doors with strange efficiency, they looked back into the entrance hall, which had by now been reduced to a scene of blood, corpses, and a hellstorm of arrows, and saw the most remarkable sight yet. In the midst of screaming farmers and civilians caught in the crossfire, Alath Unibodshith, or Alath Ragclam, the fortress' historian (My legendary engraver) was racing toward the marksdwarves with remarkable speed AND an injured dwarf on her back. It was apparent she had braved the trial by arrows to retrieve an injured fisherdwarf and was racing back toward the door, and miraculously, there was not a scratch on her. It was as if she was protected on a divine level. The marksdwarves encouraged Alath as she ran toward safety, arrows raining down all around her, yet failing to hit her as she sped down the hall. Finally making it through, followed by several dogs, the marksdwarves finally managed to close and lock the door, preventing any more civilians from attempting to be heroes while horrificially leaving the dwarves on the other side at the mercy of the goblins. The goblin swordsmen, macemen, and others were tired of their bowmen getting all the kills, and realizing that the dwarves in the main hall were locked out and banging desperately on the door for entry, the goblin soldiers whooped and charged in to the fort, along with the bowmen of their kind. To their sudden horror, they had entered a gauntlet of fiendish dwarven traps and were suddenly in a storm of serrated copper blades, huge spiked balls, and enormous giant corkscrews. Blood, and limbs flew everywhere and what had once been war cries now turned into howls of agony and cowardice. One of the bowmen had managed to make it past the battery of traps, and as it looked back toward it's brethren getting slaughtered like sheep, it chuckled to itself and thought of the pleasures of the kill it would get all to itself, as it turned around however, he saw only two giant copper axe blades fast descending towards it. Panicked by the traps butchering their fellow goblins, the others turned tail and ran, the siege finally breaking. As they ran past the wounded goblin maceman who had limped all the way despite behind hit by a boulder, the frustrated maceman could only watch in confused fury as they ran in fear from the dwarven fortress. As it chastized and yelled at it's fleeing brethren, it turned it's bloody vision toward the hall, wondering what was causing such fear in it's comrades and saw the whirlwind of giant traps skewering and disembowling the unfortunate goblins, as well as the river of blood flowing both in and out of the fortress and decided that perhaps it was time to call it a day, and that was when it passed out from pain caused by the boulder impact yet again. The marksdwarves, holding back the growing flood of dwarves determined to run out foolishly to their deaths in an attempt to rescue their comrades noted that the entrance hall on the other side was mysteriously silent. The civilians noted their momentary waver in attention and pushed the marksdwarves so hard, the doors finally burst open. The dwarves' determined charge was reduced to a half-jog as they noted the disembowled corpses of goblins laying in the trapped hallway and more importantly, the moans and groans of the surviving dwarves among the dead. With a heavy sigh, many now unhappy dwarves began to clean up the orgy of blood, arrows, and corpses. As they began to bring the first of the dead to the outside, they laughed at the limping and crawling goblin maceman, falling unconcious nearly constantly. Some of the dwarves yelled furiously, wanting their so-called military to finish off the lone maceman, but the marksdwarves had returned to their barracks to digest the events of the day and grieve over their fallen marksdwarf comrade, and upon the though of further death and bloodshed, the dwarves decided mercifully to let the maceman go and concentrate on cleaning up the aftermath. Five dwarves had been shot and killed, and 3 more were wounded, though one only suffered from serious wounds
But the season was only beginning...
Into the next month, the dwarves were in a grim, somber mood. A marksdwarf, angered at the loss of her comrade, went into a tantrum, toppling a much vital weapon trap and starting fist fights with a mason, followed by a dog. Outraged at such brutality on an innocent dwarf and dog, one of the assigned fortress guard issued a beating on the hapless marksdwarf followed by confinement. A wave of unhappy dwarves plowed through their tasks with efficiency, trying to lift their moods through diligent and rewarding work. One marksdwarf sat at the soon to be legendary dining hall, staring down at the seeds of a plump helmet, the one he had just eaten. As the marksdwarf sat digesting the plump helmet, he was also attempting to digest the events of this month. The sudden attack of the goblins was a little strange, and his thoughts often floated to his fellow marksdwarf being shot and killed with merciful efficiency. Lifting his head, he stared thoughtfully at the corner of the dining hall, shaking his head as he could hardly believe the claims the miners made that the chasm branched without warning into the hall as they were digging it out. He noted the chasm, and muttered to himself about how it'll be trouble one day and that they should have made a new dining hall, but due to a time crunch they had to make do with it, and from there it just grew to be the grand hall he now sat in. As he took a slow look around, he dreaded about what Alath, the historian would engrave on the natural pillars of the hall, as she tended to be quite macabre about her works. As he slowly turned his head about, he finally settled his gaze back at the exposed corner of the dining hall and the three ratmen clambering out of it. Screaming to the scant few dwarves in the dining hall to run and get reinforcements, the marksdwarf jumped atop his chair and began firing. Cursing as he struck the pillar, he took aim again and shot true as he shot down a ratman as it clawed at the nearby door, trying to get back on it's feet. So intent on the kill however, the marksdwarf failed to see the two ratmen run down the dining room and barrel out the door, to find a hapless child. Screaming for it's parents, the child attempted to run down the noble's quarters of the city. But before the chase could really begin, it was tragically cut short as a ratman jumped to the other side of the child, pinning it between the two and cruelly cutting short it's life. Meanwhile at the dining hall, the dwarf shouted in triumph as the ratman gave it's dieing breath and slumped against the door, only to curse out loud as more ratmen clawed their way up out of the chasm. Startled dwarves coming from the food storage screamed and ran back into the storage as the marksdwarf, too ran into the storage. The ratmen, heading out the north exit, ran up a narrow hall which led to the main 'hall, finding the main hall filled with dwarves oblivious to the onslaught of the ratmen. As they neared the exit into the main hall, war dogs flung themselves around the corner, tearing into the ratmen savagely while seemingly out of nowhere, the macedwarves bore down on them, reducing their heads to literal pulp. However, one of the ratmen had snuck past the busy macedwarves and dogs and ran down toward the chasm, squealing in rat menace as he chased hapless peasants. As he approached the bridge, it had turned briefly to find more war dogs bearing down on it and before it could react, one of the dwarves ran up to it's side and pushed it down the chasm, sending the ratman to a long, horrible drop to a pointy end. General curses and shouts rang throughout the fortress as the dwarves couldn't believe the tragedy of this single season. Just as things seemed to settle down, screams rang from the mines as a lone dwarf, hauling metal for future forging, ran down the narrow path, determined to outrun the unbelievable group of 8 ratmen hungry for the kill. Careful not to fall into the magma river from the very narrow path, the dwarf ran down toward the forges and into the hall and smirked in partial disbelief as marksdwarves, speardwarves, and macedwarves ran across the chasm bridge, albeit slowly due to heavy armor in an attempt to cut off the ratman surge from the mines. Laughing to himself about how the military was finally springing to action, the dwarf decided to save the rest of his breath and continued running toward the military, determined to outrun the ratmen fast on his heels. In another bizarre twist, the military, hungry for vengeance stared in disbelief as a horde of dogs and war dogs loped past them and rushed toward the ratmen. While relieved the dogs finally sprang into action, they were disappointed as they were going to be robbed of vengeance yet again. In a short amount of time, the dogs and ratmen closed ground quickly and what followed was righteous vengeance as the ratmen yelped in pain and fear as the war dogs tore into them, ripping them into chunks and felling ratmen left and right. In but a few short, brutal moments the carnage was over and what was left were all the ratmen, dead in several bloody, disemboweled heaps and the dogs, standing over the corpses, trotting off to go about their doggy business. To the dwarves' amazement, not one of the dogs were killed, although one had several broken bones, it was still in in a state of animal rage from the battle, refusing to let it's wounds hold it back from it's hungry vengeance.
Chapter 2 Spring
It was 1056 of the Golden Age. The dwarves were finally recovering from last season's siege. The catapults were reloaded, the traps reset, and work was finally back in order. Even the sight of the tree-hugging elves in their two lone caravans was a positive, uplifting sight to the dwarves. But as they ran out to greet their neighbors, the unthinkable happened. In the distance, two large groups of goblins came, brandishing more weapons, bringing more troops, and even calling in their masters and lords, though mercifully there were fewer bowmen and they had no leader to call. The dwarves, enraged at such a siege so soon after the first called for another general alarm and busied themselves ushering the others inside the fort. The call came out for the dwarves to launch their catapults but once again few, if any responded to the call, and even then they had to wade through the traffic of dwarves, dogs, calves, and cows. By the time the first stones were launched one group was already at the road again rushing toward the outside bridge, though this time there was no choking miasma to hinder their vision. As the dwarves continued launching their stones, a kobold thief was spotted amongst the goblin horde and was shot down ruthlessly in a hail of arrows by the goblin archers. Unbelievably, all but one stone missed their mark, though this time the stone that hit gravely wounded the macegoblin, obliterating his upper body and damaging his lungs, making his last few seconds painful indeed. Again the goblins reached the doorway and began to fire inward at the dwarves who were busy drinking themselves into a stupor. Despite the initial fleeing down toward safety, the dwarves were desperate for a drink to tide them over and ignored the booze inside in favor of the booze by the door where the goblins were. Among these stupid dwarves was the historian, Alath Ragclam. The dwarves were running in literal circles, first to try and grab one more drink, and then to flee from the goblin arrows only to turn around and try to grab their drinks once more. The goblin arrows were inaccurate yet again, and fewer dwarves were killed, but the carnage was still great and many dwarves lay wounded or dieing. The marksdwarves were quick to act, sealing the door and preventing any dwarves from rushing out to their untimely demise in an attempt of heroism. As the last dwarf outside ran in with a wounded Alath, the marksdwarves grimly locked the double doors and braced for a goblin charge. The goblins were quicker to rush inside to attack the hapless civilians left in the main hall due to their stupidity in wanting a last drink of booze, and again the clever dwarven traps sprang into action. Cutting down goblins with ruthless efficiency, the goblins were left flailing helplessly in the hall, though the leadership of the goblin mace lords, sword masters, and pikemasters managed to corral some of the troop inward, though the last row of traps, two cage traps managed to capture a spearmaster and a crossbow goblin. As a goblin swordsman reached the double doors however, intent on killing the civilians banging desperately against the door, it turned around to regard it's goblin comrades and noticed they had broke and ran, fleeing from the deadly traps. Confused, the goblin swordsman wandered around the hall, glaring at the dwarves but not quite springing into action for some strange reason, and that was when it was suddenly buried in a mass of fur and teeth and claws. The dwarves, with a resounding sigh began work on cleaning up the traps and taking care of the mess, though with some grim satisfaction they noted that fewer dwarves managed to rush out to their deaths. As cleanup commenced, a peasant was tasked with leading the captured goblin spearmaster to it's new home in the dungeon. As it led the rebellious creature through the halls, it was followed by a trail of war dogs, hungry for the kill, wanting to avenge their fallen masters and friends while the dwarves jeered, kicked, and taunted the goblin spearmaster as it was led through the hall, followed by a train of dogs and dwarves. As the peasant strapped on the last few shackled of the spearman, the worst scenario happened. The dwarves, inexperienced with prisoners, didn't expect the goblin spearmaster to strike at them from it's chains, but they stood dumbfounded as the spearmaster slayed dog after dog after dog. By the time the fortress guard came in to put the spearmaster down, it was standing on a literal hill of dog corpses and challenged the fortress guard as they came forth along with more war dogs. The fortress guard in this mountain hall had no weaponry or armor, so that all efforts would go to arming the actual military. With a grim sense of duty the ill-equipped fortress guard attempted to bring down the spearmaster through sheer numbers but all were cut down with brutal savagery. The spearmaster by now was hooting and hollering, laughing at how the stupid dwarves failed to take all necessary precautions in handling the goblin spearmaster. It's laughter grew as more fortress guard charged in to take care of the spearmaster, but just as it was about to defend itself again with glee, it noticed that a dwarf positioned itself on the other side of the room and readied a crossbow. Screaming with fury, the spearmaster struck down more dogs and fortress guard but was now suffering from numerous bolts protruding from it's body. As the spearmaster finally fell to fists, canine teeth, and bolts, the dwarves outside were yelling and screaming about the poor precautions taken and the massive amount of death the goblin caused. It had slain an amazing 16 war dogs and 6 dwarves, one of them being the leader of the speardwarves. The dwarves learned from their bloody, cruel lesson and decided that all prisoners would be put in cages rather than chains. How ironic that the majority of the death would come after the siege and not during. But there was yet one more tragedy to befall the dwarves. In the midst of the miasma and death, a kobold thief had snuck inside and managed to grab Thestarnoglesh, The Crimson Savage which ironically was nothing more than a marble mug, though the thief was content with such an artifact. A lone war dog took chase as the thief hooted and laughed, running away with the artifact of untold value. With a wave of it's hand clutching the mug, the thief ran off into the tropical swamps, losing the dog that was fast on it's heels. Some time later the incoming spring migrants along with the nobles were greeted with a spectacular, brutal site. Dwarves were hauling both goblin corpses, dog corpses, and dwarf corpses en masse. Miasma was clouding up the entrance and entrance hall again. Blood was everywhere as was vomit. Goblins were digustingly stuck to weapon traps and hung limply in the air with embedded serrated discs, spiked balls, corkscrews, and axe blades. The dwarves at work with the corpses wore grave expressions, though none of them were saddened, it was more of a stoic, determined expression. And so with this new bloody season entering it's middle month, the story of Tombgeniuses continues...
