Difference between revisions of "ASCII art reward/M-S"

to the ground sputtering. Rognar had been born into a world of

summit of the corpse mound and surveyed the carnage. The siege had

been broken. Here and there, a wimpering slave of darkness put up

battlefield. Rognar smiled. It was a great day to be a dwarf.

He would never let the fiend escape again. That was what Neandar the

after the skulking kobold thief. For many seconds they fell, time

Fortress Guard. Wet matter slammed into the dwarf's face and gave

way. The dwarf smashed through a dozen giant spider webs and hit the

A huge standing ring of fire dominated the floor of the chasm. The

kobold made for the hell portal with all speed. Neandar stopped in

his tracks. It was one thing to plunge to certain death in order to

retrieve a granite puzzle box. It was quite another to cast oneself

into a dimension of ultimate evil. Yet these kobold cowards could not

be allowed to run about as they pleased. Lifting his axe over his

===(30 November 2015)===

Shouts could be heard further down the mine tunnel. None of the dwarves  

figured they had too much longer to live. The rules had been broken and  

the miners had begun to harvest adamantine from the forbidden ore vein.

At first it appeared that everything would be okay. The magic ore fell  

away from the tunnel wall leaving a black hole beyond. It didn't seem  

“We have to get out of here,” said Kogan. “Now.”

barked orders. The dwarves could smell smoke and the sounds of chaos  

were growing closer. Together, Kogan and the scribe made their way out  

of the library and through the twisting corridors of the fortress. As  

them. Shizenbubin was the tracker of the group, always hot on the

trail of danger. Shizentubin was her sister, skilled in the ways of

the blade so that no enemy neck was safe. Azoul Buck was the leader.

This would be a short quest indeed. A party of goblins had ambushed

the prince on his way to the castle. All the heroes need do is return

him unspoiled. It would be easy to intercept them then on their way

to the Black Fortress, given Shizenbubin's incredible skill. However,

time was not on their side. Goblins grew bored easily and might make

sport of the prince's bodily members. Azoul set the pace, a quick

trot through the woods. She smiled at the easily-won glory that

block which he had just slid into place. Ever since the Baron had insisted

rats. It couldn't be helped. Gold was gold after all, but it was just

The dwarf laid down on his bed and began to think about the next project. A

puzzlebox, perhaps, something challenging. Just as Doran was drifting off

"Ha! Keep trying you little demons," the dwarf chuckled. The scratching

continued. It was irritating, but the dwarf could block it out. Then there

was a grating scrape as the block moved an inch. The dwarf sat up and

stared at the wall in amazement. Impossible, he thought.

The block slid forward further. Small, clawed fingers worked their way

stabbing downward. The tool grazed the hand, leaving a spatter of blood on

the stone. There was a shriek, and the bleeding hand disappeared into the

hand. After a moment, the scratching began anew.

"Leave me be, you fiend!" Doran yelled, his chisel held toward the stone

block. The scratching became louder and more persistent.

crack. The beast had learned. The slab of granite was being pushed

directly from behind, and it glided slowly toward Doran. The dwarf backed

The block stopped sliding. There was now enough space to allow something to

not see behind it. For a long moment, nothing stirred. The craftsdwarf

At once, a creature leapt from behind the block and faced Doran. It was a

patchy-furred flesh stretched tight over its starved body. The thing

The dwarf stood, a vial in his hand. The ratman lunged forward and Doran

hurled the vial at the beast's face. The glass shattered, and the creature

clutched its black protruding eyes as they steamed. Doran rushed forward

"Pity about that. I was going to ask Mul to do some etchings for me."

pausing to take another swig of whiskey. "I can't believe how much trouble

replied. "Kogan's child was taken not long ago."

Meanwhile, Kogan stood with his axe by the chasm bridge. Ever since the boy

spiders. He would not be satisfied until the depths were devoid of life.

