All stories begin somewhere. So I'll start mine with my father, who was an explorer for The Page of Confusing, our beloved kingdom. I never met him myself so all that I tell you here could be rumours and lies, but I choose to believe my elders. I was too young at the time of the events and they have no reason to mislead me on such a dire matter.
They tell me he was the one who led the expedition to found Oiledcross, The Truthful Letter. I would have gladly went with him, were I not still in my mother's belly at the time. Apparently I inherited his wanderlust, that rare dwarven trait which leads some from the safety of an established Mountainhome to strike the earth in an unknown land.
He was as stout as a dwarf should be and possessed a moderate intelligence boosted by a middle-class education. That was probably the reason for his desire to leave. Was he feeling held back by those in power from birthright? The monarchy's rule of The Page is unquestioned as it has been since prehistory, but some acts still draw frowns and insubordinate muttering in the deeper, darker dining halls.
The expedition was his own idea and truly a noble cause for dwarfkind. Because he was no stranger to the known world map and history of the races, he chose a site that would no doubt earn respect and admiration for all involved: A coastal valley with the sea to the south, goblins to the north, then to the east and west were fellow dwarves. The humans and elves had yet to spread to this continent, but humans were known to be planning expansion north of the goblins, having a small outpost on their borderlands. Elves generally stuck to the warmer southern regions.
Civilized kingdoms in the area are: The Cave of Targets, known for their marksdwarves. They are to the west. The Defensive Pillars, known for their speardwarves. They are to the east. The Tour of Yawns, known for their inaction. They are also to the east. It has come to my attention through study of the old tomes that the kingdom we call The Tour is actually named after some forgotten beast, it's on their crest. But their lack of ferocity as a whole has earned them an embarrassing title across history.
This would be a noble mission because the trade lanes between the dwarves of the north were constantly disrupted by the goblin raids. The fortress would be a checkpoint and hopefully trading hub once the stink of goblin had been pressed away from the coast. It was a resource-rich site lush with greenery and small animals. The babbling book of Drivedrunken had a particularly dwarven feel to it.
The more I hear and read about the past, the more I wonder how things could have gone differently.
From what I've gathered, there weren't many problems from the start. My father had a hard time procuring supplies but he was resourceful. The capital city of Anvilbrightness was experiencing a dry spring and thus drought, perhaps another reason his idea was forwarded through The Page's administrators so quickly. Food would have to be foraged on the journey, as well as once they had arrived. The six others he convinced to follow him through pay or promises of a better life loaded all the worldly possessions they could fit onto a wagon and once everything was taken stock of by my father, the expedition was considered possible and they set forth.
The Page inhabits the southern continent rather comfortably, only having to share the landmass with two elven kingdoms which seem satisfied enough warring each other almost every spring. War is not our way. Our way is diplomacy and trade. I have been taught this from childhood. We have a militia but it is tradition only, their kill count etched on the barracks from the Age of Legends and nothing more than rabid bushmasters or other wild beasts from taming the land. Not surprisingly, it was a civil trek from Anvilbrightness to the port city of Mutepaint. Many along the way knew of the expedition, it was of great ambition. The first to leave the continent to build relations with the other dwarves of the world. Many were the gifts they offered to help the cause and before reaching Mutepaint, the wagon was fully stocked with choice meats, cheeses and booze.
Boats are inherently untrustworthy for south dwarfkind. This explains our lack of an overseas fortress so far. My father had no fears, but he is recorded as being the most distressed while the expedition crossed the sea. Something about miles and miles of inky blackness unnerves me even from the coast, and I hope never to set foot off the beautiful ground we call south dwarfkind.
Once the expedition landed and set off to build their site, all witness accounts The Page has end. Strike the Earth punctuates the last report. Then there's nothing. There is no word from Oiledcross. Last report states they were optimistic and quite content despite lack of dock labourers to unload the boat. An envoy is sent including a diplomat and full merchant caravan, the summer brought a good early harvest to most of the continent, a good omen. Perhaps Oiledcross was so busy with establishing they couldn't send a messenger.
The reports at this point are nothing more than tattered traveller's journals. They are grim. I recount them fully once in a while to keep the soak of tears on them fresh. My father was killed by dwarves. An alarm was raised and he called his strongest allies to battle with him, but he was broken and the others fled. Their attackers were content the rest would die without their leader and retreated. The cleaner, newer reports make sense, that one of the northern kingdoms had their eye on the site and wasn't welcoming to any newcomers. But one document I am in possession of, kindly given to mother by one of the caravan guards who came across my father's body and the story, is a confusing truthful letter. It was his book-keeping record of their stocks but hastily sketched in the extra blank pages was his journal and other than some affection for mother it's short, except for the final entry.
A detailed description of the sighting of dwarves and how they were hailed as friends but when they were closer they didn't seem to move right and they appeared to be pale and wounded but the wounds did not bother them and they ignored the hails, seeming to simply wander closer throughout the day. Were these The Tour with their infamous laziness? The journal is bound in enough leather to keep the pages stained from blood, but not sadness as mother recalls the loss of father.
I was raised to become an expedition leader like my father when I showed potential at a young age. My father's journal and the true story was kept from me until my adulthood but I was raised to believe the north was savage and uncivil, our only place was here in the warmth of the south. This is where I founded Ageoils, and will build it as a tribute to the heroism and great intentions of my father. I should have come up with a more ambitious idea but I'll be honest, I was afraid. The Page's opinion on northern dwarfkind in the years since has been dropping, and this location near the elves solidifies our realm should they turn this direction with their almost predictable violence.
Where my father had to bribe, I had followers of all types wishing to join me. My site was as resource-rich but safe. A bit too close to the elves for some, made up for with no fear of the sea and a short wilderness trek back to The Page should a dwarf's fickle heart change it's art. Mother didn't want me going too far either. I never made friends growing up, I preferred study and had the option to dine alone. These half a dozen strangers have done most of the work on loading the wagon with their gear, they want to call me leader though. I'm sure it's just my title and coin they want. They don't know what I know, their motives are base. We named the expedition after our heaviest companion, he will surely do a lot of rough work to start our mighty fortress.
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Topic: Ageoils and The Anvil of Guilds, A Dwarf Fortress (Read 1264 times)