(Ok, basically, those were my very first experiences with sieges, and I must say it was quite fun and funny, not to mention epic, especially when my engraver braved the gauntlet of arrows to rescue a fisherdwarf. And then there was the imprisoning of the spearmaster, I originally thought that chains didn't let prisoners strike out despite being able to move around, well looks like I was sorely mistaken.)
Vucar the woodcrafter
This is the brief story of Vucar, who longed for wood to create a great carving.
Unfortunately, we forgot to bring an axe with us, so even with the abundant trees outside, no one can cut one down. So we've no logs for him, and no way to get any for seasons.
So some trouble was expected of Vucar. Everyone avoided his workshop, and the miners (incredibly buff from digging out the entire fortress with just picks) formed themselves into a military squad led by one of the original six dwarves.
The squad was just returning from having quickly dug a huge room below the farm plots, and as they bounded up the stairs to grab a drink, they heard the screams of the other dwarves as they fled from Vucar's sudden and violent outburst.
Rushing to the rescue, they rapidly made short work of Vucar with their picks. To these legendary cutters of raw stone, flesh cannot stand. As they stepped back from their sad work, they reflected that while it was good it was quick for him, and no one else was hurt . . . it was very unfortunate that they caught him right in the middle of the barracks. Blood had sprayed all over the smooth floors, and formed quickly congealing pools. Worst of all, the only two beds in the entire fortress of twenty dwarves were coated in blood and dwarf intestines.
"Someone call the butcher!" hollered the squad-leader Tulon.
And then they went back to work. After all, if the farm isn't working soon, they'll all starve during the next winter.
Memadamt Thatthilkebul Toral
On the 11th of slate, 1055 Zan Ingishsodel, a newly arrived carpenter to Alathaved entered a Fey mood. He commandeered the only carpenter's shop in the Outpost, and proceeded to demand many wooden logs and even a cut gem. He horded 4 logs, and the first cut gem, a Lapis Lazuli. He worked for days, every Dwarf wondered what he would make. Would it be a table? Maybe a great door, or even a ornate wooden shield. They were all wrong, when Zan finally emerged from his shop. Everyone held their breath as he proclaimed "It is done, Memadamt Thathilkebul Toral (Reinedbent the Autumnal Sparkle of Laws) the greatest Barrel in the land is complete!" The barrel was made of Acacia, decorated with Palm, encircled with bans of Lapis Lazuli, adorned with hanging rings of Palm and menaces with spikes of Acacia.
Some say it's a masterpiece, others say it's a waste of wood when it's such a scarce resource in the region. All Dwarves can agree that it looks great, with Dwarven Rum pouring out of it.
You don't want to go to the desert
7 dwarves arrived in the vast red sand desert hoping to start a new life far from the mountainhomes. In the distance Todol, the parties engineer, spotted two dark towers.
“Hey look! A Human outpost,” he remarked.
And as the band of dwarves approached they saw a littering of trinkets in the sand, evidently dropped by the humans that had settled this area. Slightly mangled earrings and scepters, as well as bracelets and instruments littered the crimson dunes. Trinkets and darker things as well. Human skull idols that had been smoothed by the sands of time lay half-burried, their empty eye sockets gazing at the interloping dwarves on their trek to the towers.
The dwarves spied the first human they had seen in months and approached, but this was no human. Rotting flesh still clung uselessly to the bones of this former swordsman. As it’s dull lifeless eyes turned on the dwarves the ghouls mouth dropped open to utter, “Hraaaaaaah.”
PANIC! The dwarves scattered only to realize they’d been surrounded by the undead stalkers. One by one they dropped in the sand, to be consumed by the ever hungry zombies, leaving behind only their ruined clothes and a cart full of rotting supplies. So let this be a lesson to you: You don’t want to go to the desert.
The lonely mason
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.
STOP PRESS: Strange Rumblings in Newhomes of Water
(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.
The Channel Digger
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.
Sweet Likotasen's Baadasssss Song
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.
The named Mug
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...
User:Smoking Gnu/A Non-Egotistical Community Fortress!
Join up for fun and adventure and maybe accidental flooding!
Rimrise's Tragedies
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...
Goblins from hell raiding Rocksbowed
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, ecstitic 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 sloppishly made felsite table and chair as these new furniture items obviously had been put an effort into.
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 againt two opponents before falling, and as i turned and ran something got stuck in my back and i passed out.
I woke up due 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.
The tale of General Kib
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.
The Legend of the Cursed River
In the early years of the Squarebridged, fishing and hunting were grand professions. They worked together to keep a healthy supply of food coming in. The hunters would keep the land clean of terrible beasts, and the fisherdwarves would stay by the river and find the tastiest of all the fish. This was true for many years as the fortress prospered, until the hunters stopped hunting. The hunters we're killed defending the fortress from the goblin ambushes and sieges of the time. At first the fisherdwarves didn't see a difference in the amount of fish they were able to get from the river. In fact they were catching more fish.
"We don't need those silly hunters." said Alath as he was fishing along the shores.
"Of course we don't, we're doing just fine." replied Tyr.
Then one day, a fish they had never seen before appeared in the river.
"Tyr, have you seen this fish before?" asked Dim.
"No Dim, I haven't. Are you going to catch it?" inquired Tyr.
"Of course I am!" proclaimed Dim.
So Dim cast his lure into the water trying to entice this unseen fish. However this was no ordinary fish, It was not swayed by Dim's lure or any other lure in the river. This fish was a monster. Dim was patiently waiting for the fish to bite his lure when, It jumped out of the water and with force of three bears, knocked him into the river. This once seemingly innocent fish had shown it's fangs and now Dim was wrestling with it underwater. Dim struggled to get free from the monstrous fish, but it was too fast. It bit, struck, and killed dim quite quickly. But before Dim fell to the fish, he realized what kind it was. "Only the hunters spoke of this fish" thought Dim, "It's the legendary Carp!" On the surface, things were much different while Dim was losing his life.
"Have you seen Dim?" asked Alath.
"Nope. Maybe he went in for a drink." replied Tyr.
After the carp had finished killing Dim, it looked around for more prey. It saw Tyr's feet dangling in the river.
"Didn't Dim say he was going to catch this fish?" inquired Tyr.
"Well he's not here, so why don't you catch it?" replied Alath.
So Tyr cast his lure into the water hoping to entice the fish. The carp didn't care for the lure that had fallen in front of it. It quickly swam around and went straight for Tyr's feet, lazily dangling in the river. The carp revealed it's fangs yet again. It bit onto Tyr's feet and pulled him underwater before Tyr could even begin to scream. Tyr was now being bitten and having his feet ripped right off of him! Tyr was no match for this monster of a fish.
On the surface, Alath looked around quite puzzled and asked "Where is everyone?". He then went inside to check if they were on break, unknowing that his fellow fisherdwarves now rest at the bottom of a cursed river. Also unknowing, that if the hunters were still around, this would never have happened.
More fisherdwarves came back to fish, and the carp was still there. This time one of fisherdwarves saw the legendary monster as it leaped out to claim it's next victim. He was so terrified that he ran to the mayor and told him of his finds. The mayor was so concerned, he stationed a squadron of archers along the shores to see if they could kill this demon. But the archers could not see this demon for what it was. They all thought it was a uncatchable salmon eluding all the lures of the fisherdwarves. The number of deaths increased as they were oblivious the dying dwarves right next to them. The mayor didn't know what to do. He thought and thought until he came to a solution. The mayor had banned all fishing in the fortress, and declared the river be built over. This way, the area could still be used, and there would be no deaths. Or so the Mayor thought. Masons came with stone and blocks to construct a floor over the river. But the demon carp was too tricky. It began to claim the lives of the Masons as they tried to build over the river. An elite sword dwarf also met his demise to the demon carp, though he did give the greatest fight. Some say he would have almost won.
After the deaths of many Masons, Carpenters, Craftdwarves, Fisherdwarves, and even the fortress' Trader, the Mayor was truly concerned. He didn't want to completely seal the room off because there were flood gates and gear assemblies that gave the fortress water. So he came to another solution. The room would be forbidden unless a dwarf would be pulling a lever. And it was so. To this day, no dwarf dares venture to the river, unless they have business. After the events that have unfolded here during a month, the river was renamed the 'Cursed River' for all of the problems that it gave.
Vengence, Thy Name Is Sibrek
It was a bright sunny day as a cheerful serf named Mosus steped outside to fetch himself a drink from the nearby river. He stooped down to cup some with his hand when suddenly, a rather territorial female alligator emerged from the water, clamping her jaws down on his head. He let out a yelp, but was soon unconscious. Mosus's brave war dog rushed to his aid, getting eaten in the process. Mosus lay there, forgotten about by the gator, streaks of blood throught the grass around him and a chunk of either skull or left arm lie at his side. When he awoke, he found that a carpenter by the name of Jesus had recovered him safely and taken him to his bed. His dear friend, the farmer, Sibrek brought him food and water everyday.