A foul wind blew up from the chasm. Kogan leaned to the side and peered

down over the edge of the bridge. The impact was sudden and the dwarf was

knocked on his back in the middle of the bridge. Kogan heard the sound of

==[[User:Met|Met]]==

===(June 2011)===

<pre>||~@++%||@++++</pre>

"I am innocent of these crimes!" cried Fuglin as he was dragged away. Sitting in the dungeon cell, he could recall the cheers of the dwarves as the judge pronounced the verdict. It wasn't fair. The adamantine wasn't his. He was just holding it for somebody. Now in prison, he was left to rot. A guard stopped by his cell and poured a cup of gruel on the cold stone floor. Anger and despair were all he felt now. From now on he dared not hope.

--

It had begun as such a small thing. Fuglin and the goblin had known each other since the construction of the fortress. Fuglin was young then.

One day Fuglin visited the goblin, this time locked in the stockade.

"You know the path through the stone?" said the goblin. "The one we built as children? You must go there and bring me what you find. It is the key to my release."

<pre>,.,.,.,.,@|#######&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&</pre>

The space was not built for more than a child, a narrow, twisting tunnel winding its way through the foundations of the fortress. At the bottom, Fuglin saw a light, a silvery glowing rock at the end of the tunnel. This must be it, thought Fuglin, a bribe to set the goblin free. Hastily, Fuglin took up his pick and chiseled off a piece of the silver metal.

Something lay beyond the tunnel. A hole the size of a dwarf's fist opened where Fuglin struck. He could hear a strange howling within, no doubt another subterranean jungle. The dwarf didn't stay to find out. He squirmed as fast as he could, finally reaching the exit where he found the goblin, free from his bonds.

"You survived," said the goblin. "Keep the adamantine as a token of our friendship."

"Wait!" cried Fuglin, but the goblin had disappeared.

<pre>@@@@@,.,o@,..##||#&#&#&&&&#&</pre>

What happened next was hard to say. There was a lot of smoke and fire. Dwarves ran screaming through the fortress. Captains shouted orders to soldiers they could not see through the clouds of burning vapor. Fuglin was scared beyond reason. He tried to follow the others, ducking when the monsters swooped down.

It seemed it would never end, then Fuglin came rolling out of the fortress gate just as another fire blast rocketed overhead. As it was, the demons could not, or would not set foot outside the fortress. What few dwarves that were left gathered at the hills below. Fuglin recognized a blacksmith which with he had apprenticed. Before he could speak the blacksmith pointed his finger.

"You have a visitor," said the prison guard.

"Take this glass pill," said the goblin, holding out his hand, "and

bite down with your teeth. Death will come swiftly."

The goblin dropped the pill into Fuglin's open hand. The fluid in the

green glass capsule looked black and foreboding. Still, it beat a

humiliating public execution. The goblin turned and left without

saying another word. Fuglin put the pill in his mouth and bit down

hard. A moment's dizziness was all he had time to experience.

"Where am I?" asked Fuglin.

"Quiet," said the goblin. "We are in the catacombs. The dwarves

believe you committed suicide."

 

"But I did commit suicide," mumbled Fuglin.

 

"You can take that up with your deity later," said the goblin. "For

are discovered."

 

 

<pre>g@,.,.@@@></pre>

 

Why had he been rescued? Fuglin was a traitor and had to be forged anew, but to do that, he had to die. The goblin held his hand as they exited the tomb. There was a family of dwarves mourning just outside. As they passed, the goblin held Fuglin close, pretending to be lovers lost in grief. It worked this time, but in order to start a new life, they needed Fuglin to exchange his sackcloth for real clothes. The goblin led Fuglin through a maze of corridors to the fortress market.

 

“You look like a scribe to me,” said the goblin.

 

“Like those creeps that spend their whole lives in the library?” complained Fuglin.

 

“Forget your old life,” said the goblin. “That is what it means to serve in the Order of Nadir.”

 

<pre>+++@p|</pre>

 

Writing prose under the pen name Robinor, Fuglin began his new life as a scribe. Life was different out in the periphery. The monastery where the scribe worked was built into a hillside deep in the Forbidden Forest. Not many people would risk a journey there, but Robinor's works ended up being so skillful and filled with such beauty that he gained the one thing he could no longer afford, fame.

