This is a collection of related stories from Lionbridges, one of my most successful forts. I must stress that everything written in this story happened ingame. From the details of the art and craftsmanship to the personalities and likes of the people mentioned, it all was first conceived and simulated by this masterwork game. The game doesn't simulate dialogue, but I filled in what I presumed was being exchanged, considering the circumstances and the current thoughts and personalities of the parties involved.
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"Two bloody hours. I had to wait two bloody hours for a drink. How do you expect me to get anything done when I have to wait in line 2 hours for the most basic of dwarven amenities?"
Etur's exasperation was palpable. Being prone to quick outbursts of anger, it didn't come to the mayor's surprise that Etur stormed into his office and demanded a meeting.
The mayor countered Etur's rage with impressive patience.
"Yes. I understand. But, as I already explained, our cellars were completely destroyed, and our brewers are turning out drinks as fast as they ca-"
"That's not fast enough!" Etur interrupted.
There was a pause.
The mayor sighed. "Soon, everything will be back to normal."
"They better be. I'm thirsty again. I better go get in line." said Etur with a pointed glare. He then turned and left the office as swiftly as he entered.
The mayor, Mörul Azzinlikot, slouched in his armchair and admired the intricate engravings and inlays in the armrests. Almost fifty years ago, the fortress's master carpenter carved this chair out of solid mahogany, imparting beautiful curves and angles that commanded the authority of whoever sat upon it. The whole of the chair was then inlaid by a master craftsman, using the finest rose gold the fortress could produce. On the right rest, there was an image of a single dwarf standing above a crowd. That represented his own election half a century prior. On the left rest, four golden interlocked rings; the symbol of the local government. Mörul couldn't understand how the craftsdwarves could work the gold so finely. The circles were immaculate, and the outlines of dwarves seemed as if they were paint, not solid gold.
He looked up, and began to admire his office. The room was bathed in sunlight from the window behind him, and every ounce of rose gold that clad the room glistened in the morning sun. Mörul happened to like rose gold and mahogany, so no expense was spared in delivering a majestic quarters tailored for his appreciation. Before him sat an enormous table, a thick slab of rose gold atop four delicately carved mahogany pillars. Similarly appointed were the ceremonial armor and weapon racks along the wall. The walls of the office was smoothed natural stone of which the room was carved, and the floor was paved with solid rose gold bricks. In the rear, a full-wall crystal glass panel overlooked a calm sea; The fortress was built into a coastal cliff, and all the noble rooms had windows. When the sun streamed in through that window, the room glowed with a captivating and unique golden-copper tint. Supposedly, over two tonnes of rose gold were used to construct the mayoral office. The fortress, though, could easily spare the expense, and the management builds these luxury quarters simply as outlets for the fortress's vast wealth and manpower.
Mörul's daydreams were cut short by a large yawn. He rose and set his course for the dormitories, to sleep on a mahogany bed in a similary opulent noble bedroom. As he slowly pulled open the office's heavy rose gold door, he glimpsed a figure on the other side, and braced himself to meet with another disgruntled worker, or perhaps a trade liason. He was greeted, however, by an uncerimonious stab to the leg and a punch to the face. He heard a loud crack, and involuntarily crumpled. He watched his assailant, a kobold thief, begin to scamper down the hallway, but it only managed rougly four steps before a steel crossbow bolt whizzed through the hallway and struck it in the leg. The kobold crashed to the floor and started a feeble attempt to crawl away. A royal sentry, wielding a silver crossbow, then jogged past Mörul to the crawling kobold, and with a swift motion bashed its skull in with the butt of his weapon. The scene then faded as Mörul lost conciousness.
Theives weren't uncommon in Lionbridges. The fortress was so wealthy everyone wanted a piece of it. That kobold could have be creeping around the less-traversed corridors and crevasses for days without being discovered. It was simply chance that the mayor happened to be leaving as the kobold was attempting to enter. The mayor was unlucky, yes, since a kobold's instinctual reaction to a surprise is to stab and run, but the kobold was unluckier still, as the commotion alerted a highly trained royal sentry to which the kobold stood no chance.
Mörul slowly regained conciousness. He tried to open his eyes, but was blinded by a bright light. Eventually his eyes acclimated, and he was able to scan his surroundings. He was in the hospital, which was opulent in its own right. Every square inch of the hospital was clad in pure polished silver. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all solid sheets with no perceivable gaps. The tables, chests, and traction benches were also all solid silver. Along one wall was another glass window that illuminated the room made the whole room glisten. This was, He watched the chief medic approach, carrying something in his hands.
"Ah. You finally came 'round!" the medic said, jovially.
"Seems so. How long was I out?"
"Oh, only a few days."
Mörul paused, then shrugged.
"Well, I better get going." he said as he began to sit up.
"Not so fast. You're going to need these."
The medic held out the two long objects that looked foreign to Mörul.
"What are these?"
"Crutches."
"Why do I need crutches?"
"Have you tried getting up?"
"No."
He took that as a challenge, and tried to swing himself around to sit on the edge of the bed. To his surprise, his right leg wouldn't move.
"I… I can't move my right leg."
The medic held out the crutches and smilied. "I know. Them kobolds are strong little buggers. That stab tore some muscles, sliced a tendon, and chipped the bone. That'll all heal but the muscle nerve he sliced won't ever. Sorry mate, you're stuck with these."
Mörul became silent again. He pondered his condition for a moment, before simply shrugging and accepting the crutches. He began familiarizing himself with them. These were fortress-issue crutches, not intended for nobility, but even then they were works of art. Most likely, they were crafted by the same master carpenter that had constructed his room's armchair, and almost every wooden item in this fortress for the last seventy years. It took him only a few moments to figure out how to use the devices, and he limped out of the hospital, dismissing the medic with hardly a nod. Back to work, he thought, and he continued his limp down the cooridor.
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End Chapter 1. At least 8 more to go. Feedback welcome.
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Topic: Short Stories from Lionbridges (Read 1590 times)