By the time Mosus was well enough to speak, Sibrek had already promised to avenge his fallen comrade, as most dwarves do not recover from head injuries. Sibrek rushed headlong into the river, punching and wrestling the green scaly beast in the water. He emerged onto the bank, alligator trailing behind him. The gator snapped and managed to badly mangle his left hand. He punched it oncemore in the head with his right arm, and as the beast gave it's final throes, Sibrek's other arm was injured as well. He removed the alligator's skin and rushed off to store it in the leather bin. Sibrek then passed out from bloodloss in the dining hall. A leatherworker made the hide into the finest alligator leather armor Mosus had ever seen, and he equipped it proudly. Sibrek's wounds only worsened as day by day he fell more and more ill. He was eventually stricken by melancholy, locked himself in the dining hall and died of thirst as dwarves all around him toasted to the quickly recovering Mosus's good health. Shortly after his burial, Jesus held a memorial party in the dining hall. Mosus attended. Datan
Death of a Fortress
Author: Bunny, from the bay12games forum.
My name is; that is to say, by the time my records are found, was, Mistem Rockwave. Formerly miner, now Book-Keeper and one of the last living members of our failed fortress; Regag. Gloved-daubed. So named because our expedition leader, the original at least, was a fool with no taste whatsoever.
I realise it is considered disrespectful to speak ill of the dead, but since I expect that I shall soon join them, grant me a boone in this. Of the original seven that journeyed here, and the group of nine immigrants that joined us soon thereafter, only I, my lover Ibok Fieldtrades, and the two young daughters of a dead immigrant remain.
I fear for the children. Little Logem and beautiful Stukos. They have lost everything, and our walled-in fortress will likely not see another four seasons. The food stockpiles may last, having been maintained until recently to support a much larger population. But the drink stockpiles dwindle, we have no water, and my lover destroyed the still in a fit of uncontrolled rage at the death of our good friends.
Trader caravans have passed this fortress, waiting outside the raised drawbridge for entry, and perhaps they bring much-needed supplies. But we will not permit them entry. I daren't lower the drawbridge and venture across the security of our high, fortified walls and moat. Not with the hordes of death and destruction looming beyond. Mostly, those visiting caravans are obliterated quickly by goblin hordes. Those that wait a little longer, meet a far more gristly death.
Our tale is an ambitious one, and a lesson in foolish pride, bad tactical thinking and naivete. I will start from the beginning, that you may see the great heights for which we aimed, and the speed with which we advanced, before the fall. Perhaps, were it not for that last great folly, we would have endured. And who could then predict how magnificent our fortress would have become? But, it was not to be. Read our tale; read, and learn from our mistakes...
Tekkud Tokumkivish, Mistem Tunasob, Dakost Lolumkabok Lorban Nilil, Dumat DokokulZest, Ibok Fikuknish and Mistem Iduker. These seven names, my lover, my brothers, my leader and I. We were so young, so brash and so ill-prepared. It seems so long ago, when in actuality but a few short years have passed since we believed we could take on the world.
A lone, travelling merchant had arrived in the dead of night in our mountainhomes. Bloodied, mortally wounded and half-mad. In his dying breaths, cradled in the arms of Tekkud, he had muttered tales of a nearby land of exciting, but risky prospects. Layers of rock and earth encrusted with precious metals, gems, perhaps even adamantine. Good, hard rock in which to carve a mighty fortress, but deep chasms filled with unholy creatures to test our courage, our strength. Tekkud, ever ambitious and tiring of his lowly trade duties, rallied and convinced us that we could forge a new mountainhome in such a volatile plain.
The mayor was, in time, convinced, and so we set out, across dry desert and choking jungle, over mountains and through valleys, to the land we had heard such tantalising things about. And indeed, there it was, magnificent and terrifying both as we looked down upon it from the edge of a cliff. There, in the distance, a great crack in the earth, wider than the mightiest river and so deep that the bottom, if there was one, disappeared into blackness. From a distance, we could see a few creatures roaming about the chasm. Their hulking, deformed bodies meandering aimlessly about. Trolls. And that wasn't all.
"Look! Brothers, over there! What is that?" cried Dumat, our woodcutter and carpenter. I followed his gaze, as did my brothers, and espied what, for a moment, I swore resembled the flicker of massive, leathery wings.
"We shall move with caution," ordered Tekkud. "Dig deep, far from the chasm, and exit only when we have need. But in time, we shall reclaim all of this land for our own, and reap the rewards in this rich rock." He held in his hand a nugget, encrusted with fat gems. A token, found near the edge of this land, and a good omen, we thought, of the riches to be found.
Four of us, practised miners, found a shallow cave close to the base of the great mountain of obsidian that dominated the area. Shallow, but it's walls would serve to shape the first defences of our entrance. Soon, we had built our protection. An open, grassy courtyard at the front was surrounded with double-high, double-thick walls, in front of which a long moat had been dug. A single bridge, connected to a lever, permitted entrance to this courtyard, but the bridge could only be reached via a corridor of cage and rock-fall traps. Past the courtyard, the remains of the cave converted to a wide corridor, leading into the mountain itself. There, a massive covered hall housed our trade depot, animal stockpile and kennels, and the great doors to the fortress proper. We felt safe, behind these walls, and free to dig deep.
And dig, we did...
Progress in the mine moved quickly. Though the obsidian was hard, the levels below were a patchwork of firm rock, rich metal veins and fat pockets of white and yellow sand, perfect for our farming industry.
"I forsee this place expanding quickly, once word of our great progress reaches the mountainhomes. Dig deep, and dig fast my brothers. I want four farms, a great food stockpile, a dining hall and enough bedroom for twenty dwarves dug out and cleared before the year is out. Also, let's have a nice, big meeting hall up on the entrance level. Something to impress visitors, yes?" Tekkud's ambitions grew quickly.
"Oh, don't look at me like that! It may seem like a lot of work now, but you are stout and strong dwarves, and I picked each of you especially for this task! I know you can do it! We've enough food and drink to keep us a year or more, so we can concentrate on really establishing ourselves, here. Lorban, I want you to smooth all of the walls, and where sand is abundant, tear it down and erect walls of pure obsidian. Let's make this place something really special. Dumat, we'll need a plentiful stockpile of wood for all the new beds, but while your out there, do keep your eye out for exotic creatures, hmmm? I swear I saw a leopard outside yesterday, and a tame wild cat would really be something to talk about!"
Oh, we all felt so buoyed up by such speeches. The work was hard, yes, but Tekkud was right that we had enough food. We had taken no wood, no weapons aside form a single axe and our picks, nothing but four dogs and a massive supply of food and drink. We could have spent a year and a half doing nothing but digging and building, and still retain sufficient supplies that an immigrant wave would cause no problems.
In any case, work progressed so rapidly, and before even the end of our first year we were joined by more dwarves. With the two children, our numbers now totalled sixteen. More than double our original numbers.
Before long, we had established all the bedrooms, and the essentials, and work progressed on a lower chamber to act as both an exploratory area for digging our metals and gems, and to form elaborate burial chambers. "Every dwarf that inhabits these halls shall have a burial chamber all to themselves, smoothed and furnished while they live, and engraved and sealed in death. The final, sealing wall shall be crystal glass, that we may gaze upon our lost loved ones, whilst keeping their belongings and bodies safe and secure." So Tekkud had ordained.
But, things were not going as Tekkud had planned. With the wave of immigrants, he now had a workforce of farmers, more engravers, a brewer and dwarves to work on trade goods, but the mine was looking scruffy. Rock wasn't being cleared as quickly as he wanted, and many areas that should have looked magnificent were instead strewn with debris, and the cage traps that protected our fortress had, instead of wild cats and terrifying beasts, caught groundhogs, horses and two lowly child snatchers. These pitiful caged animals still served to decorate the precious meeting hall, however, and Logem and Stukos would spend their days jeering at the child snatchers in between helping out in the farms.
The most disappointing and vexing issue for Tekkud, however, was the lack of respect these new immigrants had for him. Unlike the near religious devotion he had inspired in my brothers and I, these newcomers saw him only as an administrator, and took his orders lightly. Many had even taken to wandering about outside, despite his strict instructions against it.
When the first death occurred, the graves at least were prepared...
The disrespect that embodied our new brethren had begun to infect others, and at the same time we had all become heady, almost drunk, with the sense of pride and ability that Tekkud worked so hard to instil.
Word had gotten out that Tekkud lusted for exotic creatures and, emboldened perhaps having ventured outside without suffering harm, a few of my brothers had taken to wandering into a nearby, very odd cavern, to gather animal corpses. For study, I suppose, and to get a feel for the variety of wildlife in the area.
It was a truly odd cavern. There was something very unnatural, artificial in it's construction. A dent in the earth; a perfect circle, sloped on all sides and with a sloped entrance in the centre, but the tunnels within were a rambling, meandering mess such that a rabbit might make, albeit strewn here and there with carved stairwells to different levels. I must confess, this mixture of the natural and the crafted, apparently without reason or purpose, and no signs of the civilisation that may have created it, unnerved me greatly.
In any event, for all that Tekkud forbade entry to, and forbade the items contained within this area, our brothers continued to explore it. Until one day, Dumat was lost. Poor Dumat, it seemed, had wandered down there after a mole rat, only to meet death at the hands of an enraged troll. Out of fear that others would be lost, his corpse and all his belongings were strictly forbidden, and Tekkud ordered a wall be built around the entrance to the tunnels. Sealing poor Dumat forever, to rot in the dirt.
The plan was only supposed to be temporary, of course. Tekkud had a plan.
"We will wall up that accursed tunnel to keep the disgusting filth out of our way. Then, once our numbers have grown, we will each train with weapons, and will venture into the depths to wipe out those hideous creatures, aside from those few we choose to keep for our own amusement!"
It was a noble plan, but a doomed one. The wall progresses slowly, so far was it from our fortress and our stockpiles of stone. Tekkud was loathe to send miners to dig nearer to the tunnel, as he intended to keep the numbers nearby to a minimum.
In any case, the thought of Dumat, rotting below, was too much to bear for one of our newcomers. A woodcutter by the name of Edum Inulthob, who had recently given birth, and who had remained silent on the identity of the father. In retrospect, it is clear that Dumat was her lover. In either case, she too fell. Edum ventured, baby in her arms, to the caverns to collect poor Dumat's body. Though she fled out of the caverns quickly when discovered, she was chased a ways by a troll, losing her newborn, and shortly thereafter her own life.
Soon, the beasts from the caverns began to bubble up towards the surface. Batmen, Ratmen, trolls, imps, and more. Two more lost their lives, innocently collecting cave spider webs that grew on the surface near that mighty crack we had seen upon our first arrival.
This was too much for Tekkud. It was time to take action, and take it fast...
Our bowyer had constructed enough crossbows for us each to take a pair, and we had sewn leather quivers and crafted bone bolts aplenty. Every adult member of the fortress was conscripted, every one. Tekkud recognised our nervousness, and so he lead the charge, armed with a sword instead. But we were disorganised, inexperienced and not meant for battle.
The first few that made it into the chasm took out a few trolls, but soon fell when caught in close quarters combat. Others, a few stragglers that had become lost, wandered in the wrong direction.
Seeing this, Tekkud came to us, comforted us, and led us back towards the battle. But, in his excitement, he led us down a different valley. There, I saw again that movement I had glimpsed so many months ago. But so much, so very much closer. And oh, so much bigger. Leathery wings, and then a glimmer of a massive, yellow eye. And then, I remember only heat.
When I awoke, I was back in the fortress. Ibok had rescued me, and brought me back to the safety of the fortress, raising the drawbridge behind him. I was unharmed, but traumatised. So many had been lost, and now we, and the children, were all that remained.
