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[Roach]

Entry number 9, full of danger and excitement and [insert buzzword here]!

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

28th Felsite, 28

As is frequent in the City of Glass, this month I have encountered another "first": Eribrakas has been besieged!

The timing was most unfortunate: an elven caravan had just come in to trade when a goblin army appeared on the dune horizon and rushed towards the gates, arriving on the 21st. At first, all went to plan: all dwarves made it inside, and the gates were closed. It appeared we would be safe. But then, disaster! The architect on the west bridge messed up somehow: the bridge failed to raise, and the goblin hordes were allowed in!

However, fortunately for us not all of the construction dwarves had been so lax: by now, many of the spikes had been fitted in the giant spike project we've been working on, and the ones immediately around the hatch were fully functioning. A dwarf hopped on the spike lever and started pulling and we locked up the hatch just before they reached it: just as the armies above realised they could no longer gain entry, they were impaled! It is a testament to our mechanics' skill that the spikes were impossible to spot in the sand: not one of the horde even remotely expected to be attacked from below, and the vast majority of the goblins were killed where they stood.

The rest fled at once into the dunes. I cannot blame them: though sympathy for goblins is a difficult thing (especially Stalkōlestrans), I can clearly imagine the terror experienced by their military as three-quarters of them were wiped out in a blink of an eye, as spikes rose as though from nowhere and stilled their hearts.

The trolls of the army, however, were another story. An entire squad of them lingered at the hatch entrance, just waiting for some poor soul to emerge to gore and batter them, while a second squad went up onto the roof of our entrance and rather infuriatingly began destroying the grates we put in for the farms. Apparently, we'd forgotten to take down the scaffolding.

Things looked grim. We could survive below ground without issue of course, but trade would be impossible without access to the depot. In addition, migrants would be unable to reach the fortress, which was a significant problem in itself. On the 22nd, Commander Bėmbul called a meeting, and made a speech to many of those in the hall, which I unfortunately missed. He made it clear that times ahead could be difficult, and that men would probably be lost in the inevitable upcoming charge: the first dwarf out of the hatch would have to be a brave soul, facing down around eight trolls alone.

I had just entered the hall as the dwarves assembled were thinking of this grave task, and faces were grim. Eribrakans live for battle, but not defeat. This situation was perilously close to the latter, and the idea of losing even one dwarf to a horde of trolls was detestable. In the arena, a dwarf is never outnumbered, however outmatched he may be: fights are fair, and if you lose, it's your lack of skill that kills you, not your opponent's unfair advantage.

The commander was pondering this difficulty with a rather irritable expression on his face, as though he'd tasted something sour. I wondered whether it was his obligation to lead the charge: one would think it was his duty as commander, after all. If that was the case, he faced certain doom rather admirably: frankly, rather than sad or frightened he seemed to think the issue was simply rather inconvenient, like a pebble in his boot. One of his subordinates half-heartedly suggested that they draw straws, but he waved the thought away. He stood, clearly to announce his intent, and took up his spear. He opened his mouth to speak, and that's when he was cut off.

A frighteningly loud series of thumps were heard from below: for a mad moment, I thought one of the trolls had somehow burrowed into the staircase. However, then I heard the clanging of armour accompanying the noise, and recognised it as heavy dwarven footsteps, weighed down by steel and iron. Following the noise, Ilral, champion of the fortress, emerged from the central stairway.

On that day I saw him as I had never seen him. His face was a horrific thing to behold: he was absolutely purple with rage. Beneath his helm, blind fury lit his eyes, completely unmitigated. His hand was wrapped white-knuckled around his spear, and he absolutely shook with anger at every step. I was left dumbfounded as he clanked across the room in his armour towards his commander. However, if I was shocked then, I was absolutely blown out of the water when he looked up at his superior and stated matter-of-factly through his choking anger:

"Sir. Nobody follows me. Understood?"

Commander Bėmbul rose his hand in protest, although I confess I didn't fully understand what Ilral meant. Before he could speak however, Ilral bristled. It was clear that whatever he wanted, he wouldn't be denied. The Commander sighed, aghast, and then nodded.

"Nobody follows you."

Satisfied, Ilral gritted his teeth and then rushed up the stairwell. It was now that I finally understood his intent: the madman intended to charge the trolls alone. It was certain death: this was why he didn't want anyone following him. As they say, an Eribrakan's burden is theirs to bear alone, and Ilral's burden was the obligation to die a hero's death as champion.

A dwarf near the hatch at the time described Ilral's exit: he steadfastly marched straight up to the door, and without a moment's hesitation, unlocked it and shouldered it upwards, before leaping out with spear gripped tightly in hand. Instantly, as he landed on the sand, he kicked down the hatch behind him and then lunged at the nearest Troll even as the squad closed in on him: then the hatch clanked shut, and that was all.

For two days, the atmosphere was grave all around the fortress. Ilral had fought for us all, had given his life for us. He would be buried in the Hall of Heroes for sure. For these days the city was almost in stasis: unsure still of how to handle the trolls, unsure of the times ahead, unsure of our fates. We simply carried on as we always had: creating glass spikes we could not plant, mechanisms we could not use, training for battles we couldn't win. It was all we could do: no dwarf dared to think ahead any further.

However, as the blazing sun began to set below the dunes we could not lay eyes on, on the evening of the 24th, something amazing happened. I was in the meeting hall at the time, drinking dutifully after a long day. Nobody had ventured up the trap corridor towards the hatch: there was nothing up there for a dwarf who valued their skin. However, from that same corridor, the men in the barracks heard the steady clopping sound of footsteps rattling through the step routine necessary to circumvent the traps. A pattern only an Eribrakan could know.

Before they could reach the stairs, however, he was already past them. He stepped down the corridor steadily, never breaking his pace, and then walked straight into the meeting hall.

Ilral was back.

His armour was unblemished by strikes or scratches, but was positively coated in troll blood. It's cyan gooeyness ranged from dried to dripping, and was ubiquitous on his body, but was by far the most concentrated on his spear hand: the metal of the gauntlets and spear was scarcely visible beneath so much blood spilled. In this coated armour, he stood readily: he breathed heavily, but showed no sign of injury. He rested for only a moment, then walked straight up to Commander Bėmbul, and stood straight to attention. He snapped off a salute, and in front of the whole fortress reported thus:

"Sir! Two troll squads dead, sir! Significant number more captured in cages, sir! All destructive activity halted, sir! Engagement took two days, sir! I am unwounded, sir! Requesting permission to rest, sir!"

Commander Bėmbul just looked up at Ilral, astonished. For a long moment, he could only stare, slack-jawed, at the soldier who appeared to be risen from the dead. He was mimicked by the rest of the room: we were witnessing the impossible. No dwarf could survive two days against two troll squads, alone. It was impossible, and yet there he was. Standing to attention, coated in the gore of his dead foes, showing not a single sign of wear or injury. It was some time before the commander could finally respond in a small voice:

"Permission granted, soldier."

Ilral managed one more salute, and then collapsed where he stood. He fell straight back in his armour, and slapped onto the floor, totally unconscious.

For longer than I'd like to admit, we were all too shocked to even react. It was the commander who moved first: after a few long seconds, he leapt into action, pointing at Dr. Uzolakmam, who happened to be in attendance. "Water and bandages, go." He cradled Ilral's head, and lifted the soldier's helmet off, resting it under the dwarf's head as a makeshift pillow, before checking his breathing.

The room erupted into activity. Everyone at once was trying to help the hero of the day, and in all our hurry, we probably did a lot more harm than good by simply getting in the way of everyone who really knew what we were doing. But the mood was high: Eribrakas was safe. A scouting party was sent up: Ilral had not been lying, there was not a live troll in sight, although the dead ones were spattered in every direction under the sun. The hospital took excellent care of Ilral: he was unwounded, and was simply suffering from the exhaustion and dehydration that comes from fighting for two days straight. Dr. Uzolakmam pronounced it a medical miracle that he was alive at all, and I'm inclined to agree.

For my part, I have done everything I can to record this escapade in detail. I am thankful I was here to witness it: when Ilral's time comes, I will certainly take due care to record this in his history as his finest hour. Never before has Eribrakas had such a hero, and I find it hard to believe that it ever will again. This dwarf, though demented in his bloody hatred, is unquestionably the greatest the City of Glass has to offer.

Since his escapades, unfortunately, one thing hasn't changed: the mundane business of cleanup. The troll corpses are piled high, along with the goblin ones that were spiked, and they need to be signed off on and cleaned as much as anything else, which will make for less than thrilling work. But, I suppose that is the price we pay. We were never going to overcome the siege without a considerable body count.

Other work that's been going on since is the grating repairs (the trolls managed to destroy about half of the roof grating) and also the hauling in of the captured trolls and goblins (of which there were nine and four, respectively).

Seeing the goblins in their new prison is almost a pitiful sight: far from previous prisoners, these ones cower in their blood-spattered terrariums. After witnessing Ilral at work, every single one -- even the meanest-faced goblins and the hugest, toughest trolls -- cower and burst into tears at the mere sight of a dwarf coming to check on them, yelping every time the door opens. They know their time to fight in the arena must come, and they are scared out of their minds every day, that this will be the day.

Ilral has taken on a new habit: having recovered, he goes into the goblin prison for hours at a time, fully armed and armoured, and simply sits and waits among the prisoners, staring at them each in turn.

I have never seen a Stalkōlestran so scared in my life. I never thought I could pity one, either. But I do now.

Etur have mercy on their souls.

May your sands be soft,

- Dr. Eturtulon

[Baffler]

I hate to bump written stuff like this, but... still alive?