 

None of the brothers spoke to Robinor as they had all taken vows of silence, but the dwarf could still tell that they were pretty mad about all the visitors they had been attracting lately. Robinor greeted his fans with the humility one would expect from a monk, but it was easy to tell that the dwarf was succumbing to the sin of pride.

 

One day, Robinor was praying in the shrine to Nadir when a bird landed on the creepy statue of the god of the depths. It was a parrot, out of place in the cold northern climate. Robinor stood on his feet and walked over to the statue.

 

“Pretty bird,” said Robinor. “Pretty bird.”

 

“You are all going to die,” said the parrot.

 

<pre>pg+++@+</pre>

 

“What?” asked Robinor, stupidly to the bird.

 

“Fuglin,” said the parrot.

 

The monk's face went white as a sheet. Someone had taught the parrot to speak these words, someone connected to his old life. The scribe, Robinor, had thought he had left all of that behind. Occasionally a dwarven survivor from Robinor's old fortress would appear at the monastery, but they never recognized him. This was something far more sinister. It had to be the goblin.

 

“You have a visitor,” croaked a monk.

 

“Your holy vow?” asked Robinor, panicking.

 

“See for yourself,” said the monk. “Then you will understand.”

 

It could only be one person, the phantom from the past. The goblin stood at the entrance of the building, the parrot on his shoulder. He smiled at Robinor as he approached.

“Fuglin!” said the goblin. “It's been a long time, my friend.”

“I am no longer that person,” said Robinor. “I have a new life here.”

“You have the life I gave you,” said the goblin, the smile fading from his lips.

 

 

<pre>,.@,@@.@,.MMg[@</pre>

 

“The king has grown attached to the writings of this 'Robinor,'” said the goblin. “This puts you, Fuglin, in the unique position to get close to him. You remember this?”

The glass pill was unmistakable. The black fluid danced inside as the goblin shook it in Fuglin's face. It was the ill-fated dwarf's job to poison the king in any way he could. When Fuglin went to retrieve his writing material, the goblin took him by the arm and removed him forcibly from the building. He would not be needing any of that stuff where he was going. Fuglin fell silent as he boarded the wagon that the goblin drove with its team of mules.

On the way to the capital many travelers stopped the wagon to ask if the dwarven monk was indeed the famous Robinor. The dwarf writer allowed himself to forget the evil quest he was on. Word spread quickly of the scribe's journey to see the king.

“You better do what you're told,” warned the goblin.

 

<pre>|~@+|~g+|+++++++|@@++%|</pre>

“Robinor,” exclaimed the king, “it is a great honor!”

“It is all too much,” said Robinor, fumbling with the deadly pill in his pocket.

The king clasped the monk's hand and pulled him into his private chambers. The goblin watched ominously as the door closed, sealing the two dwarves inside. Waiting patiently, the goblin eyed the royal guards which flanked the doorway. There wasn't a lot of room to move if this went badly. Just then, the door swung open.

“The king!” cried Robinor. “The king is dead!”

Drawing their weapons, one guard went inside while the other guard arrested Robinor and the goblin. The king had apparently collapsed on the floor. There was a black smear on his lips. The guards took the monk and goblin down to the dungeon to await their fate. When they were separated, the goblin didn't say a word. Robinor didn't know which was worse, to be executed for destroying the fortress, or for regicide.

 

=== (March 2016) ===

 

<pre>@@|+++!!%!!</pre>

 

“It was all the goblin's doing,” cried Fuglin to the lead investigator. “Where is the king's body?”

 

“Tell me more about this goblin,” said the detective. “How long have you known him?”

 

“We grew up together,” said Fuglin. “He was always getting me in trouble. Where is the king? There still might be time to save him.”

 

“You are telling me that the great Robinor is actually the famous traitor, Fuglin the Feckless?” asked the detective.

 

“That's me! I'll admit to all my crimes,” said Fuglin, “but for forge's sake, just take me to the king's body before it's too late.”

 

“The king was cremated this morning,” said the detective.