It matters little, now. We are doomed to die, and I would rather it be over. We realised, after a time, that even the fortress was not safe. We may have a moat and a wall t protect us, but dragons can fly. And what if it carries over some of those other creatures, or is joined by a flock of batmen? No! No, I say! If we are to die then that death shall be of our own choosing! The children may not understand, but this is for the best!
We have moved our beds, and those of the children, into the tombs. We have walled ourselves in down here, and now await the sweet kiss of death. I have spent these last few nights engraving our history on these walls, and can feel death approach as I grow ever thirstier. The children cry at night, with hunger, and with grief, but they must be strong. Better to die down here amongst our brothers than inflamed by a dragon on the surface. At least here, unlike all of our brothers, the last survivor can entomb our corpses, before climbing into his own coffin to die with dignity.
Remember us, remember our lesson, and do not try to aim for such great heights so quickly. Go slow, go cautious, and above all keep away from this accursed place!
Misadventures in Metalbulwark, part one: The Titan Ilre Justrasthru
Metalbulwark is the name given to this flourishing dwarven hall, and the dwarves have worked diligently to earn this title; the front gates are made of shining zinc (for lack of stronger stuffs in the depths of their mines), and the very waters themselves have bended to the iron will of those who call this place home. Three years did they toil, and they sundered the very earth to command the element of water. Great walls of schist were established, subterranean passes carved from soil and stone, and mighty floodgates were built to contain the torrential water so the dwarves might cloister themselves into this hall of metal.
No expense was too much for these dwarves to pay, as they dug deep into the mountains. Two fortresses were established in this place; one was atop the mountainous terrain, and offered ready access to the world above for traders and crafters to ply work. Though not much to behold, it was built with the intention of using it for only the short term; the dwarves called this place "The Forge of Metalbulwark" to signify its purpose. The second fortress was Metalbulwark itself. It lay nestled in a crevasse, the very valley that was flooded with water by the dwarves to supply the budding city. Above the waterway, a grand hallway was created, lined with statues of schist and mica, the walls smoothed by the hands of dozens. The center of this hallway was comprised of bridges ready to shift and raise in the event of invasion so the dwarves could ride out any invasion, yet the dwarves were so occupied with their hubris that they never quite got around to the essential task of machinating the bridges; after all, what is the point of defending a place that is not worth defending?
Oh, there were traps, meager traps meant to withstand small goblin incursions. The walls of the tunnel leading to Metalbulward were stained with the blood of many a goblin raider, and the mechanisms to the vicious traps of whirling steel blades and saws (imported from the more mineral rich halls of others), and the ceiling above lined with carefully concealed hatches ready to drop boulders to crush marauding goblins. But these traps were designed with goblins, kobolds, and other such nuisances in mind. They were not prepared for the beasts yet to come.
So as the dwarves dug deeper and the walls and crafts became more lavish, and the bridges mouldered, the meager traps lay in wait, and an evil being turned a despondent eye to gaze upon this place that had the audacity to call itself a bulwark. The titan Ilre Konlikateng Justrasthru grinned, for the first time in nearly an age; his boredom had an outlet.
- - -
Ustuth Ginetkhel was a simple craftswoman; plain to behold, but a solid and strong woman. She was a widow, her husband having departed from the mortal coil shortly before she bore his son. She likely would not have survived the year past her partner's death were it not for the babe Ushrir; his entrance to the world gave her something to live for, and to love. She had come close to losing Ushrir as well seasons ago to goblin snatchers, but the timely intervention of a ranger (and her excellent aim) stopped the goblin dead in his track paces from where the child had been grabbed; the bone bolt protruded from the goblin's chest a mere hands' width from the child itself. After that incident, the hunter felt discouraged that her shot had come perilously close to ending the babe's life, and personally trained one of the growing hounds of the fortress to be Ustuth's protector. Her faithful war hound accompanied her everywhere she went since that day, so many years ago. Ushrir had grown to a child since then, and no longer needed to be carried and attended to religiously by his mother. Though the time for the hound's necessity had come and gone, Ustuth kept the hound with her when she went to the brook to fish.
Though she was a craftswoman in her younger years, a prodigy had since taken her place as stonecrafter after he produced the magnificent scepter Sirabudist, a mica rod decorated with bone and leather. Finding her works shadowed by the young upstart, Ustuth retired to the life of a fisher, and though there was water inside the fortress and a good bridge to fish from just outside the gates, she favored the brook for her activities. It was a long trek to and from, but she felt safe accompanied by her hound.
Frost was in the air, and parts of the brook were quickly icing over; the fishing went slowly, as most of the fish were too preoccupied with surviving the coming freeze to notice her enticing bobber. Ustuth could even see the small formations of ice expanding before her eyes, when she watched them closely enough. She had begun to reel in her line when her hound, with a deep growl, bolted off up the hill to the west. Startled by the dog's sudden flight, Ustuth hardly had time to even call for the warhound to return before a dark shape passed quickly above her from atop the hill.
With alarm, she turned to view the form, which landed with a wet THUD beside her; she screamed and fell on her rear as she quickly backed away from the horrifically mauled corpse of her guardian, which stared at her with eyes rolled back in its head. Her reactions were sluggish, her heart beating wildly and flooding her hearing. She was fixated on the site of her valued and beloved pet and protector, blood spreading from its corpse and staining the frost-tinged blades of grass. The image engrossed her completely; she could not turn away from this morbid site, even as her brain slowly registered the sound of heavy, earth-shaking footsteps approaching from atop the hill.
It wasn't until the terrible titan bellowed a terrible, mocking laugh, that she could turn from the corpse to see the one who felled her trusted hound in a single blow. She immediately got to her feet and, screaming cries for help, began to run back to the gates of Metalbulwark as fast as her feet could carry her.
Ilre watched, bemused, as the pathetic little woman ran across the field. With a dark chuckle, he began to stride after her, almost casually. His idle pace would bring him within reach of the woman within seconds, and he so looked forward to toying with the tiny woman, hearing her cries of anguish and pathetic pleas for life before he ended her.
This particular train of thought ended very abruptly as his left eye began to sting, and his vision turn blurry with blood; it took Ilre a moment to register what had just happened. Atop the hill he had just departed, a hunter had leveled his crossbow at the mighty titan, and let fly a bolt. An otherwise perfect headshot that struck just above the left eye did little more than half-blind and enrage the titan, however. His previous quarry forgotten, Ilre turned and brought his left hand up to pull the offending bolt from his forehead between thumb and forefinger, and with almost no effort, the bone bolt was snapped in twain. The hunter's face paled, and he stumbled and fought with his quiver to retrieve another arrow to unleash upon the titan. The bolt finally complied with the frightened, inexperienced ranger, and he succeeded in half-winching the crossbow before the titan ground him into a bloody paste against the freezing ground.
- - -
Ustuth's warning gave the guards a little more time to prepare for the attack; rangers had seen the titan's approach just minutes before, and all the guards had been mobilized to 'The Forge,' having expected the titan to strike there, where defenses seemed weakest. They had not accounted for Ilre's intentions to humble the dwarves by smashing through Ironbulwark, and challenging the title the dwarves put so much pride in. Dwarves scurried and fled to escape the coming titan, while the few guards still stationed at Ironbulwark readied for the attack, and the ice crept steadily along the water, as though Ilre was its herald.
Of note here is the outward defenses of Ironbulwark. Before one can even enter the tunnel leading into Ironbulwark, one must cross the moat; a simple task, as a bridge gaps the water. A wall was mostly built around the moat as well to help direct traffic and to give the city a more auspicious entry, but had never been finished (note: this is because when I TRIED to finish it, the dwarves kept building the wall with themselves inside of it and trapping themselves inside, so the outer wall was never finished ^_^;). The dwarves had not accounted for the water freezing, and so the tunnel had been temporarily expanded upon in size to create a catapult emplacement to the side. This section of tunnel was exposed to the waterside, and ran parallel to the primary tunnels until they merged about halfway down the length. Without the siege weapon prepared, however, the dwarves sought to capitalize on this position by stationing archers to view the bridge for the titan's approach.
They did not see Ilre coming. Crafty, wicked Ilre instead stepped through the incomplete wall and treaded stealthily upon the solid ice, his titanic stature belying his lithe grace as he snuck upon the ill prepared dwarves and, with little effort, snapped their bodies and tossed them callously onto the ice, which cracked and buckled under the weight of their armored forms. If any of the three had survived the malice of the titan, they would not have survived the freezing water.
So Ilre walked deeper into the mountain, not even aware of the fact he had circumvented the majority of the traps by going through the archer's perch. As the titan came ever closer to the city gates, the two remaining militia rounded up as many of the unskilled and able-bodied men and women as they could to establish a line against the titan. Only one line of traps stood between the titan and them, and they knew the inferior traps (which were simple iron and wooden giant corkscrews that sprang from the walls to wickedly carve into whatever passed them) would do little to even bloody the coming behemoth.
From the back of the line, a slow, encouraging cheer was raised; pushing through the dozen conscripts strode Iteb Rodermorul, captain of the guard. Wearing the only full set of steel armor in the fortress and bearing a wicked battleaxe, Iteb took the front of the line, and prepared the men for combat. Accompanying Iteb was a ranger; the same who had saved baby Ushrir from the goblin many years ago. She was accompanied by two dogs of her own, and carried a crossbow made from the collected bones of many a slain kobold foolish enough to challenge her.
Ilre and Iteb were fated to meet once in the coming battle, and his shame at this meeting would lead him to step down from his command (and yes, I AM EXTREMELY dissapointed in Iteb for this; I'm demoting him as soon as I'm finished writing this; read on to find out why). The fight was short, and brutal; eight of the dwarves and one hound died in the ensuing battle, ended mercifully quickly by the crushing limbs of the giant...all except one.
Tekkud Enkosdomas, an on-again-off-again soldier who had a penchant for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, was one of those caught in the hallway and drafted into service. He had wrestled a kobold thief to death once before, and though he'd found the pleasure of the brawl invigorating and took great pleasure in beating the vermin to death with his bare hands, Tekkud never gained notice by the city guard. He applied to join the militia, but somewhere along the line his information was overlooked, and he grudgingly returned to his life as a farmhand. Eager to prove himself, he was always the first to start a friendly brawl with his fellow dwarves at the Microcline Table, and oft he'd provoke the guards into partaking in the events against him. Needless to say, a return to fighting was a task he'd normally have been overjoyed to be offered.
But, lo, this would be his final fistfight. As dwarves and hound fell around him, he threw himself violently against the titan, and delivered lightning-fast and vicious jabs to the titan's abdomen. Startled by his tenacity, Ilre clutched Tekkud's body with his mighty grip, and sought to pull Tekkud off. Tekkud perservered through the crushing grip, and with a nearly feral tenacity, he delivered devastating blows to Ilre's liver and stomach, and the titan nearly fell there from nausea. The titan finally pulled Tekkud free, and with a bellowing roar of anger and pain, threw the farmhand against the far wall, where Tekkud fell broken. His bones were cracked, his head split from the impact, and he was left with a few agonizing minutes of life to see the failures of the guards he respected so much. He lived to see the disgrace of Iteb, and to be ashamed for his people.