[Roach]

I hate to bump written stuff like this, but... still alive?

I really should have written a note, sorry.

The story is very much alive, but it's undergoing a bit of a problem. I lost the journal I kept of the years between where I am now playing it, and where the last entry is -- that is, the journal which tells me in brief bullet points what happened so I can write about it. In a moment of brilliance, I wiped it by accident.

This means that the next few posts will be based entirely off of what I can scrounge in legends mode (thankfully I kept the save) and, frankly, a bit of invention in my part, but it should all mesh together fairly well. So that's part of the reason for no updates. The other reason is that IRL's been a bit inconsistent recently. But you have my word, I will get back on it. Right now I'm just getting my story together for the months between now and the last entry though, so I have a battle plan.

[Roach]

So here's post 10. Blood, guts and pathos, as well as a minor funny.

I figured out a barebones plan for what I'm going to do for future entries, and it should hopefully all be pretty seamless. Also fixed up a contents page with fancy links and all on the first post.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Hematite, 28

Today, I write with some mirth, a departure from my usual proceedings as of late.

Recently, I scribed the plans to exterminate a bothersome riraskorfer, as outlined by captain Udilråsh. It was rather simple: the creature was baited into a newly constructed chamber with a load on a support, and with a flick of the lever, the support holding up the load to be dropped on the offending beast would collapse, crushing the beast beneath its weight. It was a simple one, and an effective one, but for one flaw.

Some clever dwarf or another, in charge of labelling the levers as to their function, managed to label the lever to blow the support incorrectly as performing some other mundane function. So, when a dwarf on a routine job wandered innocently over to pull the lever, the support disintegrated in the trap without the beast actually being in it. All was accomplished was a large pile of rubble, which now lies where the trap was lain.

The heads of the fortress were furious. Though simple, the trap had taken time and effort to construct. New orders would have to be made, new constructions designated, and presumably a new label put in place, all over a mishap in a lever pull. I, however, find myself comfortably in a position to appreciate the situation's humour. It's an odd thing: together, we dwarves can accomplish incredible things, build societies that put to shame any other, construct marvels of engineering that no other race can hold a candle to...but as individuals, we can be so remarkably hapless.

At any rate, the event has provided at least a small distraction from recent tedium: as expected, the siege left a mountain of corpses. The work of the spikes was remarkable: arranged in a ring around the entry hatch, goblins and trolls of all shapes and sizes lay dead, some with expressions of battle still on their face as their brain had no time to comprehend its own death before being impaled by a sharp green shaft. Ilral's work was no less impressive: trolls lay brained and disembowelled all around from his spearwork, many missing at least one limb.

This is rather unfortunate. I have to sign off on every limb individually. My work is well cut out for me.

Nevertheless, it's good to have the pressure of the siege in the past. Naturally, Ilral received congratulations without number from everyone concerned, but I must remark that he has a talent for not letting the issue go to his head. Three days after his hospitalisation and release, I spied him cleaning out a fish like any other dwarven worker, silently plodding through his labour without a hint of fame or glamour.

However, more recently, he made his mark again. As I mentioned in my last memory, he has been fond of frightening the captive goblins and trolls half to death, and this pattern has continued. A few days ago, this came to its inevitable head, and the poor souls were brought to face Ilral head-on in the arena. I knew this was coming, of course, and I made sure to witness it, if only for the sake of knowing the story from beginning to end.

The proceedings began ordinarily enough, the only difference being that the crowds were unusually quiet. Everyone had seen Ilral's steaming rage at these prisoners over the past few days, and nobody was surprised when he arrived quiet, but with a hatred burning in his eyes at a temperature to rival the local magma pipe.

However, when he stepped silently into the arena, twirling his spear this way and that in his hand, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Something that was supposed to happen hadn't. I looked over the dwarf's equipment, but (by Eribrakan standards, at least) it was all pretty standard. No unusual advantages or handicaps. He didn't look particularly drunk (again, for an Eribrakan), or as though he'd been training harder than usual. I just couldn't place it.

The pin didn't drop until another thing dropped first: the first combatant, a female goblin, who was tossed down the hatch. The poor little thing look frightened out of her mind: young for a goblin, she hefted a mace that she could clearly barely even lift, and half-dragged it with her as she cowered against the back wall of the arena from Ilral, tears freely streaming from her red eyes as she bawled at the end of her life so clearly standing before her. However, Ilral's manner was unusual: he made no move to attack. He simply twirled his spear once more, than planted its butt on the ground and leant casually against it.

The silence was absolute around the arena. Not one in the crowd stirred: though he appeared outwardly calm, Ilral's rage was not hard to detect. He simply stared at the helpless goblin at the far end of the arena for several moments, making no move to attack or defend.

Finally, he made a single gesture. He shifted off his spear -- this alone was enough to make the young goblin jump with fright at the far end -- and then strolled over to the door of the arena. He twisted sideways and kicked at it with his foot, and the heavy glass door swung open. That was it: Ilral hadn't locked the door.

If the goblin hadn't been so pathetic, I would have near jumped with fear. The beast now had a direct line to the crowd, although I remembered after a few moments that the door was lined with cage traps. Ilral knew that too, of course. So did the goblin, in all likelihood. So what was Ilral playing at?

The goblin remained still, cowering from Ilral's calm form. Eventually, Ilral nodded at her.

"Door's open. You're free to go, just gotta get out the door. You'll be caged up and let free outside." To illustrate his good faith, he walked to the other side of the arena, opposite the door, to allow her an unblocked line of escape.

I had to steady myself in my seat. This was unheard of. Even for Eribrakas, letting a prisoner go without them earning it in the fight...it went against every single principle the Tustemeri had. Not since the initial appearance of Etur so long ago to the ancient tribe had this been done. I looked over at Commander Bėmbul, naturally expecting him to intervene, but the old soldier just looked profoundly sad, as though an old friend of his had died.

It wasn't until I looked back to Ilral, leaning against the arena wall with his spear, that I realised that that was exactly what had happened. Ilral wasn't offering this goblin her freedom, he was offering her her doom. There was no way she'd make it to the door, and this final cruelty was the final insult, the final injury. Ilral knew it, and he didn't care. He was enjoying it. It was in his eyes. Commander Bėmbul knew it, and he could only shake his head at what Ilral had come to. The goblin knew it, and she was shaking her head, silently pleading. I knew it. And I had no idea how to react.

It didn't take long. With a final sob, the goblin began her futile last dash for the door. She rushed in her primitive armour, feet flying, throwing everything she had into her speed. It really was rather impressive, and for a moment, a mad, mad moment, I thought she might actually make it.

Then Ilral acted. One moment, he was leaning against the wall, disinterestedly observing the goblin running for her life. The next, he was almost on top of her. His spear flashed through the air and pierced cleanly through one leg, then the other, and the poor goblin fell straight forward. Before she could hit the ground, however, Ilral's spear had flicked forward once more, and stabbed into her shoulder, impaling her in place, a mere quarter-Urist from the floor. Her eyes were in shock through the tears -- her mind couldn't even cope with all of what was happening.

Ilral expertly leveraged the spear upward, flicking the creature upward once more, and then caught the other soldier, effectively rendering all four limbs completely useless, before flipping her over on her front to face him and letting her crash to the floor. She looked up at him, completely helpless, chest bucking with sobs as her limbs splayed over the ground, leaden, all around her. Ilral simply stared down at her for a long moment, an incandescent rage searing over his face, eyes burning bright, not an ounce of pity present.

Finally, he made a last move. He sweeped the spear downward in a flashing motion, catching her stomach in a clear cut, and disembowelling her where she lay, before twirling his spear once more and knocking her with the butt, causing her to fall onto her side. The creature's pitiful little eyes turned down to her stomach as she was knocked around, and she was confronted with the sight of her own organs spilling from the rend in her stomach, blood and guts pouring out, without a thing she could do.

Ilral just turned away, back to the hatch.

"Let her bleed out. Send in the next one."

I must quit my scribing here. This was...an intensely upsetting episode. I cannot describe the sadistic, cruel slaughter of the rest of the goblins and trolls that Ilral carried out with such malice, such pitilessness. It's just not dwarven.

I attempted to start this entry with some light heart, and it's only now I realise that it was futile. Eribrakas is not a place for those fond of laughter and joy. They may call this city the city of glass, but it has a heart of the coolest steel.

May your sands be soft,
Dr. Eturtulon

[Roach]

Entry Number 11, reporting.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Galena, 28

Today, I write with perhaps the best news there can be in the cirumstances: things have returned to status quo.

With Ilral's...efficient prisoner disposal work complete, thoughts of combat and sieges have drifted to the back of the fortress's collective mind. These days, we mostly concern ourselves with that most noble of dwarven endeavours: construction.

As I mentioned in my last entry, the cave-in trap for that persistent riraskorfer was ruined, but fortunately I'm told that reconstruction was easy and quick, and that preparations continue in other areas of the trap. There is no forecasted date of when the actual extermination will take place: I get the sense that the heads of the fortress do not feel it to be a particularly important matter.

Other than that, other areas of regularity include the spike project, which churns on day by day, planting more and more deadly spikes in the ground. The green shafts rising from the sand are an odd sight: sharp and deadly, they almost look somewhat benign in the green-tinted sunlight on the surface through the glass roof, like a miraculous forest in the desert. An oasis, of sorts, which I suppose is what Eribrakas is in a sense. Asto Thec is hot and wide, and there are few settlements in it besides Stalkōlestran bandit camps.

