(This is probably old hat in terms of what happened, but I still find it interesting to record. My first defeat. Woo!)
It is difficult to write; my right arm has been amputated, and I am unused to writing
with the left. The walls are red, stained with blood; hideous screeching sounds from
the barracks at irregular intervals, as yet another of the wounded go mad and flail
about from their beds. Our blood fertilizes the fields now, and the plump helmets
grow well, but too late, too late. Our grand dining room, engraved and unused for
so long, is endlessly red, red with our life's end.
Perhaps I should explain from the start.
We came to the Outpost Kurikdcim, in the year of 1053. We had high hopes, then; we
thought to create a thriving colony, to mine the treasures of the mountain, and grow
famous for our skill. Our leaders were eager, but inexperienced. They were our doom.
They were ambitious, our leaders. They wished for an early display of our glory, and by
the middle of summer, our masons were endlessly smoothing out our dining hall, which was
to be the jewel of our colony for many years. Yet despite a fine dining hall, we had no
source of food; our leaders waffled on the issue, slowly and painstakingly building the
canals we needed to form our farms. But eagerly did they build bridges and roads and
depots to prepare for the first traders. Eagerly, they welcomed the first metalsmith
who had heard of our feats. They happily built individual rooms for us, the first
seven, and we, fools that we were, praised their wisdom and insight for it. It was only
during the autumn, as the first caravan came to our doors, that our leaders began to doubt.
They proved no better at trading than they did in planning. They were easily swindled into
trading away almost all of our wealth for insignificant items, while desperately trying to
push great stone doors upon the traders. Despite their ineptitude, we gained some food that
would prove valuable in the days to come. Especially after the first wave of migrants arrived,
whom our leaders welcomed with open arms, as they needed more able hands to work the fields.
Although we harvested some few foods, it really wasn't enough. Winter came, and our leaders
prepared to hunker down with what we had to survive. Before long, we were reduced to eating
vermin, while our leaders lavished all their attention on some lunatic who had occupied the
jewelry workshop and who demanded rough gems, which made our leaders begin a ridiculous
expansion plan in the hunt for gems.
We just managed to make it to spring, whereupon even our thick-headed leaders realized the
urgency of our hunger, and scrambled to plant. But it was too late. Before long, the riots
began, and the madness overcame all who came too close. Those who tried to stop the rioters
soon joined their ranks, and those who tried to administer aid to the wounded soon found
themselves beating their patients with their buckets. I, too, was lost to the madness,
and with my bare hands I tore a miner apart, though he struck my arm off. And in so doing
I caused his daughter to descend into the madness. The graves lie full, now, unburied, while
those few sane dwarves who remain try to tend to the wounded, even as the wounded go mad
from their pain and strike at all who come close. It is inevitable, and soon all shall succumb.
The fortress itself is ravaged, and there is little undamaged. I have locked myself in my
room, and I hope to survive by eating my severed arm until all have passed on, before fleeing
this cursed place...
Wait, what was that? Immigrants! Immigrants have to come! The fools! The hell with my life,
I must warn them of the dangers! They must not enter these gates! They must not...
Author
Topic: The Kurikdcim Riots (Read 537 times)