Warning: huge, self-indulgent wall'o'text.
The great fortress named Pastcave has steadily grown, even thrived in the years following its founding; its teeming halls filled night to bursting by recent large waves of migrants. On the surface, it seems a dwarven paradise: an extensive variety of high-quality, high-proof alcohol flows from vast stores into the mouths of its inhabitants; magma forges blaze day and night to transform ore into hard-biting weapons of iron and well-wrought coats of iron mail while gems and billion are made into precious treasures. Even the lowliest citizen possesses a spacious, private living space of his or her own and all can find a seat and the great feast hall, wherein is served the finest plump helmet roasts and prepared opossum sweetbread. Pastcave's walls are high, its military well-provisioned and trained, and its prosperity draws migrants from miles around.
However, in a mostly forgotten wing of the fortress, where the wall carvings show the touch of unseasoned hands and thick dust attests to the paucity of visitors among those winding halls, there stands an imposing door of blackened iron: unadorned, unmarked, its only noticeable features an unusually-thick locking bar wedged across its breadth and a closed, rusted hatch at eye-level. Beyond its stolid presence lie crude rooms hastily hacked out of the igneous rock. No engravings cheer the gloom, nor shines any light from wall-sconce or torch; but in the dark, there waits... something. Or, more accurately somethings. For in those low-ceilinged chambers lurks Pastcave's darkest secret, its greatest shame.
The second year after the earth was first struck was a good one for the then-fledgling outpost. The walls now encircling its central tower were at that time a patchwork series of low fences designed to protect livestock and a small aboveground garden, but Pastcave's relative remoteness and the strength of its militia (not to mention the stout drawbridge protecting the subterranean complexes) were enough to protect it from the odd goblin ambush and unwelcome guest. But, hidden among the newcomers who came in the spring to unite their fortunes with the outpost's, there lurked two who seemed somehow... wrong. Their friendly demeanors and skill with words could not quite outweigh the suspicion raised by their stark white hair, their unusually broad range of skillsets, and their repeated emigration from other dwarven lands. Their stories seemed true, on the surface... but no-one in the fortress could recall any mention of them or there reported family members in any dwarven genealogy.
Had either arrived at a different time, he may have avoided detection. But the near-simultaneous appearance of two such figures damned both - though they were strangers to one another, certain shared characteristics could not be missed. And so, the leaders of Pastcave, those stalwart heroes whose grim visages now command the Hall of Remembrance, decided that these two be put away from the rest of the fortress, pending an investigation into their identities. A temporary dwelling-place was carved from the living rock, and the two were placed under observation by the chief medical dwarf of the day, in order to see whether a lack of food and alcohol would show any effect upon them.
The nature of the visitors was soon apprehended, but in the course of their observations the medical dwarf became more and more agitated and paranoid, claiming that the outcasts whispered to him words of such vile promise that they haunted him even away from the gloom of the dark rooms and the view from the hatch in the iron door. His eventual suicide was mourned by all but surprised none.
The area was declared off-limits, lest the ghouls' black speech infect others. The fortress expanded in other directions, and over the years the fear of that dark corner faded, though its inhabitants were never far from the minds of those who knew its secret. Life proceeded normally. Indeed, Pastcave seemed blessed in its fortunes. But, every election cycle when the bookkeeper sat in his office to count the votes out of his comrades' minds, an alien presence never seemed far from the normal minds he picked up, they with their thoughts of booze and war often intermingled with their vote for the next mayor. This sinister presence built up over time, and it was all the bookkeeper could do to wall it off from his mind.
But one year, that year seldom spoken of inside Pastcave, the will of the vampires broke through.
In their long years of isolation, what had begun as animosity (remember, the chance arrival of the two as one triggered the detection of both) had become a fast friendship. Though the elders of the fortress secretly hoped that the undead had killed each other long since, in fact they formed a bond as close as any that exists between brothers. That year, every single member of the fortress, down to the lowliest stone-hauler to the toddlers to the miners to the kennelmaster, and yes, even the bookkeeper himself; every single dwarf voted him- or herself for mayor, leading to a dead draw. Every dwarf, that is, except for one of the two who lurked behind the pitted black door. By ties of companionship and brotherly love, the only sentient being alive in that fortress unselfish enough to vote for one more qualified was a detestable, undead horror of the night.
