Editing User talk:Kalon/Meshring

= The chronicle of Meshring =
== Spring, 187 ==

''1st Granite, 187. Strike the earth!''
The miners be praised, we've arrived. The queen, Likot Roofact, insisted that our party set out ahead of the tide, for the glory of Nil Egath "The Hammer of Jungles", and we barely made it. Although her rule has been but 40 scant years, we will do her bidding.

The sight of our new home is before us, and our expedition leader has called a halt to the wagon. We have named this spot Zithisathel, "Meshring", and we will devote our lives so that it's name enters our legends forever. Across all of The Domain of Cyclones, we shall settle The Special Land and bring civilisation to The Branded Hills around us.

They claim we were specially selected - seven dwarves, a few supplies, some pack animals and a stretch of virgin earth ahead of us.

I, '''Eruch Uvarral''' and '''Mistem Rutodral''' are our miners - some say we are kindred, some say we are obsessed, but no dwarf can deny that each of us carries the glint in our eyes of hunger for the mineral riches this land will yield to us.
'''Ingish Ustuthimesh''' and '''Vucar Sodelthosbut''', skilled with their axes, will fell any trees we may need - for our forges, should we not be blessed with coal, or at the least for our bedding. We have managed to bring some small store of wood, but this will not last.
Our food will come from '''Ducim Zasildom''', our resident food lover. Hunting it, skinning it, then cooking it, she also fills the position of our esteemed brewer. Essential!
'''Zon Mosusreg''' will form the basis of our metal industry, which will hopefully be in place before the winter, gods be praised. He will process metal or stone with the same efficiency.
And finally, '''Melbil Bomrekotil''', our doctor. She impressed us all with her displays of marksmanship hunting for food on the journey, wagering shots with Ducim and Zon, although none drew too far ahead.

The temperate shrubland we have stopped in is flat - a blessing and a curse - and the climate cool. Upon our arrival at the founding site, we can see four middling pools, frozen over following the harsh winter, and a few small puddles. The brook, Webspoons, is at the far north easterly extent of our range. It, too, is frozen, however we hope to see it thaw with the coming warmer months. Birch, ash, chestnut and the odd willow scatter the landscape, and the grass gives way to the odd exposed patch of black sand or dolomite boulder. Ducim, always looking for comfort food, laments that only two hives of bees can be seen. As yet we have not seen another living thing in the area, making our three hunters wary of the quiet - ''too quiet''.

''1st Granite, 187, second entry.''
I have ordered us underground immediately. The black sand soil immediately below our feet will crumble before Mistem and myself, while the others chop some trees to supplement our stock of wood. Given the weather, I will leave the wagon assembled, whole, as a beacon for incoming caravans, should they arrive. A short tunnel, a curve to the left, and a hollow for the future trade depot. A small space will be cleaved for a general stockpile, but even in the darkness of the soil, it is too close to the surface for my liking. ''We will dig.''

''3rd Granite, 187.''
The first chambers have been dug in the black sand, and the first staircase. All water remains frozen, although a groundhog has been sighted by the hunters. Unfortunately, we are too busy hauling the wagon supplies to the chamber behind our future trade depot. Below the black sand lies more sand - blood red and soft, we shall set up temporary rooms here. Mistem dug a staircase down through this shifting floor, only to rush back with important news - we have struck dolomite - which will prove useful for more permanent buildings, but importantly, embedded within the rock was limonite! Iron will be ours - and ''with luck, steel''.

''8th Granite, 187.''
A creaking groan, unearthly loud, caused us a moment of fear and pause - the ice has cracked and thawed. Busy in our endeavours, and with our animals in pastures well clear of the ice, no drownings occurred. With the water flowing, we shall endavour to set up a well at some point, as time without water may put the prosperity of Meshring at risk. In our endavours, we may become wounded, and the treatement of such wounds when there is only ice would be ''a terrible blow''.

''9th Granite, 187.''
Progress on the main manufacturing chamber progresses swiftly in the soft sand. "Bedrooms", barely worthy of the name, are dug. And our hunters have claimed their first kill - the groundhog lies punctured by 8 silver bolts. A turkey hen has taken three bolts, and will perish soon. Unfortunately, we lack the facilities to skin or process the animals, and we scramble to build the butcher's shop and kitchen to handle our bounty. Should we get them constructed in time, a leatherworks would also be a welcome sight to provide us with the waterskins and backpacks that our military will need. Still reflecting on the luck of finding limonite so close, ''we shall not want for crossbow bolts''.

