I wrote a narrative account of a loyalty cascade I had that I am almost absolutely certain that it was caused by intelligent undead agents corrupting my dwarves to participate in some civil strife. I'd also just like to say that it's kinda funny how I named all my militia squads after space marine legions only to experience an insurrection that lead to traitors in my own ranks.
Enjoy the narrative:
From the diaries of Shem Sealoak, leader of the Iron Hands, commander of the Reignwall militia, known once by the epithet "The Muddled Inches" and hereafter called "Blood-Drenched"
19th of Malachite, In the Year of Our Stone 132
Perhaps it was our pride. Perhaps it was our greed. Perhaps it was our openness. No one could not predict that the greatest threat to our might would come from within. Our bustling county reduced to a blood-stained corpse pile. Where once stood 80 of the finest warriors in all the Boulder of Mortifying, we now number only 16. This tragedy, this shame, this betrayal... It will not go unanswered.
The cursed witches of Portalrope sent their army of undead to assault our walls. It was not the first time, and our axe-arms were eager to spill more of the horde's blood. Their force was small, so I foolishly ordered the militia to sally out just as that poor armorer completed that unfortunate artifact. She had made the greatest artifact our fortress had seen in our 7 years here: A breastplate of shimmering blue, made from the holy metal deep below. I spoke with Zulban in his hospital bed who told me that the name that fateful armorer chose for her masterpiece was "Muddledflayers, the Sorrow of Drenching." Whether she named it so after my epithet is a secret will forever rest with her, for once this priceless artifact was created, while my battle-brothers and battle-sisters fought viciously with the corpse walkers, the real bloodshed began.
I spoke with Minkot Sunklanced, the only surviving miner, as he lay in his hospital bed, covered in wounds. His story matched up with the others' recounting of events, and Reignwall is truly honored to have witnessed his courage that day. "One of the traitors," said he, "had shown a strange coin to one of the tavern guests." That must have been the signal. After that, all hell broke loose. Undead agents who matched the description of ones called "hollow hunters" had infiltrated the fortress under false identities and corrupted many dwarves, likely in an attempt to steal one of our many treasured relics in the chaos of their planned insurrection. When they gave that signal, the drew their weapons and slaughtered our citizens. Traitors among us joined them in attacking our people while the whole army was topside. Minkot, a humble miner by trade, fought bitterly with them. He personally slew three of these hollow hunter infiltrators before being mauled and knocked unconscious. The clamoring within the fortress must have alerted the traitors within our own ranks, for soon after we slayed the last zombie, our own fellow warriors had turned their swords on us. It was worse than I could have expected: the corruption had reached even the upper echelons of our militia. Nil, my lieutenant, only barely saved me from losing my head as we fought our way through our own brothers. I had defended Reignwall alongside these stout dwarves, and now I had to crush their skulls beneath my hammer. By the time I was able to make it into the fortress, it was too late. The chaos was unbelievable, and the carnage was gut-wrenching. And then, I saw her: Åblel, my dear wife! Hey body lay dead on the floor of the tavern, cut to ribbons by foreign sabres. I broke down, cradled her body, and wept. As my tears mixed with her blood, I heard the thunderous footfalls of Nil as he led the bitter, wounded militia to crush what was left of the rebels.
The traitors had been killed, but the damage was done. More than 120 dwarves, soldiers and citizens alike, had lost their lives to these traitors. Myself, Nil, Alåth "the Peacemaker," and Bëmbul "the Griever" are the only survivors of the Iron Hands. The Silver Skulls are survived only by Onol "the Scarred." The Death Guard are survived by Uvash "Grimblade," who had to kill many of his squadmates. Only half of the Flesh Tearers were lost, meaning they were probably the least corrupted of our squads. Atír "Oathsworn" leads only two others in the Crimson Fists. Logem of the White Scars, who stayed behind to guard the gate while we sallied out, managed to slay a hollow hunter himself, three times he said, but he and Tun are the only survivors of their squad. The Iron Wolves and the Blood Angels are no more.
There are but 55 of us left now, and I am leading efforts to pick up the pieces. Three of the seven Founders survived: Ùshrir, Count of Reignwall; Kogan the mason, and Erib the carpenter. Little Litast, one of the first births here, lost both his parents in the fighting. The good Count has ordered a memorial to be made to the Iron Wolves and the Blood Angels once all the bodies are cleaned up. The army must be consolidated. Uvash "Grimblade" will join us, and the Iron Hands will become the Iron Warriors; The Crimson Fists will join the Flesh Tearers and be known as the Flesh Eaters; Minkot, should he survive his injuries, will be our new captain of the guard. And now, I wear "Muddledflayers, the Sorrow of Drenching" into battle. It is drenched in the blood of its creator, the blood and the sorrow of the dwarves that survived the treachery of the necromancers, and in my own sorrow for my sweet Åblel who was taken from me. Our armies will one day march on those foul witches, flying high the banners of the Iron Wolves, the Blood Angels, the Death Guard, and the Silver Skulls, our fallen squads. By my beard, our fury will burn until the tower of Portalrope falls.
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Topic: The Reignwall Rebellion of 132 (Read 222 times)