The bookkeeper had no choice. Dwarven law is immutable. When the masses paused in their toil to hear the voice of the bookkeeper announce the winner of the election in their thoughts, the name they heard was unknown to almost all. Those who knew it, however, felt their blood run cold.
The invisible voice of the fortress issued its commands through its telepathic link with the bookkeeper. Exports of certain items were banned just as they were being lead away on the wagons of the merchants to whom they had been sold. Impossible constructions were mandated. Preposterous demands were made. And for every failure, there was a punishment. Fine, upstanding citizens were crippled, maimed, and even killed under harsh blows from the hammerer, even as tears of sorrow fell from her eyes. Vital members of the community were placed in confinement in the times when the community needed them most. None wished for anything but the cessation of the psychic tyranny, but what could be done? Dwarven law is immutable. Crimes cannot be forgotten; sentences cannot be commuted.
Unable to wait for the next election, the community opted simply to demote all the members of its justice system. The long list of violations and punishments was simply... "placed on hold." The undead mayor was initially enraged, but that outburst of emotion soon faded to a mild anticipation, must to the anxiety of the poor bookkeeper. His worry was realized when certain dwarves began to take advantage of the situation to steal and even physically attack their rivals, knowing they were proof from immediate retaliation.
The presence behind the door was greatly amused by this development.
Dwarven law is immutable. Dwarves do not forget. Dwarves do not forgive.
Today, it is a common area of discussion among newcomers to Pastcave to wonder at the bizarre pseudo-system of crime and punishment in the fortress. No formal court or judicial system exists as such; minor thefts and destruction of property seem to be largely ignored. Even repeat offenders are never publicly accused or even reprimanded:they simply seem to fall victim to strange unfortunate accidents from time to time. It works well enough.
And just as Pastcave's lack of justice system is never mentioned, so too is it taboo to even remark upon the prominent lever standing erect in the corner of the dining hall, within the reach of any willing hand in the community. None of the surviving elders will approach it: though the temptation is strong, their code of honor prohibits such a willful crime against ones who have never committed an explicit offence against the fortress.
But if direct action if unacceptable, well, one can hardly be expected to curb the enthusiasm of the young. Someday, after all those who were alive during the year of terror have died peacefully, some daring dwarf will overcome his culture's racial paranoia of unmarked levers and pull the damned thing. And when he does, he will find extruded from the floor a dacite tablet marked with the seal of Pastcave's founders, inscribed with instructions for the erection of a new judicial system. His alcohol-addled mind will be confused, and that confusion will only be heightened as he hears the distant roar of magma being funneled into a long-forgotten corner of the fortress, at the same time as an ancient black iron door swings open on its screaming hinges to allow the cleansing fire to engulf that within, and the haunt of the cursed undead is made the domain of the gods of the deep earth and the magma sea, and Pastcave is finally freed of its century-old burden. He will not hear it, but in the agonized screams of the two vampires as they burn alive will sing the vindication of his fathers.
TL;DR: I locked two vampires away in a room for later (ab)use and one of them was elected mayor: I can only interpret this as every single other dwarf voted for himself, since the only people allowed to even interact with either vampire was the other; one of them voted for his cell-mate and then the new vamp-mayor proceeded to prohibit the export of amulets just as I was carting a huge system off to the elves. Several key dwarves were killed by the hammerer, beaten by the guard captain, or imprisoned before I had the wherewithal to unappoint those two nobles. I am now in the process of constructing an elaborate, fiery death for my captives.
TL;DR TL;DR: Don't quarantine multiple vampires in the same space if you don't want one to be elected mayor through the telepathic bookkeeper. If you didn't have the foresight to make a preinstalled execution system, doing anything about them runs the risk of letting all the others out to prey upon the living.
TL;DR TL;DR: I had a problem but magma fixed it.
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Topic: That Is Not Dead:Why Quarantining the Vampire Menace Is Not Enough (Read 1492 times)