In any case, the spikes continue their march towards construction, and with the regular routine of gather sand, make spikes, plant spikes, the fortress has once again settled into a steady thrum of activity. In this, I have discovered another curious property of Eribrakans: they truly live in the moment. The populace has entirely forgotten about the horrors of the past siege. They don't stop and reflect, as I do, on the fear and danger that comes with living in the city of glass. They don't think of how close the fortress might have come to falling. They just troop on, living day by day, step by step.

A few days ago, I was sitting in the hall and pondering this strangeness over my afternoon wine, when Vucar slid into the chair next to me, with a similarly contemplative look in his eye. He gestured at the surrounding Eribrakans all around, eating and drinking and laughing.

"Weird, isn't it?"

I nodded absently, taking another sip of my wine, still lost in thought. As a token response, I replied:

"Sure is. How're you?"

"Erm, yeah, okay. You know." Vucar massaged his temples gently, elbows on the table. It was then that I realised that no, I didn't know. It'd been some time since I'd spoken with Vucar. We'd both been busy, I suppose. I with my journaling and bookkeeping, he with...well, I have no idea. I pulled myself off of my thought train and turned to face him, and the sight was something of a shock.

My friend looked totally exhausted. Deep welts of purple hung under his eyes, his hair hung loose and unkempt, and his eyes were incapable of quick movement: they lingered in glassy stares, tiredness creeping through his drooping vision every second.

"By Etur, Vucar! What have you been doing to yourself?" In response, he only shook his head and pointed across the room. I followed his indication, and at the far side of the hall, looking equally worse for wear, sat his wife Kib. At her side was her eldest daughter, Stākud, who I believe is six years old. She was toying with a play sword, swinging it this way and that, while her brother of five, Mistźm, laughingly dodged from side to side. In Kib's arms, however, there lay a new member of the family: a newborn daughter, who I had not known of before. I was stricken. Vucar, one of my oldest friends, had had a child and I hadn't even known. I turned to him, incredulous.

"Zulban," he offered sleepily. He gave a little grin and rubbed his eyes. "Noisy thing."

"Good name," I replied, my mouth moving automatically, still getting my head around the new arrival.

"Thanks," he smiled once more, and then, happiness still planted on his face, he fell back into his chair and began to snore.

Zulban is apparently quite a handful.

I excused myself from Vucar's new bed, then headed over to Kib to offer my congratulations. She herself looked only a hair away from Vucar's level of exhaustion, all half-finished sentences and slow enunciations, but was also similarly happy. Her eyes shone through her drooping tiredness. She managed. In her arms, on the other hand, Zulban looked qute unplagued by exhaustion. She looked up and saw me, and happily gurgled, waving her tiny little hands up at my face. I put a single finger up to her, and she siezed a small grip on it, waving it this way and that, joyous at having a new toy.

I spent some time among the four of them, helping Kib as best I could with some of the childcare issues that cropped up, and playing with the other two, who I'd known for a little longer. These days, little Stākud is not so little. At six years, she is halfway to a full-grown adult, and it shows. She has adapted to Eribrakan life well: even at her age, her voice has the scratchy edge, and her skin is tanned dark from the blazing desert sun. I found myself wondering what would become of her as she grew to adulthood, and as she waved the sword this way and that, I couldn't help but wonder if she would be the next arena fighter, the next Ilral. A strange thought.

After some time, I left the family to their business, and checked the daily bulletin. There was little of note posted, just various lost socks, a few scheduled meetings...I soon realised my searching was futile, and was about to turn away, when a busy-looking dwarf covered in ink scurried up next to me, flattened a new, large bulletin on the wall, and then dashed away once more. I was left somewhat bewildered, and then looked up at the new post. In block capitals, it proclaimed: "NEW PROJECT AHEAD. READY FURNACES. PUMPS REQUIRED."

This was truly an interesting development, so I headed straight to Captain Udilråsh, who generally knows about such things. I thumped down the stairs, dodging countless craftsdwarves, and knocked on the glass of her office door. She grated from the other side: "'mon in."

I nudged the door ajar and slipped in, closing it behind me. The captain was sitting at her desk, apparently only vaguely aware of my presence, as though she'd asked me in as an automatic reaction. She had a slight frown on her, eyes focused close to compensate for her troubled vision, and was studiously scrubbing at something with a wet cloth: I couldn't quite see what. For a few moments, I stood before her desk, and she worked on, somewhat oblivious, before I cleared my throat.

As if suddenly waking up from a nap, she jolted up to see me. "Ah! Oh, 'lo there. Sorry, was just tending to this." She waved the white thing in her hand in my general direction, but I was still nonplussed.

"Erm, what is it?" I craned my neck to see, but all I could make it out to be was a curved length of some white material. To be fair to her, if she was shining it, then she was doing an excellent job: it shone like pearl, and all signs pointed to immaculate care of the object...whatever it was.

"Oh," she scratched her head. "Here," she brought the object back behind her desk, and rustled with it some way. There were a couple clicking sounds, and then a quick twanging noise. Then, she pulled it back up again, producing a full crossbow. I was somewhat shocked: though I'd seen the Captain many times, of course, I'd never seen her weapon of choice for some reason or another. It was always stowed on her person, hidden from view, or kept locked up somewhere.

Now I saw it, it really was quite the sight. I'd like to scribe that it was the most brilliant weapon I've ever laid my eyes upon and that it was destined to do great things, but that simply doesn't ring true. Honestly, the weapon looked rather plain. It was no piece of masterwork: a simple weapon for a simple purpose, it had the look of something made with not a particular lack of skill, but rather a sense of apathy: it was a tool, not a piece of art.

However, this contrasted somewhat with the rather obvious fact that it was made of pearl. Bizarre. Why would someone go to the effort of making a bow from pearl, clearly in a rigņthuling, but then create the weapon itself in such a utilitarian fashion?

I realised I'd been staring for some time, and Captain Udilråsh was likely thinking me quite silly now. I tried to cover by rubbing my eyes, muttering something about dust, and then looked up to the Captain. She regarded me with a cocky grin.

"Pretty nice, huh? I take good care of her." She tossed the bow from hand to hand (evidently, it was very very light!) and then flipped it over, placing it gently on the desk before her.

"It's striking, but I have to ask, why...?" I pointed to the pearl stock of the weapon, my point obvious. The captain looked down at my pointing, furrowed her brow, and looked back up, confused.

"Why what? It's a bow. Is there a mark?" She flipped the weapon over and checked where I was pointing, but it was unblemished, simply shining bright like the rest of it.

"Well...why? I mean, it looks great, don't get me wrong, but why out of pearl?" I scratched my beard. I was missing something.

The captain looked up at me as though I'd dropped from the sky and was insisting that the clouds were inhabited by plump helmet men. She maintained this puzzled look for several seconds, before it finally dawned on her.

"Oh, Etur above!" She burst out into a gale of laughter to put a drunk gnome to shame, howling out long and loud and nearly falling out of her chair. "Pearl! Oh gods, that's rich!" She smacked the desk over and over in her fit of humour. I was left completely nonplussed.

"What's so funny?"

But the captain couldn't stop. Her guffaws continued for longer than I found comfortable, and I found myself shifting on my feet. Eventually, she recovered herself, with a last few giggles occasionally still escaping.

"That's not pearl!" She proclaimed. "Heh, but thanks, your mistake's a compliment." She shook her head, suppressing another laugh. "Not pearl. No, the bow's made of bone. Not even nice bone. Dog bone. Probably took about five minutes to make." She slapped her glass desk again, then gripped its edge, calming herself. "Yeah, dog bone. Not pearl, heheh."

I confess, I was completely bewildered. Dog bone. I swear to you now, reader, the thing looked nothing like any bone I ever saw, and everything like every pearl I've ever seen...although I must confess, I've never seen a pearl before. But it looked exactly like all the pearls that had been described to me. What the captain said rang true, however. Why else would someone spend so little time on its construction?

"I, er, suppose you take good care of your weapons then!" I tried to turn the situation away from my rather embarassing error, although at the time I still wasn't entirely sure whether she was serious or not.

"Heh, yeah, I try." She nodded, calming herself once more. "It's an Eribrakan thing. Talk to Ilral or the commander or anyone, you'll see. Our weapons take care of us in a fight, it seems only right we take care of them out of one." I nodded, although I confess the idea of such a trade seemed a tad superfluous with an inanimate object. "Anyway...oh, carp! Speaking of Ilral, did you catch that last fight he had with those prisoners? Where he left the door open?"

I held up a hand to stop her and nodded, slipping into the chair opposite her over the desk. It wasn't an issue I wanted to discuss.

"Ah, no worries." She nodded. "That was pretty hardcore, I can understand you not being used to it." She shuffled a few papers on her desk, and stowed her incredibly shiny bow of bone away. "Just so you know though, that's not really the done thing. I imagine the commander would have had a talk with him about that." I just shrugged. In my mind, it didn't change the fact that it'd happened. I decided to change the subject.

"So I read that new bulletin in the meeting hall." I jerked a thumb upwards at the floor above. "Any idea what's going on with it?"

"Bulletin?" The captain sorted through her disorganised mass of papers. "Hmmm...oh yes!" She produced one document, which didn't look particularly different from any other. "Yeah, the new project. Pumps required. That's not in your department, don't worry."

"Oh, I figured. I was actually just interested." I gestured at the paper. "Is the actual project a secret or something?"

"Huh? Oh, no, no big secret. We're just pumping some magma into an old lake that's posing a safety issue. Too many pond grabbers, so we'll cast them to stone." She scanned the document briefly. "Again, you don't have to do anything with it...and neither do I, it looks like. The Engineers are handling it."