Iteb stood in the back of the formation with the ranger, watching the fight with ax ready. He saw dwarves crushed, and watched with admiration and only passing pity for Tekkud as he was tossed against the wall and left to die. Seeing the titan wounded and off-balance, Iteb finally stepped forward and into the fray, his axe hacking at the Titan's leg. The red blood spilled, and splashed against the elegant statues decorating the hall, and he let out a victorious chuckle--which was brought to an abrupt halt as he only barely lifted his shield in time to deflect a blow from the very enraged and very unamused titan. The blow still sent Iteb reeling back, and with a cry he dropped the shield and checked his arm; it did not seem broken, but was still in pain. Iteb only looked up from his minor injury in time to take the full force of the titan's fury against his steel breastplate.
Iteb was knocked to his back, and scampered away from the giant. The other dwarves continued to pummel and beat the titan with fist and hammer, but none did significant damage to it; noticing this, Iteb's eyes widened with fear, and the decorated steel ax slid from his grip to clatter against the worked stone floor. Scrambling back a short distance, Iteb jumped to his feet and turned on his heels, quickly fleeing the wrath of the titan and retreating to the safety of the back of the defense to watch alongside the ranger, who unloaded round after round of steel-tipped fury upon the titan. The titan, realizing his injuries severe, turned and retreated. He did not, however, flee down the hall he had entered from; instead, he rushed through a door to the side, which led straight out and to the established water flow regulation chambers.
The surviving dwarves let out a cheer as the titan fled, and knew the tunnel came to an abrupt end into subterranean water. Though the tunnel emptied into the outside, the water there was subterranean, and heated from the many furnaces that worked tirelessly below the ground to produce coal and metalworks, and would not freeze. Before long, the titan realized his folly, and rested a moment to regain his breath before treading out into the disorganized and now leaderless dwarves to finish his work.
Enter two dwarves now, who knew not the woes, of their kin; Minkot and Led, two dwarven miners who, after nearly five years in the depths toiling relentlessly to produce stone and carried the very waterways of Metalbulwark upon their backs, were practically legends in themselves. Dwarves and men knew far and wide the exploits of Minkot and Led, and upon seeing the blood-slicked halls of their home, their brows furrowed, and the decorated picks of iron resting upon their shoulders gleamed, ready to spill more blood in defense of the home. The surviving militia had pulled the lever closing the zinc floodgate, trapping Ilre inside the chasm and fully prepared to leave the titan to either starve to death within or to drown, trapped from the outside and thus, freedom, by the ice he had so cleverly capitalized upon before.
When Minkot and Led were told the situation, they did look with scorn upon Iteb, who lowered his gaze to the floor with disgrace. Minkot looked to the steel weapon upon the floor, and rested his pick against the stone wall to retrieve both weapon and shield. The two dwarves, comrades and brothers forged in mountainous holes and practically the very fathers of this hall, though titles they had not for their deeds, readied themselves before the floodgate, and said, as one: "Open it." --Eddie 07:26, 4 July 2008 (EDT)
After word: The titan was finally felled by the dwarves, spearheaded by the legendary diggers. The body was unceremoniously dumped into a pit, and once the flesh if off the bones, I intend to make a helm from his bones and a totem from his skull. Of the many dead from the attack, I honestly do feel bad for Tekkud. He'd actually wrestled one kobold to death, as indicated in the story, but I left out the other two times he'd been called to service to fight goblin ambush parties at the front gate. As a farmer and plant gatherer, he had many opportunities to be drafted into service for his nation, and he threw himself unarmed and unarmored into each fight with glee and vigor. Had I made him an active member of my army, he'd likely have had the gear and training to survive that combat. He was an excellent fighter, and I'm already making arrangements to have him entombed in my finest Microcline coffin, which I find fitting for all the time he spent wrestling next to the Microcline table public gatherings were organized at. The coffin's well-crafted leather and morganite decorum settles the coffin at 670* value, which almost definitely surpasses the combined worth of any full crypt I've built for my nobles. A fitting place for that colorful character hidden inside these dull walls.
Much as I'd dislike taking my legendary dwarves out from the tunnels (especially since I have a dwarf who is going to go stark-raving mad if I don't find him some uncut gems soon!), Metalbulwark is going to be seeing some major improvements to its military forces, and other defenses in general, and those dwarves are my greatest asset. Rigorous training is going to ensue for my other soldiers, but they'll have to suck it up, now won't they?
Iteb is going to be replaced, and he will become a regular palace guard. What REALLY happened with him confuses and disapoints the hell out of me; he took a minor injury to his left arm, and as soon as the titan turned to run away, Iteb immediately went to bed to rest. Because he sucked his thumb in the back and didn't help the fight until after Tekkud was dead, then ran out of the fight as soon as he took minor injury, many more dwarves died in that hall than needed to. I may just have to execute Iteb for his incompetence.
Hey, kill two birds with one stone! Make recruits build strength on the water pumps leading into Iteb's personal death chamber...*ponders*
The Dwarf that almost killed my fortress
Seven proud Dwarfs embarked on the journey of a lifetime, taking all they needed save for one important thing, barrels. although they had enough for the first year, or thought they did, they were lacking of a place to put there produce, there being no trees in the area, and after the caravan had come and gone (without any barrels, sadly) the first migrants arrived, forcing the Dwarfs to use there hard bought wood for beds. At first it seemed there would be enough for barrels left over (I bought out the caravan) but the thing i had feared happened. a dwarf was suddenly taken by a fey mood and ran to the carpenters workshop, booting out the dwarf churning out the last of the beds and then proceeded to appropriate every last stack of wood in the fortress save 3. he worked furiously whilst i angrily plotted his demise. I would have too, but before i could flood his room he finished it and came out with... a bed! made from pine, with spikes of wood (making for an uncomfortable sleeping experience) engraved with trees! how original. I hope he dies from severe splinters. It was only because of luck and selling the damn thing that we made enough logs off the humans but by that time several dwarfs had lost there lives to starvation thanks to rotten food. the only reason that dwarf still lives is because he churned out beds and barrels at an amazing rate after that but the dwarfs that lost there lives cannot be forgotten. Although i didn't really like them anyway. stupid buggers.
The case of the missing seeds
It was a truly good fortress, good ol' Mengallas. The fortress had a rough start, the moat was scrapped due to the designers stupidity in the fortress entrance, we were never able to get a forge going due to the lack of an anvil, and we had little to offer to the merchants that arrived the first year. Nevertheless, we churned on. It was just that first year, me and seven good hardy dwarves. I got so caught up in things when the merchants left, I wasn't prepared at all for the wave of immigrants.
Yeah, I'll admit it, I just started, this was one of my first fortresses so I was still learning the ropes. Well, it wasn't a mistake that some hard work couldn't fix. So I got my hands dirty, and started digging out some new rooms. There were 9 new immigrants in all, more than doubled my fortress. I was so rushed, I just lopped certain immigrants in certain jobs... anyone with any crafting related skill started crafting, anyone with any cooking related skills cooked, etc. And that's when it started...
You see, I lumped all my farmer related skills together into... farming. Even those that had no farming skill. So my fortress churned on with 16 immigrants... and then I ran out of seeds. I checked my kitchen, I had it set to not cook any seeds or plants... so how did they all disappear? I hit up the wiki to check and see... Oh... non-skilled farmers can kill seeds...
DAMMIT!!
"Send him back to Mama, boys."
It was towards the end of the month of Sandstone when the thief was discovered. A kobold, despite the inherent filth of his kind, had once again managed to penetrate the outer defenses of Tosidùst, “The Armored Breach.” There was an immediate ballyhoo as Dwarves dropped what they were doing and ran in every direction. Some went to alert the Fortress guard, ‘The Steels of Mortality’ whose deadly wrestlers had dispatched many an invader with sausage-like fingers. But most simply ran.
The kobold seized his chance. Sprinting through the great gates on all fours, he beat a path across the wide courtyard, aiming for the true exit. For Tosidùst was no sunken burrow of a Dwarfhome, but a mighty fortress sitting majestically on the mountainside. A wide moat, crossed by a finely wrought drawbridge and defended by a fortified barbican, was the true entrance. With spittle flying from his fangs, the kobold dashed towards freedom.
“The bridge!” Cried the Mayor. “Raise the bridge!”
The entryway was still choked with excited Dwarves, but they quickly got the message. “The bridge, the bridge!” No fewer than six citizens of the Breach piled onto the heavy lever located just around the corner.
The thief was halfway across the great bridge, his stubby tail wagging with pleasure at making the Dwarves look like fools. Beneath his paws, the bridge trembled.
Dwarven engineering, the finest engineering in all existence, worked swiftly. Stone-wrought mechanisms worked with industrial grace, snapping the drawbridge up into a raised position.
The last any one saw of the kobold was high in the air, sailing up and over the courtyard, over the cliffs, over the southern ridge itself! Scavengers plied the hills for days afterward, but nothing was found. The kobold may have escaped Dwarven Justice. But the law of gravity is an even harsher code, and its sentencing was much, much swifter.
Thin Ice
Seven miners arrived at their site during late winter. As the miners began walking across the frozen lake to start digging out all the cliffsides, the entire lake thawed and all seven drowned.
The World's Greatest Animal Trap
Knowing that Rith wanted a metal bar for his artifact, ADT ran to the traders just as they were about to leave. "Please! We need a metal bar, only one!" he cried. The traders scratched their heads and one produced an iron bar from one of their wagons. "We'd be willing to part with this, if you have a good enough offer..." he softly said. ADT rapidly peeled off his his sock, and offered it to the traders. "Yes! Such a beautiful garment! Here, take the bar!" yelled the trader. He grabbed the sock, and gave the bar to ADT, who ran inside, struggling to put his shoe on as he did so.
Rith stealthily sneaked from his workshop to the bar stockpiles, being extra careful outside the bedrooms. It was night, so he didn't want to wake any of them. He opened the door of the stockpile, and peeked in, instantly seeing his prize, the iron bar ADT had bought from the traders. He grabbed it, and started to kiss it, thanking his deity for it. In his happiness, he ran back down to his workshop, not caring how loud he was. He started to engrave the bar, laughing maniacally as he did. But no-one heard, the workshops were just far enough from the bedrooms for them not to.
"What do you mean the iron bar is missing?!" thundered ADT, wiping his mouth with a hankerchief, having just finished breakfast with his lover Taira. "When you told me to make the wood furnace, I went to get it, and it was not there." said the Architect nervously, wringing his hands in fear, knowing of ADT's short temper. "Rith, must have been." said ADT, standing up from his chair. He kissed Taira goodbye, and went to the workshop, where Rith was standing smugly. "Iron bar, WHERE IS IT?!" yelled ADT. "Used it." said Rith simply "ON WHAT?!" "I'll show you." Rith lead ADT to the animal stockpile, where he was greeted by the sight of a willow animal cage, with an engraving of two cats on a piece of metal. ADT pointed at the engraving. "IS THAT WHAT YOU USED OUR IRON FOR?!" he bellowed. "Yep" "That thing better be darn expensive." "15,000☼." ADT's jaw dropped open. "Rith, you rock" said he.
The Ghost Cave
Taken from the diary of Kogsak Olinostar, dwarven trader
There is a place we visit every fall, as the trees begin to drop their leaves. It isn't a fortress, hasn't been for some time...it's more of a cave. It's built into the side of a mountain, right next to a stream. It's the most beautiful place, almost no sign that dwarfish hands had touched the land. No roads, no tree stumps, no dead animals. Then there is the cave itself. It's a small place, just barely big enough for the old trading post that rests within it. The floor is smoothed, and engraved with strange, unsettling images. They seem to move when you watch them, and it makes me uncomfortable to stare at the wall for too long. Walls shouldn't be able to stare back.
