From the journal of Logem Vigorbridges, dwarven mason:
I dunno how we got here. We were seven hearty dwarven women*, planning to set up a nice fort in some nice forest, full of trees to fuel our forges. Somewhere, something went wrong.
(Add pic here when tinypic works)
Things started going pear-shaped once the wagonwheels broke. Well, it wasn't so bad, right? We'd set up some signal fires to let people know where to find us and build a damn fine fortress right here. So, we set our horses out to pasture, Rigoth started mining, Bim began chopping wood, and good old Kosoth, our fisher and expedition leader, started fishing. Soon, we had some basics: A hole in the ground, stone, and a couple workshops. Kosoth had even started preparing some of the fish for consumption, when disaster struck. See, Tobul had started to carve a chink of sandstone into a place for our marble beetles to drop their chunks of marble into when the undead started arriving. We knew they were there; a carp that died somehow reanimated, lurking near the edge of our vision. More importantly, there were some ogre corpses across one of the four river-branches we crashed near who killed a couple alligator snapping turtles, one by ripping her shell off. Thankfully, the rivers had thawed enough to keep the undead ogres from getting us, but they didn't do much for the horned owl.
Rith, bless her heart, was our only defense. And she did damn well, too! But the corpse of the shell-less turtle was more dangerous than it sounds. After easily dispatching the owl (and a live owl appeared, apparently glad for the chance to hunt without so much interference from the dead), Rith had to face the dead turtle. She fought bravely, but the turtle felt no pain and was far too fast. It sustained wounds that would kill a mortal turtle, but ripped a hand and a foot off poor, poor Rith! I couldn't stand it. I helped build a wall, sealing me, Mafol, and Rigoth inside. Tobul put the last chunk in place, choosing to help the others aboveground.
Things look bleak. We couldn't bring any supplies inside, so we've just got two of our three cats (a breeding pir, at least), a few dogs, the five marble beetles, and the three of us, as well as a pick and all the stone and gems we've found so far.
Then, we heard a voice from the depths, offering us salvation in exchange for sacrifice. None of us know the ultimate price, but we really have no choice.
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From the "journal" of Kosoth, expedition leader of Channeldawn:
Channeldawn? Hah. How about channeldusk? This is the end, my only friend, the end. Mobwebbed, that damn turtle corpse, is on a rampage. It's chasing Bim, Tobul, the horses, and that cat who fell into the river when it thawed around. I'm safe for now, since I'm hiding in the fishery, behind the wagon and craftsdwarf's workshop. This place is a deathtrap. Zombies. Ogres. Zombie ogres. Shellless zombie snapping turtles. Carp, both living and dead. Glumprongs. Ugh, what a place to die. I no longer hope that I live, only that I can enjoy one last feast before I die.
*Seriously, I EVERY dwarf here is a female.
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This is a story of a dwarven fort I'm doing. Basically, it's a haunted-biome embark turned, well, bad. I decided to go ahead and mod a little, to let the dwarves trapped underground have a chance. You'll barely notice. Probably.
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Topic: Channeldawn, or "Why the hell are we here?" (Read 1948 times)