 

The familiar sinking sensation took hold as Fuglin struggled to accept his situation. The detective collected his scrolls and left Fuglin alone in the holding cell. Fuglin reached into his mouth and pulled out the green glass pill. There was still enough poison for one last dose. He wondered if anyone would be there to wake him this time.

 

 

 

It was cold and dark in the catacombs. Fuglin was shocked that the dwarves had fallen for the same old trick, or was the joke on him this time? The goblin wasn't here to guide him out of the dark tunnels and Fuglin was buried alive. He slid out of the alcove and shed his funeral shroud.  It was dark and creepy and Fuglin could sense the dead bodies all around him in various states of decay.

 

“I am not Fuglin,” said the wretched dwarf. “I am Robinor.”

 

“You mean the famous poet?” said a voice in the dark.

 

“The same,” said Robinor after a moment's terror. “Tell me, are you not dead?”

“How is it that you live down here?” asked Robinor.

“I will show you,” said the ghoul.

It was difficult to make out the monster in the dark.  It looked basically like a dwarf, but stooped and sickly.  Robinor followed him to a grave where the family had left gifts as an offering to the dead.  The ghoul took some of the morsels of food and shared them with Robinor.

“A good haul this time,” said the ghoul.

Battle master Sharkra was an evil genius of combat. It was rumored

gambling the same night. Her very aura smelled of the underworld.

Now she soldiered for anyone who would pay her. Pay her and her elite

troop of mercenaries, the Unholy Band. This time is was rat-lord

Gomra that hired her.

Sharkra pulled herself onto the fortress wall. Members of the Unholy

Band leapt over the battlements, light on their feet. Together they

advanced on the dwarves. Sharkra wielded a giant mace, while the Band

pulled rapiers from polished sheaths.

“We have you,” said Sharkra. “Throw down your weapons and die quickly.”

“What are you standing around for?” screeched Sharkra. “Kill them.”

carried at all times.  Her face was never much to begin with, but now

it was utterly ruined. Gomra, thought Sharkra, it is all his fault.

The warrior woman whistled and the Unholy Band followed her as she

retreated from the fortress.

“It is said,” intoned dwarf captain Duzelm, “that evil shall always

turn upon itself.”

“What is your plan master?” asked Bally, the dwarven squire.

“We shall follow this villain back to Lord Gomra,” said Duzelm “and

catch all the rats in the same trap. Go to the humans in Gelthtown,

Before the day was through, the men of Gelthtown had assembled the

horses, along with master rider Jorna. She was blond and lean, draped

in the leathers of a Gelthtown tracker. The dwarves climbed onto the

horses and strapped themselves in.

“Are you sure you can keep up with the Unholy Band?” asked Captain Duzelm.

Jorna laughed.  “Just pray I don’t reach Gomra before Sharkra does,” she said.

They called him Fish-Dwarf.  He was the only worker in the outpost willing to brave the depths of the cave river in order to service the floodgate mechanisms when they became clogged with the seasonal muds.

It was that time again.  The farming gates weren't operational, and the planting had to begin immediately. Fish-Dwarf had his tools, and the special fins he had manufactured were secured to broad feet.  Everything was ready.  The frightened faces of the onlooking children would not dissuade him. Fish-Dwarf understood that this was his calling. He was the only one that could save the outpost.  The dwarf inhaled, and his chest swelled to nearly double its original size.  Clearing his mind, the dwarf dove into the water.

Fish-Dwarf swam down the narrow tunnel to the gate mechanism.  The water was murky and even with his superior vision he could only just see his hands sweeping ahead of him.

The upper portion of the mechanism appeared suddenly before him.  The dwarf inspected the machinery quickly, mindful of his air, yet confident that he had at least a few minutes left. The top assembly was clear, so the mud must have worked itself into the lower gears. Fish-Dwarf pushed his way down.

The swollen rotting face of a lizardman greeted him, twisted into the gears.  Not again, Fish-Dwarf thought, dejected.  It would take at least three trips to dislodge all of the chunks.  The dwarf removed the chisel from his tool case and began working it into the sticking jam.

pulled his way up on to the bank.  He had finished his last cleaning

run, and already the floodgate was rising, ushering in the waters that

would prepare the way for the summer harvest.