This year, as we walked into the cave, Urdim popped out, happy as always. That poor woman is the last inhabitant of the fortress of Astninur, and this cave all that she has. The trading post is the second floor of a two story cave that she calls home...I've only had cause to go below once, when I helped her carry down a barrel of Plump Helmets...I daresay I shall never want to go down there again. Her bed is placed near the door, and then, right behind that lies six coffins, carefully made and sealed shut. Below that is a flooded staircase...it had been one mistake that flooded the whole fortress, she'd explained. It's a terrible story...and yet she seems unaccountably cheerful.
But we do not visit this place every year just to check in on the poor young woman, for she produces incredible pieces of work, ruby encrusted mechanism and masterfully sculpted crowns, made from the very stone of the mountain, yet more beautiful than any metal crown. It is an incredible that she produces it all in her little cave...and so very sad that this work is all that she has to remember her comrades, one her husband, by. Every night, she locks the door to the lower chambers, and we hear the last mark of her madness...voices. A myriad of voices rises from the unnatural floors, filling our sleeping ears with their laughter, and the beating of hammers, and the chink of picks hitting stone. But come day break, it all fades away, and Urdim pops out, smiling, her madness sustaining her for one more day.
When we leave, she sees us off, then vanishes into her cave, closing the door behind her. We've caught many goblins stalking the area, and none of them know of the fortress in the area. None of them even knew that dwarves traveled through here...and our swords ensure that no one will know.
She is indeed a strange one, her madness singularly healing...and yet, sometimes I wonder...for sometimes, the voices sound so real, so convincing...I almost want to share her delusion...that her world is just fine. But I always leave the poor girl behind, to live with her ghosts.
Washing the Dead
In a randomly generated world, on top of a high mountain, a dwarf named Meng Tosidmogshum took the last steps up on to the plateau. This was where the entrance to the fortress was to be found...
He had left the fortress where he was born a few weeks ago and had been travelling since, together with his good friend Edëm Dakostlål. Meng was somewhat skilled with the spear, Edëm with the sword and since their fortress already had enough soldiers they decided to travel here, to Seizureworked. The first dwarves to settle here had arrived many years ago, since then not many had followed. They had heard that they were in need of more soldiers, to ward off the vicious goblins that roamed the mountains.
They had expected a solid gate on the side of the mountain, instead all they could see was a single house on the middle of the plateau, surrounded by a small moat. Confused, they started walking against the house.
Once they were a little bit closer to the house they could see dwarves running in and out of the house, and outside of the moat laid rotten corpses and skeletons of goblins, kobolds and one or two trolls. Getting even closer they could feel a stench, worse than any sewer, any dead were left to rot out in the fields. Meng felt that he might be seeing that breakfast once again and held his hand over his nose.
The dwarves on the small moat-surrounded island began to notice the two dwarves, but didn't spend more than a few seconds to look at the newcomers, they proceeded to do their jobs. Meng soon realised where the awful stench was coming from, as he was walking on the bridge onto the island he looked into the moat, an action he regretted... This moat was not filled with water, nor was it filled with magma, it was filled with the dead, dwarves and goblins alike, not only did Meng regret looking into the moat, he was starting to regret travelling here in the first place.
Once they had walked over the bridge and stood on the small island, looking at the house, they could now see the entrance to the fortress. In the ground was a hole, covered by a hatch, going down there you'd find a long stairway down to the fortress, it was wide open and dwarves were running in and out frequently, followed by their pets and livestock.
One of the dwarves, some sort of craftsdwarf, greeted them and pointed towards the stairs, telling them that they'd receive a proper welcoming down there. And that was what they did.
They now stood in the meeting halls of Seizureworked, and before them stood an unusually short dwarf, with an unusually long beard. His short height didn't seem to bother him, though, he grinned and went forward to hug the two dwarves. Another dwarf appeared, handing the newcomers mugs of ale, Meng felt a bit better but he hadn't forgot about the rotting corpses of the world above.
The dwarf told them to follow him to their new homes, and so they started walking down a wide and busy corridor. They took a turn at the near the end of the corridor, and now stood before a massive oaken door, their guide knocked on the door which was opened almost immediately. On the other side of the door was a large room with a high ceiling, they stood on a platform above the actual floor, next to them stood a few soldiers in muddy gear.
One of the soldiers, wielding a copper spear, whispered something to the others, looking at Meng's weapon, a finely crafted steel spear. Meng's grip on the spear hardened. The dwarf that had opened the door closed it once again, leaving the guide outside. The door-opening dwarf led them down a ramp onto the muddy floor, which at a closer look was littered with worn clothes and little trinkets. There was another door, even more solid than the last, and made of stone. The dwarf told them that the rooms were behind that door as he started walking up the ramp again.
Meng turned around, more suspicious now, the soldiers had left the room, and the dwarf was running towards the open door, this wasn't right he thought. He started running towards the door, but he was too late, the door-opener (and now also a door closer) ran out and closed the door. Meng was trapped, together with Edëm who was surprisingly uninterested in anything at all.
TICK TICK TOCK...
Something happened in the walls around Meng, mechanisms were in the moving.
TOCK... TOCK... CLONG
The door behind him started sliding into the wall. What would appear from behind that door, a great two-headed dog? Or perhaps an ogre?
At the same time outside the room, the soldiers were listening to what was happening inside, their ears pressed against the door.
TAP TAP TAP TAP...
Up the ramp...
BONK BONK BONK
On the door...
BLARR... BLUURGH... BLUB BLUB...
From a washed dwarf.
A few minutes later the door-opening,door-closing lever puller pulled a lever, and soon the water had drained. The wooden door was opened for the soldiers to retrieve their new gear.
A Tragic Tale of Love, Life, and Loss.
Well, not actually. But it is a tragic tale of loss. Names and a bunch of minor details made up for dramatic effect. I lost this fortress in a computer crash so I can't look up what they actually were anymore. Which is too bad, it was the first fortress I was doing right.
Asmel sat at his favorite table, sipping at a bit of his favorite dwarven wine. The dining hall was empty that day, so once he was finally able to enjoy a bit of silence. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, sighing deeply. This was a good day. Not that his life was terribly difficult. Most of the time he just sat around in the dining hall with all the other slackers, drinking. Asmel smiled. He was one of the luckier ones. When he had immigrated in not too long ago, there were already massive unemployment problems throughout the Violencewalls colony. Almost as soon as he had sat down in the nicely furnished dining hall, management was already plunking tons of unskilled labors into the army left and right, with the rest getting forced into building a worthless castle outside the fort. Asmel had lucked out. With a vaguely useful skill like brewing, he had managed to be overlooked by the higher-ups during the great job surge. But when all was said and done, there were still a bunch of dwarves who had nothing to do all day except haul the occasional doodad and drink. Asmel chuckled. Whatever faceless entities were running this fort sure were incompetent. Suddenly, a worried looking dwarf busted into the dining hall, interrupting Asmel mid-drink. Asmel looked up. It was Tulon, fellow idler whose main job was drinking ale, and who did a bit of furnace operating on the side.
“Hey, did you hear the news?” The usually jovial Tulon inquired. Asmel set his drink down as a concerned expression spread across his face.
“No, what’s up? Someone box himself in on the castle project again?”
“No, man. Something serious. You know Likot? The hunter?” Likot was usually one of the busier dwarves, so Asmel wasn’t exactly on speaking terms with him. He recognized the name, however.
“Yeah. What happened?”
“Well, apparently he got himself killed.”
“What? Seriously? How?”
“That’s the thing. No one knows. He was returning from a successful hunt, when suddenly, bam! He died. We don’t know what happened, but it sure as hell ain’t natural.”
“...Huh.”
“Yeah. Well, anyways, the fellows up top want us to clean up. They think it’s safe now, and they’re ecstatic that they can keep us busy for a couple seconds. A bunch of the other haulers are ready to go. We’re waiting on you.”
“Alright.” Asmel rose from his seat, stretching the kinks out of his system. Well, up until now it had been a good day. Contrary to it’s name, it was rare that anything bad happened around Fort Violencewalls. Even the most recent goblin invasions had turned out to be nothing more than an additional income source. Asmel followed Tulon up the stairs to the entrance of the fortress, where a bunch of the other usually jolly drinkers had assembled, somber expressions dominating their faces.
“I found him, let’s go.” Said Tulon. The grave procession began their march through the lush forest, stepping over brambles and ducking under branches, keeping a careful watch on the dense woods around them.
“So, where is the guy?” Asmel asked the nearest dwarf. It happened to be Fath, a calm and unmotivated wood burner who favored Dwarven Rum.
“Down south near the river, I think. What do you think happened to him? Goblins or something?”
“Naw, can’t be. The whole fort would be up in arms if it were. Thank God. If there’s one thing I hate it’s lugging some gobbo’s bloodsoaked boots halfway across the world because he didn’t have the decency to die at the castle gates.”
“Then what? I mean that guy was pretty tough, right? I mean, he killed animals for a living.”
“Hey, I don’t know. Maybe some cougar got the drop on him or something. Man, I hope it went quick. He was a good guy.”
“…Yeah.” At that moment, a voice rang through the trees ahead.
“Hey, I think I found him!” Asmel and Fath picked up the pace a bit, stepping out into a small clearing.
“By Armok….” Asmel muttered to himself under his breath, taking in the grisly scene before him. Likot was lying in a crumpled heap of limbs face down on the banks of the river, mouth ajar with an expression of surprise on his face. Nearby sat the body of his most recent kill, an unlucky deer with several bolts stuck in it’s neck and body. The blood of the deer painted the nearby shrubbery red, while Likot’s own blood tainted the nearby river. Next to Likot were Tulon and Datan, an aspiring Judge of Intent who did a little farming on the side. Tulon had picked up Likot’s favorite iron crossbow and was examining it carefully for damage, while Datan crouched over the body, examining the wounds.
“Gentlemen, dinner is served.” Datan joked, grimly. He turned the body over.
“You’d better work on your comedian skills, buddy.” Fath replied. “At least he’s in one piece.” He added. “Well, shall we get started?”
“Yeah, lets get this over with.” Asmel walked apprehensively over to the macabre figure. “I’ll take the cap.” Datan leaned in close, studying the appalling gashes closely.
“Hey, you know, I think these are bi-“ He never finished the sentence. At that very moment, there was a splash of water, a spray of blood, and cry of pain. A slimy figure had leaped out of the water and latched onto Datan’s neck. There was a sickening crack as Datan’s neck gave way to the Sturgeon’s fearsome jaws. Asmel stumbled back, landing on his back and dropping the leather cap. “Son of a-!” He exclaimed. The sturgeon had flopped back into the water. Tulon leaped backwards, only to trip over an unfortunately placed root.
“What the hell was thaAAAAH!” Asmel’s eyes darted to Tulon, just in time to see another sturgeon latch onto to Tulon’s leg. The sturgeon then started to drag Tulon into the murky depths below. “OH GOD OH GOD HELP ME H-” Tulon’s cries turned to garbled splashes as his head slipped below the waters, his hands desperately grabbing at loose dirt. Asmel wildly felt the ground around him, looking for a weapon, or a handhold to pull himself away, or anything really. His hand felt the cold iron of the crossbow Tulon had dropped.
