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[zehive]

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I was dorfing, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a announcing,
As of some one gently pronouncing, announcing at my fortresses door.
"'Tis some caravan," I muttered, "intruding at my fortress door -
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak Moonstone,
And each separate dying dorf wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Urist -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Urist -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple ☻
Enraged me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some ambush entreating entrance at my fortress door -
Some late ambush entreating entrance at my fortress door; -
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Elf," said I, "or Goblin, truly your death I implore;
But the fact is I was k-ing, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my fortress door,
That I scarce was sure I saw you"- here I opened wide the door; -
, . " ↑ there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Sock?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Sock!" -
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the fortress turning, all my dwarves within it burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my magma reservoir:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis a troll and nothing more."

Open here flung the floodgate, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there burned a stinking troll of the dark days of yore;
Not the least abrogation made he; not a minute fought or lived he;
But, with flame of tree or bush, sat infront my magma door -
Perched upon a bust of Armok just above my magma door -
Burned, and died, and nothing more.

Then this crimson liquid beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the bright and burning decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crust be rock and liquid, thou," I said, "art sure no reaper,
Ghastly grim and ancient magma wandering from the burninh core -
Tell me when thy destructive path on the Moonstones crest is done!"
Quoth the magma, "Losing is fun."

Much I marvelled this ungainly liquid to see a course so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living dorfen being
Ever yet was blest with seeing magma past his magma door -
Liquid and rock upon the threshold of the dining hall, refusing ever to finish its run,
With such purpose as "Losing is fun."

But the invasion, sitting lonely on the barren hill, sat only
That one month, as if his soul in that one month they did outpour.
Nothing further then they uttered- not a crossbow then they fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other victims friends have come before -
On the morrow the magma will leave me, as my fears have flown before."
Then the magma said, "Losing is fun."

Startled at the morale broken by party dorf so aptly stricken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it killed is its only victim and total toll,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his path one sock had bore -
Till the attendees of his party that melancholy burden struck
Of 'Losing - losing is fun'."

But the magma still beguiling all my fancy into grimace,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of the computer, and melancholy and berserk;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to thinking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous magma of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous magma of yore
Meant in croaking "Losing is fun."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the magma whose fiery ‼ now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the screenlight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the screenlight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, losing is fun!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen refuse
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Losing:
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost fortress!"
Quoth the magma, "Nevermore."

"Magma!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if magma or devil! -
Whether Troll sent, or whether troll tossed thee here in fort,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there hope in Bronzehelms? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the magma, "Losing is fun."

"Berserk!" said I, "thing of evil - berserk still, if dwarf or elf!
By that stone that bends above us - by that Armok we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant cranium,
It shall clasp a sainted pickaxe whom the angels made of copper -
Clasp a rare and radiant pickaxe whom the angels made of copper."
Quoth the berserkdorf, "Urist McMelancholy has been struck down!"

"Be that word our sign in abandoning, magma or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting -
"Get thee back into the sea and the Hidden Fun Stuff!
Leave no stone as a token of that lie thy flame hath spoken!
Leave my fortress unbroken!- quit the gushing from my door!
Take thy magma from out my meeting hall, and take thy form from off my screen!"
Quoth the magma, "Nevermore."

And the magma, never leaving, still is pouring, still is pouring
From the pallid bust of Armok just above my fortress door;
And its flaming have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp o'er him steaming throws his shadow on the ceiling;
And my fortress from out that shadow that lies floating on the roof
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

This sums it up

[Fen]

My first siege? I... don't remember. It must have been pretty bad, otherwise I wouldn't have repressed it so hard.

Actually, I think I can still hear screaming in the back of my mind.