Okay, I'm there and I will use my turn for next chapter of that story.
Sorry for late reply, wasn't playing DF for long time.
Let the story begin!
This journal you just found is labeled "Diary of Sarvesh Ducimvod", and below someone's name is addition: "the Gloomy Gill of Crafts"
"Almost 10 years of relatively peace and quiet. Almost 10 years since my elder sister disappeared in this world.
My name is Sarvesh Ducimvod, or "Worksound". I'm a damn stout dwarf that comes from Controlledbells. As much as I remember my life - I got a loose memory - my life was spent sitting and working in our mountain hall. I was born in a family of farmers that butchered and bred that nasty poult, hence my last name is so. I had about 3 elder brothers and 2 sisters that helped our parents in their job, I was the youngest in the family those innocent times, so I didn't help them much.
After years of goblin assaults and other strange things (my dad didn't want to tell me much about them) invasion, my siblings and parents perished to exist, in many different ways. Urist was shot down while collecting berries outside, Tobul was impaled by a speardwarf that went mad after loss of some relative, Bomrek was accidently smashed down by a floodgate, Athol died of infection and Likot with father and mother... well, I don't know what happened to them. I asked Reg, my only sister left, but she only turned her face away from me and muttered something.
You rarely see a dwarf crying anyway, so I decided to not push the issue. After all, what cruelty could happen to someone a bit closer than everyone else in fort, so even after you shouldn't care about this much, you do cry?
Some human might ask me why I don't care. First of all, that's why we build all these legendary dining halls. When I look at a wonderful chair made by our craftdwarf I forget about what worries me. Because that doesn't matter. Because we give our lives to render something like this real, so future generations of our kin will gaze in awe at this saved wonder. Maybe amassing masterful crafts is the goal of any non-mentally ill dwarf.
Second, I don't really care about anything in this world anyway. Tragedy is too mundane in this world to be something to worry about. If our king would (he and his bloodline is dead long, long time ago) tell me to sacrifice my life for his mandate of dwarf leather sock, I would do this. My presence is too optional, at least I would be useful.
That is what I fear. I fear losing any motivation or point in life. I do work as a farmer, but sometimes when I'm done and I don't have any task, I feel worthless. I feel that I have the ability to do something for our future, but I can't. Maybe I'm too young, ehhh...
I forgot how old I am, archives and bookkeeper were destroyed in a strange accident involving giant cave spiders, and the written fact that I was born is found it's rest deep down in our halls. I think that I am about 30-40 year old, a young, but proud and bearded dwarf.
About 5 years ago we moved from our hundreds years old fortress onto surface. It was too ramshackle to live in anymore: cave-ins because of weared down supports, too much of it was "forbidden" zones - zones where civilian dwarves dare not to enter, or they will suffer death or horrible experience. Unspeakable horrors and monstrosities lurk there. And so grand granite doors, controlled by hundred year old mechanisms, of our hall were sealed forever.
Of course, not everyone liked this. Some old and noble dwarves keep telling that it is like betrayal to our dwarven principles and we are no worse than some tree-hugging hippies. But we had to embark away to dig a new glorious fort, because there were no places to dig - our mountain halls were very huge and their tunnels spanned many, many Urist tiles. We had a big chances to break into some forbidden zone and unleash all that pressurized magma or horrors inside, and no one wanted to do this.
I mostly spent my time wandering in forests, hunting and foraging for food. Someday, I found this journal. It was lying near old bones of a human, strangely, it was blank. Dwarves usually do not have an urge to describe their life into some journals, they don't have many events worth describing in their life, except tales of misery and suffering. However, I had. I wanted someone to know that Sarvesh do existed and he was a stout dwarf.
So, when I was bored and had no task, I began to write the diary of my life."
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Topic: The Museum: Adventure mode succession world (DF 34.11) (Read 819772 times)