“Holy shit holy shit holy shit holy shit….” His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. He pulled the crossbow in closer, right when another sturgeon burst out of the water. Asmel realized he didn’t know how to work a crossbow, and tried to scramble away. He turned around to see Fath, scared stiff, watching the whole massacre in absolute fear. “Get the hell out of here, Fath! Get help fro-“ A sudden pain lanced through Asmel’s leg. Asmel’s gaze flicked around, only to see the sturgeon clinging to his left leg. This is it…he thought to himself. The last thing he saw was another sturgeon lurching out of the water, flying towards his head….
Sitting at my computer, I notice that that three of my civilian dwarves were struck down within 2 seconds by fish. “What the ****.” I say to myself. Then I think, oh well. It’s just 3 haulers.
Kogan's Sacrifice
The digging was going along normally. Kogan and his fellow miners were mining near an aquifer. However, what they didn't know is that they had already found the aquifer. They drilled into the damp rock, hoping to get some more land for the farms that were progressing nicely. Water flooded out, and the miners were called back to build a wall. One miner had to stay to put down the last bricks. Kogan worked against the tide of the water, cutting off the flow, to realize that he was on the wrong side of the wall. Kogan gave his life for the fortress of Waningink, and his sacrifice was commemorated with a simple monument, consisting of parallel bauxite bridges, to be adorned with platinum statues, as a commemoration of the sacrifice of the dwarf who had saved the fortress at a cost that should never have had to been paid.
As a side note, Waningink has had five deaths. Two executions (water towers), three dwarves sealing themselves on the wrong side of water-related structures.
The Cursed Child
The sleepy Dwarven hamlet of BellSwelters was in downtime, waiting out a bitter winter, when Feb Libashudar finally bore her child. News travels fast in a small fortress, and within minutes everyone was awake; a wild celebration was thrown at the well. Feb, having had a touch too much to drink, staggered beside the well, losing her grip.
This was an underground well, dipping into a sunken pool carved out of the living rock. A clever contrivance of gears, gates, and weighted pushrods kept it full but not brimming, fed from the river above. Moments after little baby Momuz' plunge, already astonished partygoers witnessed the waterfall suddenly erupt with hitherto unknown fury; caught in some vital cog, little Momuz took all of Bellswelters with him beneath the icy winter waters.
The Hidden Tower
There was once a small, but thriving fortress dug out under a mountain, which was at the edge of a vast mountain range. There was a forest at the north of the mountain, a brook on the west, a volcano on the southwest, a chasm on the southeast, and mountains on all other sides.
The fortress grew slowly in size, but very quickly in wealth, as they were surrounded by precious metals and gems. There was so of this that when the miners had just begun to dig they struck gold. Once the Dwarven caravan had returned to the Mountainhomes, bearing golden crafts and platinum statues, they brought news of an outpost with immense wealth. The news spread like wildfire, and soon almost the whole world knew about it.
However, as always, the news reached the wrong ears. Goblin and Kobold thieves and ambushers came soon, eager to steal the riches. The fortress was still small in terms of population, but their military was made up of grim, determined dwarves who fought bravely. The outpost managed to repel all attacks with minimal loss. Their population grew very fast since migrants arrived in huge numbers.
Soon, the mayor sent some miners on an expedition to the far ends of the area to find more ores and gems. He also wanted a supply of magma for a smelter. The miners dug faithfully, but forgot to block the tunnels they dug, and soon chasm creatures flooded the fortress. Meanwhile, the fortress lost a couple of good miners at the volcano, but they managed to channel magma to the fortress. Along with the magma came Fire Imps, Fire Men and Magma Men, rapidly killing dwarves. To cap it all, the Goblins sent a huge siege party to the fortress.
The mayor consulted the Captain of the Guards, who told him that even if they managed to drive away the critters, the goblins would finish them off. However, he had an idea. The miners were sent for an extremely important, and classified mission. They dug out a temporary room for the dwarves, under the mountain. The nobles were quickly rushed in, followed by the civilians with the food, drink and all other items they took. The military tried their best and drove away most of the chasm creatures. The Captain, after beheading the last troglodyte, rushed the army into the room. The miners, meanwhile, dug a tunnel from the brook to the room, providing a water supply. Finally, the best mason built a wall to block the pathway, just as the lava creatures arrived.
The Goblins were surprised to find the fortress totally devoid of dwarves. As they explored the fortress, it seemed as if it was devoid of treasure too. Then the lava critters burst in. There was a fast and furious battle between the Goblins and the Fire Imps. The Goblins managed to drive them back to the magma forge, a heroic feat, when even more Magma Men and Fire Men emerged from the lava. The Goblins sent a few messengers to nearby towers, just before they were all burnt to crisps. Soon, chasm creatures spouted out of the tunnels, and joined forces with the Magma Men to battle more Goblins who arrived. In short, there began an endless battle between the goblins and the creatures of the region.
Unbeknownst to the other beings in the outpost, the mountain was almost entirely excavated. In the centre was a vast tower, made of gold, silver and platinum. There were hundreds of brilliant statues and engravings. The dwarves were thriving. Without the caravans to bring them food (since most dwarven civilisations had wiped them off the map), they relied on farming and herding for food, cloth and drink. They also mined extensively, with tunnels reaching to various corners of the area. Their tower was like a wonderland for dwarves, with ponds, statue gardens, zoos and artificial waterfalls.
The dwarves of the Hidden Tower, as they called themselves, survived for decades in that tower, entirely self-sustainable. However, they did not realise that a few adventurers had driven out the goblins, and the dwarves had begun populating it again. They managed to tame the wild creatures. However, they too were surprised to find strange tunnels criss-crossing the earth, more surprised to find very little stone remaining. They were also blocked out from a certain mountain by what were certainly dwarven-made walls. Alas, if the hidden dwarves had chosen to reveal themselves, they would have survived what was coming for them....
The Hammer of Madness
In a fortress unnamed, deep under the mountain in a narrow, forgotten hall dense with wood smoke, a dwarf on the edge of madness worked slowly, almost mechanically as if controlled by some outside force, but with great mastery. Hands twitchy as marionettes smote pig iron again and again, while the light of the furnace's glow caught in his eyes menacingly. Over all this came the unending chant of 'Müzuak, Müzuak'. Occasionally dwarves would come and watch, always at a distance. What strange force had possessed their metalsmith?
The form finally cast, the metalsmith began to carve a pattern of enormous intricacy for many days. Blinking and bleary, our metalsmith finally returned to his senses, exhausted and starving, to find he had made Müzuak, 'Fungusmurder', a pig-iron toy hammer of legendary qualities, carved with an engraving of itself... carved with an engraving of itself... carved with an engraving of itself... Peering through a curiously curved chip of crystal, he found still smaller hammers with smaller ones yet carved on them, curving off farther than dwarven eyes could see.
Why would alien forces possess their metalsmith and force him to create this? No one knew. There was nothing to do but inter the artifact in their deeply guarded, polished-walled, double-doored Museum alongside the Coal Amulet of Terrifying Engravings and the Glittering Mechanism of Solid Gold.
Two months later, the dwarven caravan offered them a pair of socks, embroidered on which was a toy hammer, containing a yet smaller toy hammer, containing a yet smaller toy hammer, as finely rendered as cloth and needle permits. Below it in dwarven runes read 'Fungusmurder'. There had been no contact whatsoever with the dwarven homeland until this day. They had always grumbled at their masters, as dwarves are wont to do, but never before had they suspected the Dwarfhome itself had allied with fey forces...
He just won't let it go
My marksdwarf shot my armoursmith in the leg while practising, after he recovered the dwarf was possesed and made an artifiact....
"Leghurt the copper leggings" it was called.
"On this item is the image of a dwarf and a dwarf in copper. The dwarf is shooting the dwarf."
I love this game...
Kogan Mossbeard enters a fell mood...
One of my best craftdwarf has been hammered to death due to an impossible mandate from the nobles. His wife was very unhappy for a week before it finally happened.
Kogan Mossbeard looses a roaring laughter, fell and terrible!
Before my eyes I could see the guilty noble being dragged to the butchery shop, screaming bloody murder before her axe chopped his head off.
Urist Pansypants has been struck down
Turns out he was playing in the whip vine flour this entire time!
After a caravan of tree-huggers left, I noticed two additions to my unit list: a tame hedgehog and a tame blackbird. Turns out those cages were so cheap because they had some pet vermin in them! I shrugged, ordered the well-decorated cages be built into the sheriff's office to add a spark of life to the room, and asked if anydwarf wanted to adopt them. My clothier quickly adopted the hedgehog, but the bird has been singing his song in his gilded cage for over a year now. Anyway....
I noticed about two seasons ago that the hedgehog was no longer in his cage. I couldn't zoom to him anywhere. We made a cursory search and then forgot about him.
Today, I went to go find my woodworker to ask about those new barrels, and it turns out he's in the pantry. Told me he was busy Small Creature Caging. I follow him out of curiosity, as he lops back to the sheriff's office and deposits the hedgehog back in his cage!
The psychotic dwarf who could (swim)
Long long ago, back in the early ages of the world, there was a modest fortress known as Mournriddle the Mortified Armored Beetles of Angels. Now, it is simply known as Mournriddle. After it's founding in 210, it quickly grew in prosperity. One day, a certain Mebzuth Inkpuzzled had a wonderful idea for armor. Alas! The steel and iron brought to the fortress from caravans had ran out just a week ago when the very same dwarf created a wonderful variety of sheilds and chainmail. Mournriddle's leader was somewhat inexperienced, and a bit of a packrat, so it only occured to him later to melt down iron goods, and by then it was too late.
Inkpuzzled finally snapped, and started babbling everywhere. He eventually jumped into a small lake after nearly fully stripping himself of all clothing. He began to drown, and everyone wrote him off as dead. But then, something amazing happened. He learned to swim! He quickly became tougher and a better swimmer, and even falling asleep in the water could not prevent him from breathing! A year and a half later, after reaching grand master rank in swimming.
At least that's what the official records say. Adventurers who travelled to Mournriddle years after it's downfall at the hands of a massive siege said that, even after clearing out all of the goblins who had claimed the fortress as their own, they still heard the faint paddling of a dwarf, swimming for all eternity to seek solace from his own insanity.
Urdim's blowgun
- Urdim Kutamèrith, Pump Operator, has created Rakusttenshed, a Glumprong blowgun!
Urdim, you are a freaking idiot.
The Shellfish Diet
The peasant ònul âtastïeb of Fortress Creaturechamber suddenly abandoned his hauling duties, kicked a mason out of his shop, and screamed for shells, eyes shining with a wild and frightening light. Most other times he'd be walled and locked in, but he'd picked the glassmaking level, crowded with skilled glassmakers and magma-rich, no room for barriers between the wall-to-wall workshops. They'd have to tear down his shop to wall it and that was deemed too risky, ònul was clearly unstable enough already...
Frantically digging through the food stockpiles, all their chef could find was a barrel of mussels in brine that'd sat untouched for three years running. Nobody wanted them before; nobody would even dare, now. Even after every other scrap of food in the fortress was expressly forbidden, nobody would touch them. Some folks began to starve. Others turned to a mysterious black-market supply of illicit dog meat... Time went on.
After a few days of waiting with bated breath, the mayor put the entire military on duty, marched them to their quarters, and locked them in with the barrel. After much yelling and screaming and trying to batter down the doors, the soldiers were forced to relent, prying off the lid and beginning their dubious meal.