I nodded. I'd heard about the Engineers. In Eribrakas, there exists a Board of Engineers, which consists of the fortress's eminent mechanics, architects and the like, and works alongside the heads of the fortress (formally the "Council") specifically on large projects the fort undertakes. Something like obsidianizing a lake would certainly be within their scope. From my perspective, the most notable thing about the Engineers is that they handle most of their own supply. Things like pipe sections and mechanisms were handled by the Board independently, and I didn't have to keep track of them.

"Anyway," she continued, "Feel free to head down to the caverns and watch. It'll likely be a cool show when it's done." I had to admit, obsidianisation is a sight to behold. Plus, watching a few pond grabbers get entombed would be reassuring. "But look, if that's all, I have to head on patrol in a moment. You always seem to come right when I have to leave!" She hoisted her shiny crossbow onto her back and stood. "But, listen. Come back soon. I actually have some business to talk over with you. Important stuff."

And then, just like that, she was gone, thumping up the stairs, probably up to shoot down some errant vultures.

It's been a curious time. The addition of a new project is always exciting, and hopefully the Board will do a good job (their track record has not been perfect here). However, with that mystery out of the way, a new one has presented itself: what on earth does the Captain want to talk business about? I confess, I'm quite excited. My time here has been fluid and ever-changing, and I can't help but wonder what new shift the direction of my life will enact.

As soon as I know, I will scribe it here in full immediately!

May your sands be soft,
Dr. Eturtulon

[Roach]

Entry 12, with an interesting notes post to follow on the history of dwarven hand gestures! Well, you know. "Interesting". I like it.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Sandstone, 28

This month I write of a series of events that occurred since my last entry -- all rather significant and exciting!

To start with perhaps the most mundane, it's notable that the central stairway that runs throughout the fortress has been expanded to nine stairwells wide instead of one. The convenience boost in considerable. Since I first arrived at the fortress, the single Urist wide staircase has been packed. Evidently, the Council decided enough was enough, and the new stairs were dug.

Unsurprisingly, there were a few gripes. Dr. Uzolakmam was displeased that the layout interfered with a couple of his carefully-placed pieces of hospital equipment, and I hear some mason nearly threw a fit as his workshop had to be shifted slightly, but all in all the transition has been smooth. It certainly makes getting around the fortress a lot quicker and less cramped, which has been invaluable for some of the other ventures we've experienced as of late!

The first event to come about was certainly rather fantastical. The obsidianization of the lake has begun. This in itself is not particularly momentous (as with many things, the end result of the project is much more exciting than the project itself, which mainly consists of constructing pumps), but what is definitely worthy of note was the unusual spectacle of the construction process, which I can only describe as uniquely Eribrakan.

Despite the fact that the project was, as I mentioned in my last entry, outside of my jurisdiction, I decided to turn up for the construction anyway. The manager next door had informed me that they were drawing the magma for the project from the caldera, which made since: the caldera's mouth and the pool to be obsidianized are conveniently close. Unfortunately, this mean did trooping down onto the smelters floor, which seemed to be a lot hotter than I recalled!

Having stripped down to only the thinnest layers I could wear and still maintain dignity, I stepped from the staircase and onto the gabbro floor, and at once was glad that I'd decided to keep my shoes on: the floor was clearly roasting. This level of the fortress was a utility area, so smoothing was considered unnecessary; as such I had to be careful to avoid tripping on the rough floor, lest I fall and burn myself on the ground.

The floor was already a hive of activity: all around, dwarves bustled this way and that, clunking large bars of iron and gold or bags of sand from place to place. The furnaces, predicatably, were blazing: constant glassmaking was underway, with spike after spike being made for the surface. As I took a step towards the area where I'd been told I could witness the construction, I was blasted with a wave of heat so incredibly intense that I nearly turned around and walked back out. My entire body was sweating bolts, and I could nigh see the infernal temperatures in the air's heat haze. I can only describe it as suffocating.

Eventually, I battled on to the edge of the caldera, although that description is misleading. According to what I've heard from older dwarves, there hasn't been an actual "edge" to the caldera in a long time; due to a troublesome magma crab colony that inhabits the depths, it was walled off. Now, there stand sturdy glass barriers between the caldera and Eribrakan citizens; plenty to discourage errant magma crab projectiles. I must admit, I've never seen a magma crab: although it sounds distinctly un-dwarven, my time in Akrulbūnem scarcely brought me anywhere near the stifling heat of magma, and the majority of my work was near the surface. However, they do not sound like beasts I'd like to tangle with.

The glass was thick, green, and tainted thoroughly with soot, so seeing the caldera through it was impossible. However, the engineering team was already at work in tandem with a few masons, deconstructing the blackened walls in a select, narrow strip along the caldera's mouth. I was surprised: they were clearly being careful to situate the entire project far from the furnaces where civilians were working, and a single spearman, who I recognised to be one of the training arena candidates, stood nearby with spear in hand in preparation for crabs. I'd thought the things were just an annoyance: clearly, they were more dangerous than I gave them credit for.

In any case, I observed, trying to cool myself futilely with fanning hands, as the masons quickly deconstructed the glass wall. The moment the process was finished, more dwarves moved in: a surprising amount of manpower was being devoted to this task, and they all moved with extreme urgency. In moments, they'd lain the beginnings of a bridge in glass blocks: part of the process of obsidianization involved bridging over a portion of the caldera. The bridge lengthened at an impressive speed: the masons shifted and pressed the blocks into position as though their lives depended on it, and soon it extended four or five Urists over the caldera.

It truly was a daring sight to behold. The process was simple and quick: one dwarf would hustle over from the stockpiles with a block of glass, and hand it to a second. The block would then be handed off to a third dwarf, who was invariably slight of frame and fleet of foot. This third dwarf would take their block, and take a moment to steel themselves: some made quick prayers to Etur, some a swig of ale, some just stared resolutely ahead at the tiny bridge. Then, grim determination in their eyes, they would bolt down the bridge as fast as their continued stability would allow. A mere Urist below, lava bubbled and swam, promising a hot, painful death at one wrong move, one single step. The glass of the bridge was soon slick with dwarven sweat, which did little to improve the ease of the task, but they got it done.

Then, it began.

One dwarf, a little old for this work perhaps, was darting back after successfully laying his block, with relief already in his eyes, when the lava suddenly erupted below to his left. From it leapt a spinning glob of rock, speeding upwards, straight for the helpless mason, a missile of boiling death.

The old mason was quick; I found out later he was an a veteran of the days when there were no caldera barriers, and magma crab missiles were a daily threat for anyone working on the furnace level. With a speed I wouldn't have credited him with on sight, he spotted the glob speeding towards him, and darted backwards. It span wide and harmlessly smacked into the cavern ceiling.

Another glob closely followed, but the elderly dwarf was too fast: the crab's second glob hit thin, hot air as he anticipated the fire and took the opportunity to leap forward, dashing to the safety of the glass barrier along the narrow bridge. Several more globs crashed into the walls framing the mason's escape, but the dwarf was safe now. His chest heaved, and his breaths ran long and heavy from his old frame, but somehow he looked younger than ever: a brightness shone in his eyes, and the elation of survival burned strong within him.

He noticed me watching him, and looked up, squinting to make me out. At this point, I'm ashamed to say I was more or less gaping at him in shock, astounded at his escapades, but I managed to regain myself. Unsure how to react, I would have offered congratulations, but the furnace level is a noisy place: he wouldn't have heard a thing. Instead, like a simpleton, I just waved.

The old dwarf just grinned, bewilderingly gave a pommel-slap(1), and took his place at the back of the line to place another section. At the head of the line, mere moments after the last dwarf had barely escaped the crab's fire, another mason was darting forward, weaving to dodge the torrent of gobs that were fired at him. I could scarcely believe it. These dwarves were dodging death like it was nothing, and at the end of it they were quite content to simply line up and do it again. I must admit: if I were in their situation, the thought of going down that bridge without the magma crabs firing at me would be quite enough to make me feel quite ill with nerves -- how they can manage it under the fire of such a malicious creature is beyond me.

By the time the bridge was complete and the pumps built, the new section was walled off once more, creating a much safer situation. The crab, evidently infuriated by its inaccuracy from far below, smacked glob after glob against the glass wall to no effect, before finally losing interest and slinking off elsewhere in the caldera. Remarkably, throughout the whole episode, only one dwarf was injured: an unfortunate mason suffered a broken rib, but it was nothing fatal. He lingers in the hospital now, chatting with visiting comrades as though he suffered a fractured toe.

As such, the obsidianisation project is well under way, new pumps being constructed, and the caldera is no longer a danger zone, safely walled off once again. This alone would make for plenty of excitement for one journal entry, but more has occured. Unfortunately, I haven't heard from Captain Udilråsh about whatever it was she wanted to discuss, but other troubles surfaced on the horizon.

A few days after the magma crab debacle, a sudden source of panic erupted. I was in my office at the time (which I can finally say I've managed to completely organise!) and was poring over some old slab recordings when there was a tremendous shout from outside my office, and then a rush of stampeding feet towards the central staircase. I poked my head out the door to discover that just about every idle dwarf in the fortress was rushing down towards the caverns, and quickly joined the rush of the crowd, if only to see what was going on.

I soon found out: the fortress was in danger of a flood.

Unfortunately, I later discovered, the Engineers had designated some work done near a nearby lake, close to the one which was to be obsidianized. Some digging was done, and none of it was meant to bring any water from the second lake anywhere, which was to remain untouched. Unfortunately, there was a mishap: the second lake, much larger than the one to obsidianized, was penetrated, and a torrent of water came rushing forth.

