24th Malachite, 109, Mid-Summer
Dear Diary,
The hottest days of summer are upon us. The air is somehow dry and humid at once, and the sun beats down on our foolhardy enterprise as relentlessly as it always has, but somehow more intensely. My exposed scalp feels like a gnome caught in a blast of gnomeblight steam. Considering the pain that simply furrowing my brow causes me, it's notable to consider the fact that the headache generated by that which I am thinking about dwarfs (ho ho ho) the agony of that burn.
Today I was informed that the workings of Skyscrapes the Scraped Hardiness, the convoluted nightmare I've been calling home for longer than I care to admit, have been entrusted to my leadership. This is all well and good, and under normal circumstances I would relish the opportunity to flex my natural dwarfiness towards these sorts of managerial pursuits, but these are by no means normal circumstances.
I've spent most of the day sorting through the disorganized heap of papers and sketches I've been tossed, trying to make sense of just what in the hell we've been up to for so long. I've always known it was bad, but by Armok's left ventricle, just what the fuck am I looking at??
It's hard for me to convey just how eye-wrecking the state of this is. The drawing simply doesn't capture it. Perhaps a song might serve me better.
The cliff is alive with the sound of zombies
With groans they have moaned for at least a year
The plain fills my ears with the sound of zombies
My fist wants to punch every corpse I hear
My heart wants to kill like the pores of the sponge
that lurk from the lakes to the streams
My beard wants to sigh like a goblin that flies
martial trance hammer dreams
To laugh when a kobold trips and falls over
stonefall traps that weigh
To scream through the night like an elf who is about to pay
I go to the still when my heart is lonely
I know I will drink what I've drank before
My gut will be blessed with the taste of ale
And I'll drink once more
In other words, I have no idea what I'm looking at. It looks like every single plant outside has been marked for harvesting, which is insane because the entire fort is on undead lockdown. I have no idea where these dwarves think they're supposed to be.
Would anyone like to explain the difference between "Indoors" and "Not Outdoors" to me? If I tell them to "stay inside dammit", will they go Indoors or will they simply be Not Outdoors? On second thought, don't answer that. I don't think I care enough.
Priority 1: Clean up the absolute chaos I'm being forced to look at. Make sure our humble force of dwarves is working productively. TRY to KIND OF memorize the layout of this place. (What? Don't look at me like that. Just because I've lived here doesn't mean this chaotic clusterfuck has ever made sense then or now.) I certainly hope there are no mystery levers...
Priority 2: Strike the damn sky already. We are well-fed and well-boozed. We are (technically) safe. (Almost) everyone is happy. There's really no excuse.
Wish me luck, Diary.
-Argembarger