Hello, people! I've been writing a piece of fiction (not sure what to call it, as I'm not really certain how long it will be) based loosely upon the game that Bay12 exists for. I drew a good deal of inspiration from the myriad of fortresses I've managed to death, but this didn't seem to fit with the AAR forum as this plot and setting aren't derived from any single fortress, and a lot of it probably couldn't happen in an actual fort. I've decided to expose it to some constructive criticism, commentation, and what-have-you, both to improve my writing and motivate myself to finish this (bad habit of starting lots of small stories but finishing none). SO, without further ado, may I present to you my story
Charcoal scratched roughly over granite as Melbil sketched out – from memory – the face of his undying hatred.
The walls were blackened with them, as though a fine soot had settled over every inch of smooth surface area; covered in the mad scrawling and eerily accurate portraits of the dwarf’s deranged mind. Once a hero, now a hermit – life was truly cruel.
Her screams still echoed down the hallways, it seemed to him. Still floated out from the depths of his troubled memories to haunt him once more. Perhaps he wasn’t even hallucinating; she had never received a proper burial, had she? Her spirit could still be roaming freely. He sincerely hoped not; she would be coming for him then…
At precisely one hour past noon, the old dwarf ceased his scribbling mid-picture and abruptly sat himself down to lunch. It wasn’t much, really; just a thin soup of boiled mushrooms and greens that he had collected from one of the old farm plots. The smoke from his small fire vanished up through a hole in the ceiling that revealed how unusually close the surface was; while most dwarves lived underground, far underground, in halls of stone and caverns filled with strange creatures and plants, Melbil lived within ten feet of the surface itself. He had been all but forced into exile by that dwarf, the face that he kept drawing over and over, vainly trying to remember. Who had it been? Who? If he could just remember, Armok dammit!
Flinging his bowl against the far wall and shooting to his feet in a rage, Melbil hurled the iron frame around the fire off down the single hallway that led to the room, roaring in a blind fury. The emotion subsided as quickly as it had come, leaving the dwarf standing awkwardly, swinging his fists back and forth, back and forth…
He began to draw again, abandoning his original work for a new part of the wall. He had a new face in his memory now, a friendly one. A dwarf he remembered as being kind to him, helping him through his grief at her death, showing him the layout of the Upper Fortress, the warrens of tunnels and chambers carved out a decade ago, long since abandoned for the deeps…
Sitting up a bit more on his chair, Shedim observed closely as her oldest and dearest friend, who now seemed completely unaware of her presence, began to trace out unfamiliar lines on the granite.
“I think his memory’s coming back, Nish!” Shedim excitedly declared, dodging her friend’s training spear and responding with a thrust from her own.
“I doubt that, Shedim.” The other dwarf scowled as she rapped his kneecap with the fungiwood stave. “Ast himself examined him after that breakdown. He’ll never recover more than he already has.”
“Ast wasn’t the brightest gem in the cluster himself, friend.” She responded angrily. “Besides, he’s already been showing signs. The last time I was up there, he started drawing something new; something besides Sibrek’s face.”
“Perhaps he’s merely forgotten what Sibrek looks like.”
“Maybe you should come up with me next time and see for yourself.” Shedim bowed slightly, indicating that their sparring match was over. Though both had long since been honorably retired from active duty, the Fortress Reserves were still required to put in a good month of training each year.
“I already know what I’ll see.” Nish sighed. “He’s gone, Shedim. Nothing we can do will bring him back.”
“But what if he can bring himself back –“
“I’ll hear nothing further of this!” The dwarf bit back a shout of anger. “The dwarf living up there is not Melville, Shedim. Melville died on the hammerer’s block with his wife. His body just hasn’t figured it out yet.”
“I know he was your friend, Nish. He was mine too. All of ours.” Shedim encompassed the rest of the reservists with a sweep of her arm – each had served alongside Melbil, and each had mourned his isolation and subsequent dementia. “But just because you’ve decided he’s unrecoverable, to help blunt the pain, doesn’t mean there isn’t hope.”