The response, I can only describe as heroic. It'd be easy to put down the Engineers for their mistake, but what they lacked in advance planning, they made up for in thinking on their feet. In seconds, the acting head of the team had designated a spot for a pump to drain the lake, an exit point for the pump to pump the water to, and a system of corridors to lead the water along. The entire fortress took to the work: everywhere, there were dwarves rushing to and fro, constructing the corridor for the water to be pumped along, building out of whatever was close to hand: glass, wood, stone, even metal from the furnaces. The cavern level was filled with dwarves moving at a blistering pace, rushing to control this flood as the engineers constructed the pump as fast as their hands would allow.

I can happily report that the flood was quickly controlled. Within a few days, the water was being pumped safely away from any area that could pose danger to the fortress, and to add to the benefit of this, we have now partially drained one of the underground lakes, which could prove useful in future. However, there is an issue with this: the well that the hospital used for water to treat patients with drew its water from the lake, and that well is now dry on account of the drainage. A temporary solution was devised: hospital workers were advised to simply walk down to the lake (a short walk) and fill the buckets manually, with promises that a more permanent solution will be devised. Perhaps inevitably, this has caused some grumbling.

However, this is nothing compared to the atmosphere of relief around the whole fortress. Everybody knows that a disaster has been averted, and the entire fortress community is glowing with the knowledge that they were part of the solution to the problem. It's true that the core of the fortress would have been safe: the level of the lake is below most of the fortress, but many of those on the furnace level would have been doomed without an escape had this flood continued.

For the time being, the obsidianization of the lake has been suspended to allow for cleanup, of which there is a considerable amount. Mostly, a lot of water got spilled, which is a rather pedestrian concern, but the walls that lead the water from the pump to the exit zone have to be deconstructed, and there is an awful lot of them. Regardless, this rather pales in comparison to the amount of work that would have been necessary to sign off on the corpses of a bad flood, so I, like all others, am relieved. Thus, my journal entry proves this time to be a rather cautiously happy one!

May your sands be soft,
Dr. Eturtulon.

Endnotes:
1: pommel-slapping: A curious hand gesture, with confusing variation in meaning. For more information, see the notes post following this one, section "Pommel-slapping".

[Roach]

As promised, the history of "pommel slapping", a Tustemeri hand gesture. I can't believe I wrote this and enjoyed it so much

Also, of note, I use the expression "b.t." in this post, just because the shorthand is handy. All it stands for is the equivelant of "BC" in modern english: 25 b.t. is 25 years before 1st of Granite, 1 in the Minbazushal history.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Pommel-slapping
The term "pommel slap" or "pommel-slap" does not, within this context, refer to the act of striking an opponent with the pommel of one's weapon. Instead, it refers to a specific hand gesture made by Tustemeri dwarves and other inhabitants of Asto Thec. Confusingly, the gesture has had several differing meanings throughout history, depending on the nationality of the member performing it, and the period in which it was performed.

Performing a pommel slap
The steps to perform a pommel slap were as follows:

1. Close the left hand into a fist.
2. Raise the closed left hand to meet the right collarbone, closer to the right shoulder than the neck, crossing the body, akin to a modern seatbelt.
3. Bring the right hand to open-handedly slap the palm against the ball of the left elbow, simultaneously driving the left elbow upward to meet the hand, while keeping the left fist's anchored position.

The gesture was performed at high speed and without pause, was not typically repeated, and was often audible, performed with about the same vigour as a strong clap of the hands.

In addition, the gesture was always performed "right-handed"; regardless of a dwarf's dominant hand, the left hand always crossed to the right shoulder, and the right hand always did the slapping. However, all accounts indicate that "flipping" the gesture was not an impediment to understanding: if performed backwards, the gesture would still be understood, but the performer would be regarded as rather confused. The most common example of this appears to have been in children, who observed adult dwarves practicing the gesture and incorrectly attempted to imitate it. There was an exception to the flipping "rule" however: for obvious reasons, dwarves with handicapped or lost right hands performed the gesture backwards.

Meaning and History
The meaning of a pommel-slap, as earlier mentioned, varied depending on where it was being performed and in what time period.

Originally, long before Datan's time, the gesture was written to mean a threat of violence. The modern equivelant would perhaps be the gesture of making a slitting movement across one's neck with a finger: the intent was "I'm going to kill you."

This early usage was best chronicled by Akrulbūni Draltha baron(1) Gamil Lolokrithul, who was fond of spending his hours in luxury investigating dwarven communication and language. His history of the origins of the gesture is brief, but it is the only one available: he notes in an aside that the gesture stems from old murder practice, in which the murderer would discreetly smashed a dwarf's skull in with the pommel of a war hammer, as opposed to the head of the weapon. The idea was that a full hammer strike with the skull would be too obvious, and that pommel strikes, while still fatal, were easier to disguise as work-related accidents.

Essentially, he wrote, the idea was that the closed fist of the left hand symbolised the head of the hammer, while the narrower elbow at the other end of the forearm symbolised the pommel, and the open hand struck against the elbow symbolised the head of the dwarf being threatened. Thus, the gesture was a threat that the performer was going to murder the observer.

That is the meaning which, as far as is known, was the original. Lolokrithul went on to note that it was often used either in disputes between fighting dwarves or as an intimidating gesture at opponents in war shortly before battle.

However, for some reason, the meaning of the gesture changed over time within Akrulbūnem (there is no record of how or why). By the time Tuthanir Rom visited Akrulbūnem in 3105 dłslaetłlü (sometime around 55-45 b.t.) the gesture was instead used solely among military dwarves, not civilians, and was instead a sort of war cry. To perform a pommel slap in this era was rather akin to modern expressions of enthusiasm such as "Booyah!" and "Get some!"

Even more confusingly, the meaning changed again, though slightly, within Eribrakas. In Eribrakan culture, the pommel slap was used by both civilians and soldiers, and used to express feeling on any circumstance that merited enthusiasm, not just military war cries. This is why, in his twelfth journal entry, Datan notes being "bewildered" at the elderly mason performing the gesture: it's very likely that before that day, Datan had never seen the gesture in his life, due to its usage in military circumstances only. Even if he had, he certainly would have considered it to be a military gesture only, and would have been substantially confused to see the elderly dwarf using it to refer to what is clearly, despite danger, a civilian matter. As far as history can tell, this is how the matter remained: in Akrulbūnem, the gesture was strictly a military one, but in Eribrakas, it was common in all elements of society.

Theories on change
Several theories have been put forward as to why the meaning of and appropriate application of the gesture managed to change twice.

The most commonly accepted theory for the first change, from being a civilian threat to a military war cry at some point between ~500 b.t. and ~50 b.t., is that it had something to do with legislation by King Kogsak Isrirgem(2). King Isrirgem's many laws on manners have never been listed in full, but those that have been mentioned have been incredibly restrictive ("Civilians shall not make eye contact with one another: this breaches good conduct!"), and so many historians believe it likely that the pommel-slapping gesture came under at least one of his laws, probably in the form of an outright ban.

Thus, the theory continues, the only people who would not have been affected by such a ban would be the military. This would likely have been case for two reasons: one, the military acting as the guard would have been the ones in charge of enforcing the ban in the first place, and as such they were "above the law" amongst themselves, and two, because much of the time troops would have been away on missions outside of Akrulbūnem, so their distance from the King meant this aspect of his law did not affect them.

Therefore, under these circumstances, the only people who would be using this gesture would be the military. So, the theory goes, it's only natural that the gesture would evolve into more of a military one. The reason for the gesture's evolution from a threat to a general "war cry" is usually thought to be an issue of patriotism: the gesture, for the most part, is a uniquely Tustemeri one, and as such could well have been adapted in general circumstances to defiantly declare one's loyalty to the Akrulbūnem. Thus, it not only was used as a battle threat, but also one of general victory and a symbol of the Akrulbūni way.

The second change in meaning is much easier to explain. Historians have no proof, but it is considered highly likely that the reason has to do with migration: a large number of the first migrants to Eribrakas were soldiers, to deal with the threats in the caverns there. If these soldiers were commonly using the pommel slap gesture (as they probably were) then when civilian migrants came to join the budding fortress they would likely have picked up on the gesture. Thus, it came into general usage.

Usage outside Tustemerush
One notable oddity of the pommel slap gesture is that it was not unique to the Tustemeri peoples (that is, those in Akrulbūnem and Eribrakas). Reports were also made of Stalkōlestran goblins making the gesture, and even tribes of animal men throughout Asto Thec making use of it.

One clue as to why this should be can be found in the meaning in the gestures: for Stalkōlestrans and all the animal men who made use of it, the intent appears to consistently have been the "original" meaning of the gesture: a threat. If the gesture is old enough to have been commonplace along Tustemeri tribes before they left Asto Thec (assuming Asto Thec is where they came from, which many believe to be the case), then it's quite possible that the gesture was picked up by other communities. Animal men and early Stalkōlestran tribes could have seen and then adopted for themselves the gesture in times of war, when fighting the early Tustemeri, before it was "exported" to Akrulbūnem and subsequently changed in meaning, and this is the most commonly agreed-on explanation.

Endnotes:
1: Draltha baron: Tuthanir Rom notes from a conversation with a travelling merchant that Akrulbūnem was the thriving nexus of a Draltha ranching craze for a period of time beginning around 8th century b.t. and ending sometime 6th century b.t. (700 b.t. - 500 b.t.)
2: "Kogsak the Prim", as he was known, had a short, unpopular reign during the beginning of 4th century b.t. Akrulbūnem. He was mostly known for his obsessions with manners and politeness, and reportedly created several new laws to force the Akrulbūni people to conform to his frankly insane ideas of propriety.