   

"Truly, Fish-Dwarf, your mastery of the murky depths never ceases to

amaze us.  You are a hero," the Mayor Kogan said, offering Fish-Dwarf

a mug of the outpost's best.

"I am glad I could help," Fish-Dwarf said, draining the mug in one

motion.  "If only the river waters were whiskey, my life would be

Fish-Dwarf pondered a moment.  "Indeed.  Yet the search for the

Whiskey River is a quest for the young, I'm afraid."

"We here at Gladanvil are happy to have you," the Mayor replied as the

crowd dispersed.  As the others left, the mayor pulled Fish-Dwarf

"-- and yet, I fear you cannot stay long.  I've received word from

King Dorazar.  He has heard tell of your talents, and our liaison from

the Mountainhome has conveyed his request for your presence at the

capital."

   

mighty floodgates and channels of Steelpoint without my help."

"It isn't farming trouble, Fish-Dwarf," the Mayor said, lowering his

voice to a whisper. "Many fisherdwarves have been lost to the waters.

There is something lurking in the Lake of Columns."

Innumerable stalactites hung from the ceiling of the expansive gem-lit

waters.  This was the Lake of Columns, the source of life for

Steelpoint, and now a place of dread.

   

Fish-Dwarf fit the blades into place on his fins.  The citizens of

Steelpoint did not know what the creature was, but no fewer than seven

and that is what he would do.  Still, the nature of the creature

beast, and then it was only the cave crocodiles and lizardmen that

occasionally harassed his own community. Steelpoint would not have

The water was clear, and he could see the broad columns well ahead of

him down to where they joined the submerged floor of the cavern.

Behind any of these formations, the beast could lurk.

strike, the lurid thing's lone eye flashed open.

Tentacles lashed out, looping around Fish-Dwarf's torso and pinning

his arms to his chest. A force stronger than any he had ever

experienced crushed his ribs and a stream of bubbles shot from his

mouth as the breath was squeezed from his body. Fish-Dwarf

desperately slashed at the tentacles with his fin blades and as his

vision faded to black he saw that the water was thick with curling

purple ribbons of the foul beast's tainted blood. The monster's grip

loosened and Fish-Dwarf was able to free his arms. His sight had not

returned, but when he stabbed his trident downward, he felt it sink

deep into the creature.  The monster's body convulsed and it raced

into the open water, Fish-Dwarf still clinging to the imbedded weapon.

Fish-Dwarf thought, though the beast continued on into the depths at

such speed that the diver could not maintain his bearings, and

suddenly in the back of his mind arose a strange sensation...  it was

the need for air, such as he had not experienced for many years.  A

tingling came to his throat and nose, and his head began to feel numb

as he became more desperate for breath, and yet slowly, his vision was

returning.

The beast slowed, its energy spent, and it settled on to the lake

bottom, unmoving.  Fish-Dwarf jammed the trident into it a few times;

the thing was dead.  Now, the surface!  Fish-Dwarf pulled his weapon

from the monster and swam upward, but he stopped immediately. As far

as he could see in the now-dark water, a smooth ceiling of limestone

bottom, so far and so deep that the light from the gem lamps was no

longer visible.  Just the endless water and rock of the submerged

tomb of Fish-Dwarf, he thought, as he chose a direction and swam.

<pre>,@!,.~~~~~~~~</pre>

He had chosen the wrong direction. Either that or the beast had

dragged Fish-Dwarf so far into the mountain that the fires of the

panicking. After every few kicks, the dwarf would reach up to feel

the limestone. If anything, the rock was closing in. No... what's

it firmly with both hands and pulled, launching himself upward.

freely until at long last he broke the surface of the water, gasping

for air. As the dwarf calmed down, he realized that he could still

see nothing. He felt walls close by in all directions, as if he had

just swum up a shaft, though there was a ledge overhanging the water

on to which he could haul himself and rest his weary body. Fish-Dwarf

passed in and out of consciousness for a time, perhaps an hour, before

he sat up and assessed his situation.  

mountain. Without hesitation, Fish-Dwarf struck out into the cavern.