Nish turned away to hide the tears in his eyes, swinging at a nearby training dummy halfheartedly to disguise the action. “He’s not coming back.” He declared with finality.
Nodding, the other dwarves returned to their exercises, ritual completed. Only Shedim continued to dwell on the matter, as she had for the last four years; this time, however, she did it with an emotion so foreign that she had forgotten its name - hope.
The manager’s office in the City of Poets, like each and every one of the other baroque structures that encrusted the side of the tiered artificial mountain the Iron Hollows had erected in the Homecavern, was an oversized, statue-coated mess of a place. Sculptures on every subject imaginable perched precariously atop ledges protruding from the walls, from mayflies to dragons consuming obscure dwarven failures. The most popular ornamentation, though, especially on the row of ledges crowning the office, were statues of the appointment of the most recent manager – Goden Syrupleaf.
Goden’s pride was his storied genealogy. He could trace his family back twelve generations to the fabled city of the same name, to the former overseer and champion of that blasted place. Goden Sirrocco Syrupleaf, he was named; a noble, born and bred, of one of the Fiery Treaties’ most prominent ruling houses. He still wasn’t quite sure why he had come to Korbom, but was certainly glad he had stayed. The mountainhomes were crowded places after all, with few opportunities for promising young dwarves to make names for themselves. His admittedly abysmal experience in organization had barely merited mention in the roles of Cavemansions, but here in the City of Poets it had made him the very weaver of the spider’s web. All requisitions and mandates passed through his hands – though the mandates rarely passed into the “approved” pile, especially since that ill-starred Door Trade Ban Sibrek had instituted years ago. You see, Goden secretly cared about the citizenry, the haulers and the masons that he ordered about, and was determined that the inbred and pathologically insane nobility that developed in backwaters like this would not be able to harm the general welfare overmuch.
It was after a particularly arduous day of filling out forms and hauling fine bowls of turkey egg stew up to his office during breaks that he received the letter.
It had arrived by air mail, that was certain; Goden had to shoo the messenger eagle back out the window to clear a place for his stew. The letter was thoroughly soaked in in the stuff by the time the manager had finished his dinner, and it was only as he tried to use the thing as a napkin that he realized it was addressed to him. Curious, he tore the envelope open with one of the sharp ornamental swords on a statue of Dodok Satingirdles failing to slay Herman the Many-Headed…again.
The letter was date stamped to Slate 17, over three months ago. This eagle must have run into some trouble on the way; Goden felt a pang of remorse for his harsh ejection of the avian from his office. He sat on his comfy fungiwood chair by the runic fireplace and began to read.
To Whom It May Concern,
His Majesty, King Cacame Riddledark IV, Emperor of the Eight Seals and Slayer of the Vampire Lord Kinmelbil Koganusan II, does hereby ordain, decree, and command, that the Dwarven Outpost of the Fiery Treaties known as Korbom – “Cavernhome” – be annexed fully under His watchful single Eye, the mate of which was lost in the aforementioned slaying of the Vampire Lord Kinmelbil Koganusan II. To further this rightful and glorious aim, He does ordain, decree and command that the Outpost of Korbom and its Surrounding Lands be Established as a hereditary County within the Dukedom of the Seventh Seal, under the familial jurisdiction of the Syrupleaf Clan, a most distinguished and storied group of dwarves descended from the Sole Attempt to establish a Ninth Seal of the Southern Ices.
By Supreme Wish of His Majesty, King Cacame Riddledark IV, Emperor of the Eight Seals and Slayer of the Vampire Lord Kinmelbil Koganusan II, the Appointed Count and Representative of His Majesty is to be the locally established Head of the Syrupleaf Clan, the dwarf named Goden Sirrocco Syrupleaf, unless said dwarf is dead of causes natural or unnatural. We understand how Outposts are; it happens. In the case of such an occurrence, an unlanded member of Clan Syrupleaf will be dispatched posthaste.
To ensure the aforementioned wishes of King Cacame Riddledark IV, Emperor of the Eight Seals and so on and so forth, are implemented, enforced, and accepted, an officer of the Royal Office of Outpost Inspection will be dispatched three days after the sending of this letter, to Confirm the new Count in his role and facilitate a Speedy Transfer of Power from the provisional elected officials that may have established themselves in the intervening time.
