The Abby of Ponies is a name which is synonymous with dread upon one of the manifold worlds which the Dwarves inhabit. The great obsidian cliffs which it was built into are said to be the product of an evil god's mad designs, distorting the earth to fit his whims. Whatever cataclysm created those dread cliffs was such that it woke the very dead of that land, rendering the soil barren and instilling in it a horror such that it would reject all that were laid to rest in it, causing them to rise again as the undead.
On that cursed and blighted land, once, many years ago, a troupe of dwarves set forth to construct a fortress, the Abby of Ponies. At first, all went as well as could be expected, with six of the poor souls dying, the final, utterly mad, dwarf who remained was possessed by the spirit of the foul spirit that forged the cliffs, and, spreading rumors of the great wealth to be had at the Abby, attracted a great many followers.
Soon, hundreds of slaves toiled in the dark shadow of those cliffs, daily sacrifices were made to the dark glory of the god, dwarves and captive prisoners hurled screaming from the top of a hundred foot cliff to their deaths upon great steel spikes below, where their remains were torn apart by undead groundhogs. Many civilizations tried and failed to take that place, and such was its threat that even the goblins and dwarves untainted by the evil were willing to put aside their differences and attempt to blot out the horror.
To no avail, for the demon unleashed upon them torrents of lava, herds of ravening elephants and cunning traps of all descriptions. The fields of the Abby of Ponies were submerged in blood and corpses, and the heads of the foes of the dark god decorated the cliff. Those unfortunate souls who were taken alive by the servants of that god knew terror from thence on until the end of their lives, which they received with gratitude, those who were permitted to die. For the dark god's entertainments were many and cruel, mazes of torture, inescapable rooms of death, whirling trap blades and pits full of horrors.
And at the center of that terrible fortress was the great throne room, a sight which could drive men mad with a simple glimpse, its architecture blearing the eyes, its engravings none but those of torment and death, suffering and agony, at its center, surrounded by a moat of molten rock, the great throne of the dark god, an obsidian artifact set with gold and engraved with images of frolicking fluffy wamblers, its incongruity the final stroke to breaking the minds of all who entered into that fortress of madness.
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Topic: Your Most Morbid Fort? (Read 6122 times)