-- How long since he had started on this dreary journey? Though the mud

was often thick, Fish-Dwarf had not trudged through so much as a

puddle these many days. He thirsted for spirits, nay, even water, and

he longed to swim again. The dwarf had long since abandoned his fins

and other equipment as they encumbered him too much on the march.

Every so often, he imagined he saw the gem lamps ahead, though it

could just as easily be the cooking fires of a goblin encampment, or

some darker torture, as the lights of the capital he sought. There

they were, even now... lights! Or light at least, the barest speck

still careful of the stalactites but driving forward rapidly all the

same. The speck became an opening, and he could see the mud of the

beyond. Only a few more steps...  

<pre>,..,.++U+,.+,.+U~U||</pre>

"Silence, Rodger," said the king.

The herald jumped away like a whipped dog.  The king motioned the

"The gods have abandoned this place," said the king.  "Only through

preferable to slow certain death by starvation.

<pre>==?T?====,.UH,.U</pre>

"By the will of the king," he hissed, "I am to be your squire."

Paldadar prayed to the gods for mercy.  Would that a Farthling's bolt

The temple was built on a tall hill, a ring of marble columns

scraps donated by the monks that poured rotten food down the hill.  As

"When you wake in the morning," said Igland, "consider Love."

kingdom, none of our desperate peasants will survive.  You must strike

the heart of their kingdom and burn their temple to the ground."

Paldadar made the gesture of obedience and departed, pulling Rodger

wooden planks.

across the blighted landscape.  The knight turned to see Rodger making

tracks back to the temple with the speed of a spooked hare.  Slowly

Paldadar looked over his shoulder to see the enormous bloated troll,

dripping with slime and black pus.

love," said the troll.  "What will you tell them, knight?  Is slow

certain death by starvation superior than the final empowering

Was the nation of love superior?  He hailed from a place where young

and hauled him, protesting, across the bridge.

The land of the Farthlings was lush and green compared to the land of

their way through the hills. Even in these pleasant surroundings, the

hung in the trees from hastily-tied nooses, over eager to take their

from the grass to watch them saunter on.

"Make babies, make babies, make babies," babbled Rodger, madly

rose petals through the cold, dead streets.  Even the cheerful sun

seemed dim in the vast tomb of a city.  Rodger stared straight ahead

doorway, behind which ominous rustlings could be heard.

the base of the wall lay the piles of bones of those who had

into the gate.

“They say that the dragon slayer roams the halls of the castle still,” said the old man.

“You are a liar,” said Prince Mucer. “There are no such things as ghosts, and dragons aren't real.”

“Maybe today there are none still alive,” said the old man, “but before the Age of Heroes, the skies were filled with them and no one was safe.”

“You bore me, ancient one,” said the prince.  “Maybe my father should have you executed.”

Later that night, while Prince Mucer was pulling the wings off a fly, a knock came at his door. He bellowed at the intruder to leave.  The knocking came again, louder this time.  Mucer heaved a sigh and walked over to the door.  It swung open, but no one was there.  The prince had had just about enough of the old man's games. It was time he found a new way to entertain himself.  The prince buckled on his sword belt and left the room.

The dwarf fortress was as quiet as a tomb that night.  Prince Mucer couldn't help but fear, but his anger was greater.  How dare that old man frighten me with ghost stories, thought the prince.  He would give the old man something to be frightened about.  Prince Mucer fingered the hilt of his blade.  The old man didn't have too much longer to live anyway. Who would miss him?

“Say goodnight, old man!” shouted Mucer as he kicked in the laboratory door.

There was something standing next to the old man, facing away from the door.  It was tall and translucent green.  The apparition seemed to float in the air, trailing bloody stumps for legs.  Mucer cried out with fright and dropped his sword.  The creature turned to face him.  Its face was almost entirely burned off.

“The dragon slayer is real!” exclaimed Prince Mucer.