''16th Granite, 187.''
We have a kitchen and butcher's shop, however they were unfortunately not completed in time to allow the groundhog or turkey hen to be processed. A lone turkey gobbler remains on the surface, but our attention must turn to sustainability - a fine mushroom farm needs to be set up, but in the sand we shall not want for space to grow ''many juicy, delicious plump helmets''.

''10th Slate, 187.''
How time flies. A kitchen, still, leatherworks, butchery and tannery are all up and running, and our dining room has some thrones and tables. Turkeys are more abundant - the warmer weather must be favourable for them in this area. A few have fallen and now supplement our food stocks. Speaking of food, our first farm is planted, and we all we wait with bated breath for the first crop of home-grown plump helmets to brew. Our main manufacturing hall is excavated and we've put in plans for wood furnaces, smelters and the first metalsmith's forge. With iron at easy grasp, we will be able to build another forge, should the Mountainhome decide to send us another metalworker. ''We can see our own prosperity''.

== Summer, 187 ==

''1st Hematite, 187, Summer.''
The cool of spring gives way for the heat of summer. A cougar has taken to prowl above ground - a wall may be necessary for the pasture. We each have fully furnished rooms, the dolomite beneath the main floor yielding to our mason's hammer and chisel. Our first batches of plump helmets have been harvested and brewed in to beer, while the meat from the turkeys has been processed in to lavish meals, fit for, well, if not a queen, then at least seven dwarves of dedicated temperament. Our clutter has been reduced with the production of a number of wooden bins, and we shall erect the trade depot tomorrow. A few iron crafts will see ''sufficient wealth to trade for what we need''.

''28 Malachite, 187, the first wave of migration.''
Our first batch of migrants have arrvied. A bonecarver, miller, fish dissector, herbalist, peasant and of bloody course, a soap maker. Meshring's population now numbers 13. They are put to work building the final stretches of our dolomite palisade. It is extensive, meaning that we are now low on raw dolomite. A stockpile of blocks has been created, so we are hardly in dire need, but the miners should clear some more rock for us. It helps that we can now move all stockpiles below the manufacturing hall. ''With labour comes profit''.

== Autumn, 187 ==
''1st Limestone, 187, Autumn.''
The heady, warm days of summer have flown by and our thoughts turn to stockpiling food and booze ahead of the cold of winter like a common chipmunk. Our palisade is complete, with only portals for access to be fitted. Lacking a mechanic as yet, we are reliant on simple doors rather than stout drawbridges as should be proper. Two beehives are inside the walls, and we have started watchtowers on the extermities. ''We shall not be caught unawares''.

''26th Limestone, 187, we have breached a cavern!''
Our miners, seeking the precious flux needed to turn iron in to steel, dug deeper in to the ground. Confident that 5 levels would be "perfecty safe", they rushed back to me declaring that they have discovered a large underground cavern, and, worse luck, have spotted a downard passageway. I will not stand idly by and watch our hard work be put at risk, so I have ordered the passage to be walled up. No freakish mutant will catch me napping and eat my face. ''The price of eternal freedom is eternal vigilance''.

''21st Sandstone, 187, magma!''
We are barely 30 levels below the surface and already we have hit semi-molten rock. Lava is near - our miners are wary of striking the warm stone. I have asked for areas to be excavated, seeking a way around the blood of the earth, but to no avail. The rumors of ''adamantine'' remain just that, ''rumor''.

''25th Sandstone, 187, the second wave of migration.''
Our population has swelled to 20, with fresh migrants. I have assigned them to furnace operation, as we are still without steel, but we may as well prepare for the discovery of flux with ''an abundance of iron''.

''13th Timber, 187, the liaison has arrived.''
Degel Isonnil, the liaison from the Mountainhome, has arrived, along with a caravan. I have asked for wood, ammunition and leather, and traded a few excess iron trap components for the small array of farm animals and mismatched weapons the traders carried. Until we have steel, ''a rag-tag bunch of dwarves we shall remain''. 

''28th Timber, 187, the cold is approaching.''
I failed to notice that one of the cats and a bitch gave birth back in the month Galena. Rather than risk my dwarves giving themselves to flights of fancy, I have ordered the kittens... ''processed'' and the puppies kept "manageable" in a <s>cage</s>suitable kennel. I have also been told that the large, open cavern has been excavated, for cave trees to grow in. With winter approaching, the less time we spend above ground, the better. ''The cold will kill us all''.