[Roach]

Entry no. 13. True to entry number, a Bad Thing happens.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Moonstone, 28

This month, I write with news that I am a fool. A terrible, misguided, idiotic fool.

In my last entry, I expressed my hope for Eribrakas, my joy at the way the dwarves here banded together against a common threat, saving many lives despite their outward coarseness. In this one, it is my duty to scribe that I have been brought crashing back to the ground.

Vucar is dead. One of my closest friends has been passed on to Etur, his children left fatherless, his wife left spouseless.

He was helping with the deconstruction of the water pipe used to drain the lake, pulling down the bricks of a simple stone wall, when he misjudged the implications of a removal of a certain support and fell from the platform he stood on. He plunged into the lake, and reportedly flailed for several moments before drowning, unable to swim. I saw none of this, but in a way, what I did see was even worse. All I know now of my friend is what I marked in my filing, signing off his corpse to be reunited with the sea of magma below, and a slab to memorialise him, placed among so many other graves that lay in the mausoleum.

I met Kib on the day of the funeral, of course. I can clearly recall the moment; we were in the workshop area, as the engraver dutifully carved Vucar's name into the sturdy granite. After a couple moments, the craftsdwarf stood back and turned the slab to Kib, silently waiting approval. The inscription was simple, and the dwarf had made fine work out of a morbid task. It read thus:

In memory of Vucar črithathel
Drowned in the year 28
Loving father and husband

Kib kept her composure, though sadness filled her eyes at a magnitude I never suspected possible, and sombrely nodded her approval. I was inclined to agree. Three lines could never do Vucar justice, but then nothing could do justice but Vucar himself, so it was pointless to try. The inscription was the best we could possibly do.

The craftsdwarf then set his hammer aside and pulled down his hood. Beneath his cap, I could see the eyes of a sad but dutiful dwarf, who was used to his work. He saluted Kib, and then quietly asked which emblem she would prefer to have engraved on the slab: the symbol of Akrulbūnem, Eribrakas, or rather Tustemerush as a whole(1)(2). Kib furrowed her brow for a moment, trying to think as she battled back her emotions. At a loss, she turned to me.

"What do you think? I-- I don't know." She turned away once more to compose herself. I was slightly shocked, and uncomfortable. I really had no idea what Vucar would want. I collected my thoughts, trying to simultaneously think of Vucar's will on such issues while keeping his face from my mind, knowing I'd never see it again.

"Well, err...Vucar was a man of words and knowledge...perhaps the quills would be most suitable for his grave?" I spoke hesitantly, unsure. Kib considered for a moment, then nodded, adjusting her cap to cover her eyes. She turned to the craftsdwarf.

"Akrulbūnem, please." The craftsdwarf nodded, and set to work carving in the symbol of my home. Former home. Kib and I filed away in silence to the meeting hall: the slab would soon be ready, and we had to collect the children.

I cannot fully convey through literature exactly the sadness I felt upon seeing Vucar's three now fatherless children. It was profound. Stākud, the eldest, was only six years old. Her eyes were hard, however, and her face was a mask of stoicism. She stared with a dead gaze from beneath her leather hood. I can only imagine the hurricane of emotion that must have been storming within her, at such a young age. Yet already, she took it like an Eribrakan. To this moment I don't know what to think of that.

Mistźm, the middle child, was a mere four years old. His mind had not yet developed enough to understand what was going on, and he clutched on his older sister's cloak, intermittently looking up at her and around the room for clues, but finding none. And, of course, there was tiny little Zulban, not even a year old, in the arms of a friend of Kib. She looked up silently with a child's disproportionately large eyes, totally uncomprehending. It was a terrible, terrible thing. She will grow up with no memory of the father who loved her so.

Kib and I fussed over the children for some time, unsure what else to do. Zulban required little care, simply content to see her mother again, but Mistźm asked reams of questions, trying to figure out in his little mind what was going on. Occasionally, he would add: "And where's daddy?" Kib would only shake her head. Stākud, for her part, simply sat alongside us in silence. However, there was one oddity I noticed that Kib missed: every time a dwarf in armour walked past, or an otherwise militarily-involved member of the fortress, she would give them a quick salute, which was invariably returned on familiar terms. I wonder what company she has been keeping.

Soon enough, we were interrupted by the engraver from earlier appearing from the staircase, hefting the slab on his shoulder. Stākud stiffened slightly in her seat, but otherwise we all remained silent. The engraver stepped aside, and the leader of the funeral procession climbed the staircase behind him, in dark robes of fur. He saluted Kib, and then stepped aside too.

Behind him, two dwarves appeared, with Vucar's corpse between them. His body was covered in cloth, unidentifiable, but I could make out his outline clearly. He was somehow unmistakable. At this point, Kib broke down. In a flood of tears, she wept and wept in her seat for quite some time, turning from her former husband's remains. The younger children still did not understand, but Stākud's face only hardened. Mistźm tried, in his ignorance, to comfort his mother: "It's just a sleeping man!" were among some of his well-meant offerings.

Around the room, dwarves carried on about their business, drinking, eating, working. They pointedly paid no attention to the ceremony: it was against their custom to do so. For my part, I was at something of a loss. I'd never been confronted with this situation before. When people died in the hospital, coroners took over. This was all new to me. I sat, dumbly gazing at Vucar's covered corpse, trying to take everything in. To my shame, I made no move to comfort Kib in my shock -- though I was later informed that this was in fact a good thing, to do so would again have been against custom. This information does not soften my shame, however. I should have helped. Instead I just sat there like a gormless fool.

Eventually, I was given a reprieve: the ceremony moved on. We all stood, and the two dwarves carrying Vucar led his corpse towards the magma chute. It felt like an achingly long walk: the corridor had been cleared of all traffic for us, and with every step, a sob from Kib followed, daggers of sadness perforating our collective group every Urist of the way. I must confess it was with shameful relief that we finally came to the chute, and Vucar's body was laid next to it.

The leader of the procession, a quiet, reserved dwarf, removed her sturdy iron helm(3) and began the funeral rite speeches. As I say, I was unused to the funeral proceedings, so as the dwarf spoke on and on, I found myself looking around the chute chamber for lack of anything else to do(4). There wasn't much to see: it was just a magma chute, after all, with bare walls and blood-stained floors from siege-brought corpse pile-ups. At the door, two dwarves stood sombrely at guard, shifting on their feet rather uncomfortably. The leader carried on and on for some time, while Kib quietly nodded through and the children looked up uncomprehendingly.

Finally, the leader's speech came to a rest, and she took a step forward, siezing the cloth at Vucar's chest and looking at Kib for the final permission. With a last tearful nod, it was given, and the leader dragged the corpse forward from the stretcher, thrusting it into the pit. Vucar, or what was left of him, slipped down into the abyss, the last I'd ever see of him. Like fools, we all listened, wondering whether we'd hear the faint "plop" of the corpse hitting the magma below, but it never came. Perhaps that was for the best. I'm not sure why we were even listening for it.

For the rest of the day, I confess little occured. I spent most of my time feebly attempting to comfort Kib, who was mostly unresponsive in her grief. Eventually, she did offer one small conversation: she made me promise that should anything happen to her in the way of Vucar, I would take care of the children. I was at something of a loss. I asked if she had any other friends who would do it, for I was hardly in the best position, but she just shook her head. No friends as close as me, she said. I feel at once blessed and cursed.

So, now, I am left with this new promise with which I must cope, and the news that apparently, one of the local magma crabs was killed in the furnace today. It was odd, signing off on the corpse disposal: my second one that day. A reminder that even as Vucar dies, life goes on, but so does death.

I sit alone in my office now, reflecting over the past of Vucar and I together. It's not something I'm particularly willing to put to parchment. I think it is time for me to retire my quill until my next entry; there are memories to be recalled and toasts to be made. And sleep to be lost.

May your sands be soft,
Dr. Eturtulon

Endnotes:
1: Symbol decision: if a dwarf was born and subsequently died in the same place, then the symbol engraved on their slab would be the symbol of that place by default. However, because Vucar was (presumably) born in Akrulbūnem and died in Eribrakas, his wife is allowed to choose his grave's "loyalty": his place of birth, place of death, or the "safe" option of the nation as a whole's symbol.
2: Symbols: Akrulbūnem's symbol was two crossed quills, with a wooden spear rising from between them. Eribrakas's was an hourglass with a dwarven head and a goblin head on either side, both facing inward. Tustemerush's was simply opal cut gems.
3: Tustemeri funeral processions were always led by military personnel; the idea was that with their presence, they would "guard" the fallen soul from harm in its passing to Etur.
4: Tustemeri funerals had a speech that had to be made in an ancient tongue, which the dwarves memorised for the purpose, but did not know the meaning of.

[Baffler]

Poor Vucar, such is life in glorious Eribrakas. I love all of the little details you slip into this, by the way. They're really well thought out, but they aren't distracting either.

[Roach]

Heh, yeah, Vucar had an unhappy ending. I'm afraid it gets worse before it gets better though: here's Entry 14 as proof. And thank you, I try to keep the details non-intrusive. Most of the long stuff I try to put in notes entries instead, as regards to background lore and things. Are the notes entires still worth doing in your opinion? I like writing them.

Entry 14, with another history of a fallen Eribrakan heroine in the post to follow this one!

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Obsidian, 28

This month, I write of more tragedy.

Perhaps, reader, you grow weary of reading of Eribrakan woes. But I can scribe little else honestly; the past half-year has brought death after death without relent. And this month, it is not just I in mourning of a dear friend. No, this month, the entire fortress is grieving over the loss of a dwarf.