-So Sworn and Authenticated by the Seal of the Underkings: X
Goden stopped when he reached the end of the block printed text; glanced back at the identity of the lucky new Count. There was no doubt; the new hereditary noble of Korbom was to be him. He handled the census data often enough to know that he was the only dwarf of the name Goden in the fortress, even excluding the family name and progenitor. Stunned, he proceeded to the handwritten postscript of the message.
Goden.
We pulled a lot of strings to get your promotion approved, you ungrateful little shit. Running off into the wilderness was clever, lad, but I’ll be damned if House Syrupleaf hasn’t got good eyes and ears in the merchant clans. We knew where you’d gone about a week after you got there.
Now, don’t take this the wrong way. All of us back here in the Mountainhome are proud of what you’ve done, and even a little envious in some cases (I managed to convince Aunt Grunhilde not to follow you. I should get some sort of medal, o Count!), but a managerial position in a backwater little fart of an outpost ain’t good enough for someone of Syrupleaf’s stock. So, we fixed it. I fixed it. Called in a lot of old favors to get you recommended over the Mayor there, who actually has charisma and experience – not to mention seniority.
Good luck with your new county, lad. Run it well, and we might not even need to fork over half the hoard in bribes for your Dukedom.
-Uncle Urist, Duke of Ironhand (That’s one of the Eight Seals that pompous arse of a monarch emperors over!)
Slightly overwhelmed, Goden stared at the paper in shock for a few more minutes. It occurred to him that the mayor should be notified.
It was another minute before he remembered how his legs worked. This time, it wasn’t from the alcohol.
The immense gold doors of the City’s dining halls swung slowly open, revealing to Mayor Othjor and his faithful right-hand man Nish the Manager of Korbom. Standing respectfully from his uncomfortable rock throne, Othjor’s genial voice boomed through the immense chamber at the City’s heart. “Ah, Goden! What a pleasant surprise. Please, pull up a rock and sit down.” The prodigious girth of the mayor then moved to refill the throne. Nish tore another mouthful of meat off the alpaca leg he’d been chewing at for an hour. Statistics bored him, and the arrival of the manager always promised such in excessive amounts – even if he had arrived curiously empty-handed for once. At least, he held none of his usual graphs – now that Nish thought about it, that may actually be the bookkeeper he was thinking of.
Nish watched curiously as the dwarf walked up the steps, onto the raised dais that held the Nobles’ Table. Had it been any other than Goden, the soldier would have been on him in an instant, disarming him – literally, if need be – and holding him until the mayor determined what the proper course of action would be. The manager, however, in addition to having as much a right to eat at the Table as the Mayor, was also a well trusted and respected citizen of the City of Poets. He could pass.
The manager produced a weather-beaten scrap of paper, never speaking a word, and handed it to the Mayor. Curious, the dwarf took the proffered letter, and skimmed over it. Nish could tell from the slight widening of the leader’s eyes, the way they retraced their paths with greater care and less speed, that this letter bore surprising news. He took a swig from his beer mug to compose his response.
“Well, Goden.” The mayor spoke carefully. “This certainly is a surprising visit.”
“Today is the first I’ve heard of it, as well.” The manager nervously pointed out. “The message eagle only just arrived at my office this afternoon.”
Nodding, the mayor answered. “I will respect the king’s judgment, even if I do not wholeheartedly agree with it. You’ve shown yourself to be a good, trustworthy dwarf, who cares about his charges; I think the fortress will find you acceptable enough for a count.”
Face breaking out into a wide grin, Goden shook the mayor’s hand. “Yes sir, I think they shall.”
“We shall discuss housing arrangements and other details later. Tonight, we feast!”
Nish wasn’t around to hear the mayor’s joyful declaration. He had, for the first time in twelve years, deserted his post. Some things were more important than duty.
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Topic: Tales of Korbom - a DF-Based Story (Read 552 times)