== Winter, 187 ==

''3rd Moonstone, 187, a recluse in our midst.''
'''Tholtig Ormorul''', a "mechanic" in title only since he dabbled in a few mechanisms, elevating himself above peasantry, dropped his load of quartzite he was hauling from the depths of the mountain, muttering to himself he has has a brilliant, life-changing idea. He rushed to the mechanics workshop, itself gathering rock dust and spores from disuse, and immediately grabbed at a block of hewn quartzite. Holding it aloft, he turned it in his hands and muttered something before running off to the stone pile, returning with a fist-sized chunk of dolomite. He laboured for barely a few hours before returning with a creation, nay ''construction'' so mysterious, so simple, we marvel at the artistry in someone so... banal. He gathered us together, and revealed '''Desorkamut''', "The Entrancing Ripper" - a mechanism of purest quartzite. Taking the block of quartz, this one-time peasant found the core of true beauty in the stone, and applying menacing spikes of dolomite, has created something that can only be thought of as an artifact. Nothing any of our twenty-strong band of dwarves has seen anything so practical, simple, yet full of potential. Tholtig seems changed, now. No longer without purpose, no longer dragging around that tattered sock that people laughed about behind his back, we see the vacant, glassy look in his eyes as ''a genius at work''.

== Spring, 188 ==
''1st Granite, 188, the temperature finally starts to rise''.
The winter was cold and bitter but survivable. We have used the time that the brook is frozen to construct a completely dwarfmade aqueduct to a new well. Our resident mechanic created a masterpiece mechanism for the well out of silver bars brought by the traders from the Mountainhome, a worthy use for the material. We await the thawing of the river to see the small reservoir fill. A cat has again given birth to kittens. Again these will be ''processed''.

''7th Slate, 188, the third wave of immigrants''.
Strange voices were heard from beyond the palisade and we see a swarm of migrants headed our way. Nearly doubling our population, EIGHTEEN eaters have headed to Meshring - our fame must be growing. Few of the migrants had useful skills, and the mix of skills is... troubling. Two surgeons, an animal trainer, small animal dissector, bowyer, potter... It is as if the Mountainhome expects injuries and handicrafts! Two particular migrants, however, had a glaze over their eyes that couldn't be attiributed to any source. Their hands were pale, bluish, almost... metallic, and both have troubling coughs, deep and wet and prolonged. When questioned, they mutter somthing about "the mountain's nerves', working their hands rhythmically, and all who have heard this can swear they've heard indwarven screams in the distance and the smell of brimstone. I believe they may have handled ''adamantine''...

''9th Slate, 188, a craftsdwarf recedes from society''.
'''Mistem Munestetur''', one of our dabbling stonecrafters, was in the middle of a chat in the dining hall, lounging next to the lever that we have installed using '''Desorkamut''', when he simply stood up and walked away. I was taken aback, especially when she pushed in to the craftsdwarf's workshop with two stones of quartzite in her hands. She seems inspired, and is working furiously. ''The very rock seems full of inspiration''.

''14th Slate, 188, jewellery or art?''.
Mistem Munestetur emerged from the manufacturing hall today cradling something in her arms. When pressed, she ordered everyone to the dining hall, to line the walls and stay back. She dragged a table to the centre of the hall and carefully placed a speck on the table. Craning to see, gasps passed all who saw what it was - from two large stones, Mistem had chiselled, scraped and polished the quartzite to a tiny, ornate shape, encircled it with another piece of quartzite and laid delicately carved hanging rings, also of quartzite. Beaming like a proud mother, she announced that he had created '''Nunurilir''', "Crevicejoy". Her skill with the chisel means that she could, ''single handedly, provide for the wealth of this fortress''.

''15th Felsite, 188, a caravan approaches''.
Our lookouts rushed back today, shouting that a caravan approaches. Rather than the stout, hardy wagon that we were used to, this one was slender, dainty, ''elvish''. Phah. We traded a single spare iron trap component that was gathering dust and cave spider cobwebs for their supply of wood, foreign liquor, a handful of buckets and a few bags of sand. The trap component was worth more than what we received, but it was so insignificant to us that the glee in the trader's eye makes me sick. Elves. Can't live with them, ''can't chop them down like tress.''