Ilral Sōdthob Ostathļlon Fūbeg, champion of the fortress, is dead.

However, my personal mourning has only grown deeper. For this is not the only loss the population has sustained. Vucar's beloved widow, Kib, has gone to Etur as well. As has her infant child, tiny little Zulban.

From below, a riraskorfer arose. The fortress thought little of it; such events are common, and all avenues of entry were cut off. We all simply assumed it would be another inconvenience to deal with later, with a spike contraption of some kind. The fortress was busy, after all: though Vucar passed, I have not been able to take a great deal of time to collect myself or console Kib, for the rush to build spike traps and such races on.

But, somewhere along the line, there was an error. A crack in the barriers we so carefully erected to keep the dreader riraskorferi out. Something went wrong.

The beast, a fell sloth of enormous stature, feathered with the ability to spout webs like a cave spider, emerged from some vulnerability in the water and rushed into the farming area. There, it was fortunately distracted; some esoteric, forgotten structure built before my time stood apart from the farms and distracted the horrific thing. It charged off to dismantle the structure with furious swipes of its gargantuan paws, which probably saved more lives than I care to think about.

This gave the fortress time to raise the alarm. Immediately, given the beast's ability to spout webs, melee squads were set aside as not the right troops for the job. Instead, the marksdwarf squad was roused and sent to kill the awful thing. And here, the shame of Eribrakas comes directly to the forefront.

I cannot express the public outrage, dismay and anger, to this very moment, that the fortress felt about the events that followed. The marksdwarf squad was an absolute shambles. Several of them ignored the call, dismissing it as a minor disturbance that would soon blow over, the fools! Instead, they decided the time was ripe for an evening drink or a nap. As for the rest, they were no better: they had procrastinated since their initial sign-up to the squad, neglecting the necessity of equipping themselves! As the beast tore through more and more of the old structure (which I later found out was a disused barracks) and the timer wound down further and further, the dwarves assigned to kill it could be seen to meander through the equipment stockpiles, searching for bow and boltes. Shameful!

Soon enough, the dwarves were met with the reprecussions of their insipid actions. Instead of acting as an organised force, some collected their equipment and then decided to go for a drink, some realised they'd lost their equipment altogether and took still longer to find it, and some finally went to deal with the beast. But as the marksdwarves descended, they came to the beast in single numbers. Only one or two bolts grazed the beast, for it was able to quickly deal with such trivial quantities of troops; they literally lined up in single file to be destroyed.

Worse, these dwarves only served as distractions from the beast's destruction of the old barracks, and led it into the farming area proper. Here, common civilians of the fortress worked, with no means of defending themselves, and the terrible riraskorfer took full advantage of this fact. In moments, two mothers and their children, including (Etur rest their souls) Kib and her beloved child baby.

It was then, finally, that the tide began to turn. Only when several civilians and half the marksdwarf squad had been killed, did we manage to turn the tide of the fight: Captain Udilråsh rushed onto the scene, having only just heard of the terrible performance of the marksdwarves. She proved her worth to the fortress, a veteran with the crossbow, with a a quick pair of bolts from a vantage point. Her shots struck true, one catching the beast square in the stomach, causing it to vomit disgustingly where it stood, the other striking straight through the fell thing's leg, rendering it unable to walk.

The thing's rage only grew, and as it fell to the cavern floor, it roared loud and spewed a web directly at the captain. Fortunately, she knew to quit while she was ahead: by the time the web was shot at her, she'd ducked behind a wall, and was sending word to Commander Bėmbul. The commander immediately ordered his squad to charge, and like true dwarven fighters, they took up their spears and sped to the scene.

The beast was busying itself with the destruction of our plump helmet farms -- cursed thing -- when they arrived. Once again, it roared out in rage and attempted to spew out webs at the advancing dwarves, but it was too slow. The squad ducked and weaved, and while some were caught in the spew, many more were unimpeded as they closed in on the wounded beast for the kill.

Then, in quite possibly the largest display of misfortune I've ever heard of, Ilral met his fate. He sidestepped a shot web with unmatched precision, rose his spear for the strike, aimed squarely at the terrible animal's head, and then instantly found his own head caved in where he stood. The wicked beast had brought its remaining enormous leg up to kick straight into his skull, cracking through the helmet to smash the cranium to pieces. It was so sudden, so unexpected, so unbelievable, that I truly believe it was no lack of skill on his part. Ilral, in my eyes, was a death of misfortune and little more. But it was a death nonetheless.

The beast quickly received its comeuppance. One of the newer recruits to the squad, Lokum, lashed out with a spear of iron far more experienced than he, and impaled the fell thing's brain. The fortress was saved. To mark the event, he gave the weapon a fitting name: Zesokun(1). I must admit, it is a fitting moniker(2).

Since that moment, the mood at the fortress has been sombre, though anger flared all around at the incompetence of the marksdwarf squad: if they'd done their job, nobody would have been hurt. The remaining dwarves in the squad were at once dismissed from service, and advised not to apply to any future recruitments. In a more unofficial capacity, they were seen with fresh bruises daily for a week.

Captain Udilråsh, conversely, was commended for her service: though she had not struck the killing blow, she had undoubtedly brought the beast to its knees, and Lokum would never have made the kill without her. Lokum was appropriately grateful to the Captain, and being a quiet, sombre dwarf, consistently deflected any praise given to him towards her.

However, the fortress has a blanket of muted sorrow over it, to this day. The conversations over wine are quieter, the work slower, the nights darker. Though Ilral was not the sociable type, and had no real friends to speak of, he was an undeniable figurehead of the fortress's military might, and times ahead are uncertain. Who, now, will take up the position of fortress champion? Debate is sometimes heated. Whoever it turns out to be, I do not envy them: they have a hard act to follow.

I cannot fully decide if I mourn the loss of Ilral or not. Like the whole fortress, I've seen him at his best and worst in combat -- that is, best and worst from a moral perspective, his physical performance was invariably flawless. The dwarf who saved us all from the trolls above in a two-day long battle, alone and furious, was the same dwarf who shamelessly and cruelly murdered the prisoners in the arena days later. I think the most accurate thing I could possibly say about him is that, in his death, Minbazushal has lost one of its greatest killers. Whether that is a good or bad thing, I will leave to other minds.

This is partly because my mind, of course, has been occupied with other griefs: Kib and her child are dead. Almost the entirety of Vucar's family has been sent to meet him in the great magma sea. And now, I am left with a promise I made to Kib in the weeks before she died: I am bound, now, to take care of her orphaned children. It may seem as though I write with little of the pathos that could be expected: this is because I have realised that at times, there is no room for such emotions. These children have to be cared for. This duty and my work have filled my thoughts since that dread rampage took place.

Daily, I make sure Stākud and Mistźm are taken care of. It's a new and, I must admit, somewhat frightening experience for me. Never in my life have I cared for children, aside from brief periods in hospitals. This is entirely different: the children require far more care than one night of sound sleep.

I am perhaps fortunate that Stākud, for a six-year-old, is a remarkably independent child. Daily, she assists in the farms and does light deconstruction work, which is about all she's allowed to do at her age, but she works such tasks diligently and with purpose. Her hands have already begin to roughen, as have her features. At the end of the day, she sits for a drink with the soldiers of the fortress, discussing military matters. I often think that perhaps this is something I should put a stop to, that Vucar and Kib would not approve, but I simply don't have the time and resources to enforce such a rule. At least she mostly manages herself.

Mistźm, on the other hand, is a different matter. The age gap between the two may seem slight, but the difference is staggering. Where Stākud is tough and level-gazed, her younger brother is inquisitive and loud, constantly asking questions about every which thing. He is still uncomprehending of his mother's death...

I hesitate to admit, reader, that I have done a terrible thing. Stākud understands, there is no need for deception, but Mistźm...death is simply beyond his comprehension. Vucar has been gone for some time of course, and whatever his mother told him as regards to that seems to have worked, as he never asks where he might be. Inevitably, however, he came to ask where Kib was and when she would be coming back. At the time, I was exhausted after a long day's labour, head full of figures and facts I needed to write down, and I had little time for such questions, to say nothing of the obvious morality issues of the situation. Surely it is not the right thing to tell one so young that his mother has perished? But, equally surely, what I have done is not morally agreeable either. I told him that his mother has gone on a trip. He of course asked for confirmation that she would return soon enough, and I'm ashamed to scribe that I replied with an affirmative.

I have no idea how to deal with what I have done. It's all I can do to put this issue off for as long as possible, for that's the only real way I can think of to "deal" with the situation. Until I can think of a better solution (or more likely, until one presents itself), I suppose it's what I will continue to do.

I've had to put aside such issues in favour of current problems anyway, because of more current matters. The chief among these is that Captain Udilråsh, after all these months, finally managed to catch up to me and talk to me about what she meant to discuss the last time she spoke, but did not have time.

I'd scribe our whole conversation, but my own schedule is a tight one now, and as soon as I finish this I must put Mistźm to bed and then get back to work. The essence is this: in the near future, I will be invited to attend Council meetings, to discuss matters pertaining to the future of the fortress and so on, along with the other heads of the fortress. A few months ago, I would be enormously excited about this. Now, I can only think of it as an extra burden to weigh upon my mind. Either way, it's going to happen; I will be one of the chosen few at the helm of the fortress, and the gravity of the situation will no doubt be impressive.

Captain Udilråsh also expressed her grief over Ilral's death, which I hastily nodded through, before making a request: that I write a History of his death. I informed her that I had already made this promise, but I intended to progress through the Histories of the heroes chronologically. After some deliberation, she agreed that this was logical, and so she then made a counter-request: that I scribe the History of the next chronological hero, and publish their History. This, with a great deal of speed, I have done. I have tried to be as thorough as possible, but much like this journal entry, I have been rushed. Minbazushal does not stand still for any dwarf.