Too little, too late. Mad shrieking was heard by the glass furnaces as the peasant gave up hope, funneling his fury on the fortress that had failed him, chasing terrified glassmakers in circles around the magma pipe. A war dog sprung to the attack to be instantly thrown down with mad strength, broken. Glassdwarves darted past and down a staircase while ònul, unseeing, continued to thrash the poor creature; looking up, the next and last thing he saw was Sodel Esdorsodel, the only soldier in the entire force not suffering from severe gastroenteritis, iron within and iron without.
Any Cost
It was never known whether the cave-in was a freak accident, or a cruel product of design. Whether Fate, Chance, or some mortal brought it about, it was Sibrek who suffered for it. They hauled him to the barracks, his left leg broken, his right leg shaking and unsteady. The whispers outside the barracks doors said that his leg would heal, but his spine wouldn't; he would never walk quite right again, if lucky. It was possible he would never walk again.
Sibrek could hear them, and saw a grim future in store for him. He was one of the first seven to found Agebolts, and he had not done anything of import. He had dug, and that was all. He would leave no legacy.
It was that night that the dream came to him. Sibrek awoke from his bed, mind hazy in delirium and pain, and rose to his quaking feet. The dream had burned an image into his eyes, the image of his last work, the legacy he would leave. It was worth any cost.
The dwarves on night watch saw Sibrek stagger from the barracks, face contorted in agony, forcing himself across the grand hall to the mason's shop. He only paused there momentarily, as if briefly collecting his thoughts, before limping to the stone stores beyond the fortress gates.
It took him hours to return with the stone blocks he needed. The dwarves who witnessed his march say that the pain in his face was unbearable, that they could not turn away. Those who offered help went unheard; Sibrek could not hear anything through the agony hammering through his legs, echoing through his spine like struck iron.
The stone returned, Sibrek set out again, to the risen sun and the stone piles. It took him a day and a night to return with the stone he needed, well after the sun had risen again, and every second of his journey marked a drumbeat of pain, and a litany of resolve. It was worth any cost. Any cost. Any cost.
The third time he emerged from the workshop, he could not make it more than ten dwarflengths before his body buckled from the pain. For an hour he leaned against the wall, his sight blurred, but the image sharper and clearer in his mind, and the hammers drumming against his body. Any cost. Any cost.
On his fourth trek, he collapsed in the hallway, and lay there for two days. The dwarves of Agebolts passed his body quietly, averting their eyes and quickly going about their business. There was nothing they could do for him. He probably wouldn't last much longer. But later that night, the watch saw him rise to his feet, shaking, muttering... and advance. Any cost. Any cost.
He returned to the masonry a fourth time, and did not emerge. For a week the sounds of work could be heard within, punctuated by periods of uncomfortable silence. No dwarf would enter. No dwarf wished to find Sibrek's body, sprawled across a work that he would never finish; the mere thought of witnessing such a tragedy was a terror of the soul that noone wished to bear.
After seven days, silence reigned in the crafthalls for many hours, and finally the mayor of Agebolts opened the door. Sibrek's body lay against the workshop wall, contorted in final agony. Before him lay his legacy - a table, etched in diorite, filigreed in realgar, inlaid in designs that defied worldly description. It took some time before the mayor remembered Sibrek and stepped forward to carry him to his bed, for Sibrek's legs could no longer carry him. On the way, Sibrek whispered into his ear before he finally lay still.
"Any cost."
The newest citizens of Agebolts always come amid quiet acknowledgement and quick assignment of duties, but a few choose first to find their way to a small room of the fortress - an unassuming chamber of rough-hewn walls set apart from the fortress, and no furniture - none, except for the table of unsurpassed beauty, still as flawless as the day it was discovered in the mason's shop, next to Sibrek's crumpled body.
And Sibrek himself is sometimes there, when he is not working in the mines; his legs do not carry him as well as they should, but they carry him, and his pick-hand is the stuff of legends. He has never spoken of his labors. But when asked, he always has an answer, one that the young dwarves take to heart: that creation is worth any cost.
The turtle shell Idol
There was a dwarf known as "Treehugger Bristlewhipped." He was called "Treehugger" for he was such a gentle and kind dwarf. Very generous and immodest.
One day Treehugger was caught by a peculiar mood. He went into a craftdwarvshop and began bringing in various materials.. he worked like a mad man for several days and emerged with a turtleshell idol! It was called... "Treehugger Bristlewhipped."
None of the dwarves knew what to say. The ones before Treehugger had produced ornate shields, high quality weapon racks and perfect jewels.
Treehugger had made a self portrait.
As if things weren't bad enough Treehugger explained the idol. He had encrusted it with Lace agate, decorated it with goblin bone and encircled it with bands of Lace agate. The idol menaced with spikes of turtle shell and carried the images of diamonds and many-pointed stars in iron.
Even to this day when a dwarf is asked WHERE the spikes and decorations were located they simply change the subject. Only in our dreams shall we know what this piece really looks like ... if you can remember it when you wake up screaming.
The Story of Treatyflames
At last, we have arrived at the site of our new home, at the edge of the Forest of Calm in the shadow of the peaks of the Beak of Direction. I must admit, it's nothing like I was expecting from the information we received from the Becorrovod officials. The flowing water is little more than a brook, and the lush vegetation consists mainly of shrubs and bushes. Rather than a fertile valley, it appears to be a desolate gulch. Still, there is no turning back now, and we must make the best of what we have: two miners, one woodworker, three farmers, a bookkeeper, a dog, two oxen, an anvil, an axe, two picks, five seeds, and whatever food and ale we managed to avoid consuming on the journey through the wilderness.
...By Rimtar Katthirduthnur's ever-long beard, we are all going to die out here. I know it.
Continued here.
The first half year of Onulod
The fortress Onulod, known as Mirrortunneled amongst men, was founded early in the year 301 under the leadership of Sarvesh Gostmelbil. Seeking a vantage point to look for a good site to start, Sarvesh directed the expedition to one of the highest peaks in the local area. Unfortunately, at the top the wagon broke, the pieces tumbling into the abyss, though the dwarves managed to save all of their supplies. Still, the peak was hardly a suitable place to start the outpost. For one thing, merchants might have touble negotiating the peak, so Sarvesh's first order was for everybody to drag down all the supplies, 27 levels down, to a valley far below. Meanwhile she and the miner Kosoth began digging deep into the mountain, heading for the magma pipe of the local volcano.
No sooner had the settlers dragged down the supplies, and begun to get comfortable, than Sarvesh ordered them into action again. Everything was to be moved inside, through the long, long tunnel dug by him and Kosoth. Everybody grumbled, most of all Erith the craftsman who had just begun converting the bones and shells produced by hungry dwarves into fine wares in his new workshop. The workshop was torn down, and another built deep within the mountain. Everybody was busy, dragging goods, and establishing workshops and personal chambers deep within the mountains. Summer passed by without anybody noticing. Then the merchants from nearby dwarven Kivish Ziril arrived, and everybody was more busy. Barrels of foodstuffs, and most of Erith's first goods were still lying out in the rain, including an exceptionally crafted crown that Erith was quite proud of. During the chaos, a kobold snuck up to the tunnel opening of the settlement and stole Erith's crown lying just outside. Nobody saw the thief, except for the tracks left behind.
The merchants left again, and things simmered down to normal. Olon the Carpenter and Dodok the Mason were the only dwarves to have gotten their own rooms. Everybody else was still sleeping in a barrack, while Sarvesh pursued her dream of a dining hall with open access to the magma pipe. Erith was lying in bed in the barracks, listening to Catten the Farmer snoring next to him, fuming about his lost crown, his lack of proper quarters, all the indignities heaped upon him. And he snapped. He began trashing Catten, while only two beds away Sarvesh was lying in blissful sleep. Several rooms away, while chipping away a staircase to the future underground gardens, Kosoth heard the noise and grabbing her pick tight headed down to investigate.
She first saw Shem the Fisher, standing in the doorway, loudly complaining how it would be impossible to get any sleep with the current racket. Pushing Shem aside, she arrived just in time to see Erith mangling Catten's left leg with a mighty blow. Sarvesh was still sleeping only two beds away, cradling her beloved pick. Erith was a good friend of Kosoth's, but she recognized the maddened gleam in the craftman's eyes. She knew what had to be done, and with a heavy heart she charged Erith, battering him with the shaft of the pick. Erith turned his attention from the unconscious Catten to Kosoth, and maddened with rage tried to bring down his old friend as well. But if Kosoth knew anything, it was how to handle a pick. In short order she struck Erith down. Shaking, both from the emotions and excess adrenalin, Kosoth sat against the wall resting, watching as Shem came into the room, unceremoniously pushed Erith's still cooling corpse of the bed, and lay herself to sleep in the blood soaked linens.
After that Kosoth was a very depressed person. But she buried herself in her work. Digging out the new tombs was first order of business. Then she dedicated herself to completing the underground farms, digging with single minded purpose the long tunnel that would lead water from the local brook. Sometimes her pet cat would bring a small comfort, but her mood never lifted much. With Erith dead, and Catten bedridden, there were two less hands. Everybody was feeling the strain. And it was on this note that winter came around.
The Story of: Nazushugog
"Hark! This is our chosen land, we shall settle here and build the second budding dwarven empire!"
In year 11, The dwarves of the group known as "Coverknife" a runaway group who left the dwarven city of Govosdastot, hopefully in the newly discovered lands of Fitoal they will find a purpose for their existence.
The first 7 dwarfs are: Zan Indrothil F, Melbil Udisttun M, Mezbith Erithatul F, Led Lolordeleth M, Ingiz Rigothtel F, Iden Morrith F, and the Leader Likot Masoscilob M
F=Female M=Male
This story is from the point of view of Likot Masoscilob (The Leader)
Year 11, Day 4- The site of the fortress has been found, but Zan Indrothil (a miner) suffered a broken back due to the cave collapsing on him. She is currently laid out and recovering, hopefully she will be back on her feet and helping with the construction of the fortress.
Year 11, Day 15- Much progress has been made, we are currently moving our stocks into our stockpiles and working on some workshops and a small barracks. We've recently hit a large layer of mudstone, maybe this will have to be our building block for the time being.
Year 11, Day 17- Zan's recovery is very bad, she doesn't seem to have a will to live, her spinal injury is taking a toll on her, and we're not sure if she'll be able to move ever again. The other 6 dwarves are doing all they can to help her out.
Year 11, Day 21- We have worked on our 7 rooms, they're not much, but they work for now, we have them in a small section a part from other future rooms for anyone who may want to join us. Zan has made a small recovery, she is able to gently move her spine, but not much, at least we know she has feeling and won't be crippled.
Year 11, Day 30- A trader from Govosdastot has come by today, we bought some logs, and food, our small Plump Helmet patch should be enough, but you can't have enough food. A small group of 9 dwarves came by in search of a home, we gladly welcomed them in. Looks like we'll need some more beds. The wall and gates are currently being worked on. Hopefully it will be done soon.
Year 11, Day 45- We've built a small mining facility deeper underground to get more ore, we're in search of some Magnetite for weaponry, in case of any thieves. The wall construction is nearly done and the gates are all set up. We're going to begin work on a small lookout tower this week. Should be done in a few days.
Year 11, Day 65- It's been about a month since my last entry, but great news! Zan is back on her feet! She's begun mining again and things are looking great for us so far. One of the dwarves brought his own sword and is volunteering to be on lookout for any enemies. The wall is done and the tower is finished. All we need is a couple of archers and maybe 2 more guards and we'll be well protected in my eyes.
(More To Come!)