26th Sandstone. Everyone is dying of thirst. Apparently the brewers went on strike a couple months ago, and nobody saw fit to inform me. I have ordered them back to work. The priorities in this fortress are terrible. Dwarves would rather gather goblin fingers, move stone, and make glass trinkets than feed, make beer, and bury our own dead. Madness is setting in. I can stem the tide, but I cannot stop the flow, not in the single year my tenure runs.
13th Timber. The dwarven caravan has arrived. Somehow, the Trade Depot has been destroyed, however, and there is no place for them to unload.
…...
This is Rigoth Ukercol, writing. It's … midwinter, I think. There are but a few of us left … madness is coming. Madness.
We are but farmers and beermakers now. Can we survive? I don't know. I don't know. We few will try. There are the sounds of monsters in the deep. Are they coming for us? I don't know.
Cmega, the last of the founders, has died today, trapped by his fear of the goblins in the pit, like so many others, he wasted away, unable to reach the stairs up to the rest of the fortress. There are still a couple dwarves left trapped in the same way. I doubt any of them will survive, if indeed any of us do.
Late winter. There is a report of a goblin raid … two, no Four raids on the side of the mountain. I doubt it will affect the sixteen of us that remain. The goblins in the pit are taking more uf us by intimidation than raider ever could. What morbid curiosity could keep taking dwarves back to the Pit, to stare at their own deaths like that?
Spring has arrived, with no relief in sight. This is Rigoth Ukercol, signing off.
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Topic: Gravecinders: Thirst Upon the Blazing Plain (Read 17606 times)