As such, I must rush on. I pray that you will abide my haste; there is much to do.

May your sands be soft,
Dr. Eturtulon

Endnotes:
1: Zesokun: a famous dwarven spear, with a great many kills to its name. Its date of construction is not recorded, but it first killed in the year 23. Name translates to "Brandedshrines".
2: fitting moniker: Datan never explains exactly how he finds this name fitting, but it's assumed that he sees Eribrakas as a form of shrine (perhaps to Etur, or dwarvenkind) which has now been forever branded by the event that the spear brought to an end: the rampage of the sloth-like riraskorfer.

[Roach]

This is another one of Datan's Histories of fallen Eribrakan heroes, covering an early heroine of the fortress who did much to consolidate the city's safety.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

History of Obok Giginlolor Nicat Lunrud
Compiled by Dr. Datan Eturtulon in Obsidian, 28
For the history of the Tustemeri peoples

Of those buried in the Hall of Heroes in Eribrakas, a Tustemeri colony, Obok Giginlolor Nicat Lunrud (henceforth "Obok") is possibly the least well-known. The majority of the information in this history was compiled from conversations with the two longest-standing residents of Eribrakas, Stukos Shamebsåkzul and Bėmbul Shadmaldatan Luslemtulon, who are a farmer and the commander of the militia at the time of writing. Other, limited information was gathered from official Tustemeri documentation regarding the subject and inscriptions on her tomb.

Source One
Obok's first appearance in history is in Akrulbūni military documentation, which at the time of writing has one original version, the one kept in the Akrulbūnem File Vault, and a copy, kept in the bookkeeping department in Eribrakas. The information it shows on Obok is as follows:

In the year 11, Obok was officially recruited into the Akrulbūni military. Her profile notes that she was devoutly religious, a keen worshipper of the Tustemeri deities Odur Gulnasumril, goddess of nature and water, and Onget Datan Äs, goddess of earth. She was noted to be an exceptional candidate during training, and received a note of distinction for particularly excellent performance in endurance exercises. After completion of her training, she was deployed on an exploration mission into the ’ithimicacan mountain range surrounding  Akrulbūnem to look for possible fortress locations. She was sent out under the command of a Cpt. Bomrek, and the deployment consisted of thirty dwarves. Of the initial thirty, only four survived.

The report states that the other twenty-six, Cpt. Bomrek among them, were all killed in an avalanche. Upon the initial beginning of the avalanche, Obok reacted by grabbing the two troops nearest to her and leaping in headlong. She survived (and sustained the survival of the two she grabbed on to) through kicking her legs and thrusting herself constantly upward in the avalanche, "swimming" to the surface as best she could. In this manner, while the remainder of her squad was buried below the avalanche on account of not knowing to "swim" as she did, she managed to keep her and her two squadmates close enough to the surface of the avalanche to land with only a minimal amount of snow atop them, allowing them to escape alive.

One of the two she'd grabbed was injured by a tree trunk that had been swept along with the avalanche and had struck him in the head, and was unconscious and bleeding. The other was conscious, but had suffered two broken legs. Obok herself was unharmed. She practiced basic first aid as best she could to both dwarves, patching up the first's bleeding and splinting the second's legs, before being met by a fourth survivor from her squad. This dwarf had apparently been fortunate enough to be on the other side of the fracture line that had led to the avalanche when it began, and thus had been spared its effects. The pair of unharmed dwarves began to carry the injured two back to Akrulbūnem, and made it back safely.

Obok relayed her story to the heads of the Akrulbūni military, and her three companions confirmed it. For her actions, she was given a Silver Pick(1), and promoted to the rank of captain, to replace the late Cpt. Bomrek. Upon being later queried how she knew to react so well to the avalanche, she replied that it was due to experience. According to the report, this was "consistent with Obok's background". Unfortunately, the report makes no mention of what exactly this background is, and in my best efforts I have discovered no documentation in either Eribrakas or Akrulbūnem as to what Obok's "background" was, or what she did before joining the Akrulbūni military.

In any case, the last mention that Obok's military documentation mentions of her is her deployment to Eribrakas. She was reportedly assigned to escort and protect other civilian dwarves embarking there, as the fortress was known to be a highly dangerous locale. This decision, according to the manifest, was reviewed several times; again according to her "background" with mountainous terrain, many questioned the wisdom of deploying her to a desert. However, it was eventually decided that she should be deployed to Eribrakas on account of her resourcefulness. She was projected to arrive in Granite, 11.

Source Two

Obok's second appearance in history is noted by the dual accounts of Stukos Shamebsåkzul and Bėmbul Shadmaldatan Luslemtulon. The two are tied for the longest-standing residents of Eribrakas, having arrived together. Both arrived in the year 15, four years after the arrival of Obok.

Stukos states that by the time she came to the fortress in 15, Obok was the commander of the Eribrakan militia, and its most experienced soldier. She describes the commander as having been very brief in public speeches, speaking only exactly what she meant to say, without mincing any words. She also states the commander was an extremely calm dwarf, never rattled by any situation, no matter how bad the odds might be, and was notable for her steady gaze. In addition, the commander was reportedly in a relationship with a Domas Abenlāven(2)

Bėmbul joined the Eribrakan militia under Obok's command, and added that Obok was a tough leader, demanding constant fitness and strength drills of her troops, her logic being that a dwarf could train technique as much as they liked, but it all came to nothing if that dwarf wasn't strong enough to do the real thing. Obok herself was reportedly a paragon of dwarven fitness, and commonly performed demonstrations along with the fittest of her troops to impress potential military candidates, demonstrating various feats of fitness and bravery. According to Bėmbul, the most notable of these was her demonstration in which she would hang upside down from a rope tied to her ankles, directly over Eribrakas's open magma caldera, and goad one of the magma crabs that lurked therein to shoot globs of basalt at her. She would then dodge and weave upside down, spinning this way and that to avoid the crab's fire, and then swing herself back up to safety.

She also placed special emphasis on survival training within the military, aside from fitness. She took care to show all troops how to catch various desert animals for food should they be stranded in the dunes, how to obtain water from cacti, and various other such techniques. She reportedly would not allow any troops to participate in arena fights unless they demonstrated adequate survival capability.

As regards to the arena itself, both Bėmbul and Stukos confirm that Obok was the first to properly establish an arena in Eribrakas, utilising the classic cage system with lever linkages. However, though she created the arena and reportedly participated in combat therein several times, both sources also attest that Obok wasn't particularly interested in the arena(3), or combat in general, instead being concerned more with the wellbeing of the fortress in general. Both also note that while she made noteworthy defenses of the fortress against goblin invasion several times, a large portion of her kills were also simply troublesome wildlife in the Eribrakan caverns, a fact confirmed by her kill count on her slab. Stukos mentions that this lack of interest in the arena, coupled with her disinterest in public appearances, is probably the main reason she is the least well known hero in the Hall.

Source Three
Obok's third appearance in history can be found recorded on her memorial slab in the Hall of Heroes at Eribrakas. At the time of writing, this slab is in pristine condition, preserved in a sealed chamber in the Hall.

Obok's death is recorded on the slab as having taken place in the year 17, and having been brought about by murder, the murder being a "Uvash Onolabsam". The reason for the murder is not recorded, though Bėmbul attests that Uvash was insane at the time of the murder, having been driven into a murderous rage for reasons unremembered, and killed the commander in her sleep.

The slab then continues, listing all of the kills she obtained over her six years at Eribrakas. The full list consists of:
29 Goblins
7 Troglodytes
2 Dwarves
2 Kobolds
1 Bugbat
1 Cave Crocodile
1 Giant Bat
1 Giant Olm
1 Giant Toad
1 Magma Crab
1 Riraskorfer
1 Troll

Of the kills of beasts, the slab lists three of them as having killed enough dwarves to earn a name: the riraskorfer, the magma crab, and the giant toad.

The riraskorfer kill attributed to Obok is confirmed by both Stukos and Bėmbul, who can both recall the attack. The beast was reportedly an enormous caddisfly, though neither can recall anything else about it except that it killed two dwarves before Obok slew it. The beast was called Meli Odatharama.

Bėmbul attests that the two dwarven kills, while of Eribrakans, were both legal. Both were during the Great Eribrakan Riot of 14, and the first was of a dwarf who was assaulting a child in a blind rage, the second in self-defence. In addition, he states that all of the goblins and trolls killed were Stalkōlestrans, and the ratio of goblin kills in the field vs. goblin kills in the arena was roughly 1:1.

This concludes my history of Obok Giginlolor Nicat Lunrud

Endnotes:
1: Silver Pick: a Tustemeri military accolade, presented to soldiers who displayed "outstanding valour, going above and beyond the call of duty in a non-combatitive situation". Consisted of the presentation of a ceremonial silver mining pick.
2: Domas Abenlāven: this dwarf died before Obok, in the Great Eribrakan Riot of 14 a.t.

[Baffler]

Most of the long stuff I try to put in notes entries instead, as regards to background lore and things. Are the notes entires still worth doing in your opinion? I like writing them.

I enjoy them, yeah. The pommel slap thing was particularly clever. But even if I didn't, I'd still say they're worth doing if you enjoy writing them.

[Nail]

The notes give a kind of personal flavor to your stories, since it adds to the standard we know. It makes Tustemerush unique.
And they certainly don't detract from the story; as long as you keep Datan's journal self contained, one can just skip them. So if you like doing them, do it.