1st Hematite
I arrive at Trenchpaged in the throes of a terrible heatwave. It is all I can do to remain upright in the sweltering heat. The inhabitants lounge about the fort, seemingly oblivious to the blazing sun.
I immediately ask a peasant which way to the dining hall, and to my consternation he points *up*. Looking around the fort, I can indeed see no staircase down. I climb to the dining hall, on the way noting dozens of beds laid out in an open pattern in the meagre shelter provided by the awning. What are we? Elves? I grab a nearby worker by the throat and hoist him up, demanding that he take me to whomever is in charge here and then remove those beds from the sunlight post-haste. No one shall sleep comfortably except in the embrace of the Stone.
The peasant, bowing and scraping, brings me to the countess, Inod Medtobdatan. She weeps tears of joy on my arrival, exclaiming that it was she who'd written to the Inquisition for help. A true dwarf, with a lifelong love of our traditions, she is horribly dismayed by the state of her fief. "You did the right thing, my daughter," I assure her. "Tell me how I can help."
She sobs for a good minute before she can choke out an answer. "There is a conspiracy here, I know it!" she finally manages. "And somehow it all centers around the murder of Ùshrir Dumber!"
I immediately go to see the Captain of the Guard, who winces with obvious pain at my hearty handshake. He cradles a hand with multiple freshly-broken fingers. "What happened to your hand?" I ask.
"I made a mistake. A stupid mistake. That's all," he replies.
"I'm very sorry to hear that, young man," I tell him. "Now, to business. I need to see your files on the murder of one Ùshrir Dumber."
The Captain blanches. "Not this again!" he cries. "I--I already fixed it like you all asked! Please! Just leave me in peace!"
"Fixed it like who asked?"
"You--you mean...no, I didn't fix anything," he says frantically, then forces a laugh. "We're all friends here! What's to fix?"
"It sounds to me like you're in over your head," I say, reaching out to clasp his hand. As he falls to the ground, clutching his latest broken digit, I step behind the desk and pull out all the files I can hold.
What I read in the files amazes me. The Countess was right: there was a conspiracy. Two dozen shady characters point their finger at Ùshrir Dumber for the murder of one Eral Adeklolok, but they're clearly protecting someone. As I read the testimonies, it becomes more and more apparent who the real killer is: the child who supposedly found the body, Endok Dustmountains. This young scourge must be punished! And yet Ùshrir Dumber has already suffered for her crime.
Reading on, i discover that soon after this travesty of justice, Dumber was murdered in turn, but only one brave citizen, Cilob Constructguilds, dared come forth and name the culrpit. Worse still, the captain of the guard refused to act on this accusation, and the killer remains at large! I immediately call Cilob to my new office. I am immediately struck by his earnest demeanor, and on the spot offer him the positions of Champion, Captain of the Guard, and Hammerer. He gladly accepts, and immediately runs off to mete out rightful justice to Stodir Palaceromance, the monster responsible for killing the falsely accused Dumber. To my surprise, Cilob returns within minutes, a strange dwarf in tow. "Stodir Palaceromance was dead when I arrived on the scene," he told me. "This is his killer."
I eyed the newcomer dubiously. "What's your name?" I asked.
"Rimtar Gorgegrove."
"Why did you kill Stodir Palaceromance?
He spat. "That bastard needed killing after what he did to Ùshrir."
"Wait outside."
After deliberating with my new hammerer, I called Rimtar back in. "Rimtar, a good dwarf is hard to find in these benighted latter days," I said. "How would you like to join the Inquisition?"
The three of us stay up late that night, drinking the local sewer brew (disgusting, but very potent) and discussing what needs to be done in the days to come.
The next day, the murders wrapped up as well as possible under the circumstances (and given the public outcry that would come of accusing the young murderess of any crime before she came of age), I set about dealing with the fort's main trouble: a refusal to mine. Of course, first we would need picks. I go to talk to the manager, who has me sign requisition forms in triplicate, the whole time sighing and telling me that "this just isn't the proper procedure."
While waiting for the picks, I notice many dwarves speaking to animals as though they were other dwarves. "Those are pets," Rimtar explained to me. "Dwarves here care for them as though they were family."
"This must end," I said grimly.
At my command, a number of masons set about building a platform from which to launch the offending creatures. On its first launch, alas, a small child is on the bridge when it raises, and dies from the fall soon after.
While I knelt over the broken body of the child, the insolent mayor came up to me and told me that the elven traders were leaving.
"Leaving‽" I shout. "Why were they allowed in‽" I send the military after the scum , and soon the ground outside the fort is littered with their corpses.
Some migrants arrive right as the slaughter ends. I immediately conscript them to mining duty, but it turns out that they, too, are treacherous and came here to leave in the sunlight. They refuse to take up the picks I've had created for them.
While I remonstrate with them, there comes a sudden noise from the northeast. I can only watch, horrified, as the rickety wooden tower collapses to the ground, crushing numerous dwarves as it falls.
The next few days are a blur. I remember weeping dwarves pulling their loved ones from the rubble and shouting at their mayor, the leader of the above-ground faction, that they need to strike the earth to bury their dead properly. Their pleas fall on deaf ears. I remember the first of the mad dwarves, running around and babbling; the second mad dwarf, in a murderous rage; and the countless dwarves who just gave up the will to live. The few remaining members of the militia declare that they are going to kill ghosts.
After what was only a few days in reality, but seemed like an age of the world, the humans sent a relief crew. Inexplicably, every single human volunteer was slaughtered.
It was then that the goblins came.
The goblins sweep over the handful of remaining sane dwarves like giant mosquitos. It is only a few hours before the last brave defender fall.
I, though, I survive by hiding in the ruined tower. Once the last goblin leaves, I climb down and grab a pick from the stockpile. Other dwarves will join me here in time, and then this place of death will be a true dwarven community. Until then, I will carve the halls myself from the deep stone. My handiwork will rival the halls of the king himself.
I strike the earth.
What.
WHAT‽
Author
Topic: The Fortress Destruction Club! (Read 6001 times)