From the journal of Sarvesh Athelkutam, Mayor:
3rd Moonstone, 16, Early-Winter
We have come so far in so short a time that, were I not responsible for it all, I would not believe it. Our fortress has grown, swollen to 57 strong and stout. We are on the map now. We cannot be ignored or passed off or ridiculed. Our wealth is overflowing and our ale is strong. To describe the events of the past years will be impossible, for too much has happened. But I will try my best.
First, I had to scrap the Blood Well operation, much to the protest of good Urvad. It simply was not feasible, given the lack of wood and time. However, as it often happens, Vakist expresses himself through the unexpected. Zuglar, an idiot of such caliber that he can barely form coherent sentences, figured out my purpose before anyone else. He accosted me, wanting a private chat. I obliged him (such things are a necessary annoyance in the field of governance.) and he explained to me that he knew of my plans and that he had a better one (it took him half an hour to get through this simple thought; Vakist bless the dwarf, his genius is stoppered only by his common tongue). Naturally I feigned ignorance, for commoners have no business with the machinations of greater minds. But, he is surprisingly perceptive and did not believe me. He then explained a way of using a large block of stone, dropped from a great height, to transfer magma from the deeps to the surface. I still don't quite understand how it all works. But Zuglar assured me (with his broken words) that it was the fastest way to go about the business.
He was right. It took a year of patient digging, most of which was done by Zuglar and his wife, Rovod, but it worked. We were only able to retrieve a small amount of magma, but it will suffice. The forges and furnaces are being constructed as we speak; this will usher in a new age of wealth for our kingdom. The sand is plentiful and we now have 4 glassmakers, one of which built an artifact glass gem of such exceeding beauty that he was blessed by Vakist with limul-otad, golden hands; his skill surpasses the imagination (though not, I hope, my coffers).
I have also been to the deeps and seen the pale blue sheen of the nom-kel, the god-metal. It is perfect. There is no other word for it. I have dug some of it out, with caution (for I know well, the old legends) and fashioned it into wafers. We do not yet have enough to make a full set of armor, nor anyone skilled enough to handle it. But soon.
In the meantime, our dining halls grow crowded with migrant dwarves who have heard of our rich food and our soft beds. I have ordered the construction of a much larger, more grand, dining hall. One worthy of this fortress. One worthy of me. Prominent dwarves have come to my halls to seek their fortune, to kiss my hand. But this is nothing. Mortality claws at me, I must build something to outlast my bones. A tomb. I see it in my dreams, and I shall fashion it with my hands.
Vakist, sustain me in glory.
From the journal of Urvad Absamonul, Glassmaker:
16-10-3
Today is a good day. But that has been true for the past year or so. We are in such bliss, I am almost afraid. Our little outpost has become something little ones will dream about, something you might find in a story-book. I have been out of work for the past year; displaced by a far superior craftsdwarf. Yet I mind it not, for I have made my masterpiece and fulfilled my dream. A giant axe blade of green glass, terrible in its beauty.
Everything is perfect. The food, the ale, the parties (and they are ongoing). Ngalak is too generous. Sarvesh assures us this is only the beginning, there will be greater things for here out. His plan to draw magma from the deeps to the surface has succeeded. And he has plans for us glass makers.
From the journal of Zuglar Bekaraban, Miner:
Tuesday
All my dreems have been fufilled. I have seen and tuched the god-metal. I have dug to the deeps and brawght magma to the surface. No dwarf can match me any more in mining (exsept Rovod of corse). Even Rith sais I am something beeond him. Sarvesh himself has honored me, he sais they will sing of Zuglar, the blood-drawer. I have dun my life's work. But I cannot rest. There is always more to be dun. I do not mind it. I can see it now. So can Rovod. The unity of the pick and earth and the dwarf. There is no death. Only tranzfurmashion.
I see it everywhere. There is some other thing that tells us to "do" and some other thing that makes us "be". Sarvesh is nothing. The fortress is nothing. I...am nothing. The glassmaker and the bonecarver kno this too. I tawk with them sometimes. They undurstand me and Rovod. They see it too. I cannot say it in words. I am not good with words. But I can feel it. Like wind on my beard. Or thirst in the dark. Is this is a dreem? Is it mine? What is it to awake?
But there is work now. So, I go.
From the journal of Rith Geshudulzest, Miner:
3rd of Moonstone, Year 16, Early-Winter
I have been busy these past few years. Happy. I underestimated Sarvesh. I thought him a buffoon, arrogant and selfish, but he is a genius. How he managed to turn this flat piece of land into a fortress worthy of our kingdom, is beyond me. We have such a surplus of food and ale, that we sell it in place of trade goods. Nothing disturbs us in the desert, for nothing lives here. What few camels roam the sands, make for a good meal. There were a few encounters with some cavern creatures (as well as some magma crabs, nasty little things) but our militia commander put a quick stop to them.
57 of us, most of us unemployed because Sarvesh has been concentrating on a single project: the magma piston. Zuglar came up with it, which was surprising (yet, strangely, not so; his prowess with matters of mineral and excavation is extraordinary). I have been working alongside him and Rovod, digging out the piston and the magma cisterns. Last week, our work came to fruition beautifully and the magma furnaces are being built as I write. Work is not yet over of course, Sarvesh has much grander plans for our settlement. We have already dug out a huge dining hall (it will be magnificent, once furnished) and are now working on living quarters for the migrants (only the original 7 have rooms of their own; but no one complains because the ale is strong). I enjoy my work, and I'm getting quite good at it. Only a matter of time now, I can feel the pick become an appendage, an extension of myself. Zuglar speaks of such things. He says we are pieces, like dwarf toys in a child's dream. He worries the child will awake. Admittedly, I don't understand a word of what he is saying. Whether that's because of his... deficiency with language or because his words are far beyond my knowledge, I cannot say.
Yet.
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