The year was 551. It was the Age of Myth. Seven dwarves trudged across the plains to establish a stronghold at the base of The Tepid Spike. The area was of grave military importance for their civilization. It bordered not only the goblins, but also two necromancer towers. The dwarven civilization, The Silver Goblet, had been harassed by goblins and the undead for hundreds of years, but that was to end with this fortress.
The fortress site contained a volcano, for quick magma forge construction. Between directly fighting off incursions, and exporting masterful arms and armor back to The Silver Goblet, it was the hope of the Dwarven King that, with this fortress, his civilization could turn the tide of this war.
Unfortunately, somehow, there had been a mix-up when the expedition was organized. Instead of a crack squad of battle-hardened veterans ready to secure the volcano for migrants, The Silver Goblet sent out a rag-tag band of craftsdwarves and merchants who, upon arrival, sought to exploit the mineral wealth of the region for their own profit.
The bureaucrat responsible for this mix-up was summarily executed. We hope.
And so, Leafbarrel was founded, and it flourished for a time. The early crafts and clothes exported by the fortress attracted sixty migrants, and magma forge designs were drawn up. Miners dug down, looking for the precious metals and gems necessary to fuel a jewelry industry.
It was around that time that the wild animal corpses littered around the countryside began rising up from the dead.
In a moment of panic, the zero-kills fisherdwarf militia commander drafted every able-bodied dwarf into the military and sent them, equipped with whatever they could find, against the rotting abominations. Sixty half-naked dwarves, soaked in dirt, alcohol, and plump helmet juice, ran screaming out of the fortress, fists clenched and ready for punching.
The shambling bodies went down quickly, even to the weak jabs of untrained peasants. The dwarves spread out over the hills, looking for whoever was responsible for this desecration. All they managed to find were the footprints of a human, and meanwhile, the corpses, one by one, kept returning to life behind them.
While easy to kill, these frail zombies occasionally landed a lucky blow or bite.
One by one, dwarves started getting injured. Soon, dwarves started dying.
Dwarves were forced to start fighting against their own zombified comrades-in-arms, which were fresher and tougher undead than the wild animals they had been fighting previously.
And so, after two seasons of stomach-churning combat, victories became Pyrrhic and the necromancer was never once seen.
Named arms and upper torsos crawled alongside skeletal water buffalo into the entrance of the fortress and began to hunt down the remaining survivors.
It should be noted at this point that, during the militia commander's draft, the dwarven expedition leader had not been exempt from combat duty. After being disemboweled and returning to life as a zombie, the honor of leading the fortress had been bestowed upon a jeweler.
The sleepiest jeweler in the world.
This jeweler had slept through every bit of the undead invasion, from the very beginning. He didn't know the position into which he had been thrust. He just slept. And slept.
A few weeks after the invasion had begun, the legendary miner who had single-handedly dug out the entire fortress limped into the jeweler's bedroom. Missing a foot, his arm bleeding and mutilated, the dwarf patiently waited to <Attend a Meeting> with the jeweler while, outside, his brothers and sisters were being slaughtered.
Weeks passed. The miner's patience held firm. The jeweler slept on.
Months passed. The fighting died down. All the miner could hear through the locked door was shuffling and moaning.
The jeweler finally woke up to find a haggard, bloody, manic dwarf standing in his room.
After congratulating the jeweler for the promotion, the miner threw a tantrum, planting his pick in his esteemed leader's skull, mutilating the brain.
Explorers to the ruins of Leafbarrel will note a masterfully carved escape tunnel leading from the jeweler's bedroom to the other side of the volcano, and rumors abound of a stout, alcoholic hermit living somewhere in the mountains who'll kill you in your sleep.
Especially if you're wearing jewelry.
Edit: Grammar fixes.
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Topic: Share Your Funny Stories With Me! (Help DF Talk) (Read 87815 times)