They called this place "Sikelcatten" or "Hoodchannel" in the vulgar speech of the neighbors. Someday it might be worthy of its proper name. Until then she had another name. A better name. Since the first day she set foot here, that dreadful first day of blood and bodies, screaming and dispair. That first day she arrived and the militia commander, the final vestige of any organization to this place and all of six days old in his career, strolled up and tossed every badge of office of Sikelcatten in her face. Then he ran to the nearest pool and jumped to a watery grave. She could still hear his .. someone's .. laughter.
Ever since this place would be known to her as "Da Hood."
Leader Besmarumril slid into her office chair and closed her eyes, pausing in a peaceful repose, gathering herself for yet another exercise in futility. The capital must be made to see reason! Her lot in this life and truth be told she was a true believer. There was not just a light at the end of this tunnel, she knew it in her heart there was someone, something, tending that light. Things were looking up! With the latest wave of immigrants she resigned four of the lesser positions. The Brokership and the Military Command went to some worthy aspirants, their names already forgotten and subsumed into their titles. The Manager and Bookkeeper positions now occupied by two of the last three .. special .. arrivals. All safely locked away, she'd find something for the third to do. In time. In time. Now there was plenty of time and she looked forward to the coming days when one and all reaped more than just the barest breath of survival from the twin jaws of death and disaster.
But first the letter.
"To: Department of Colonial Occupational Appointments and Emigration, Capitol. Dear Urist Trollface - Please stop sending medical personnel. I don't care how many and long and varied their letters of recommendation are. Unless you have someone who has resided at the capital their whole life? I mean someone who is guaranteed above reproach and .. no, never mind. Just. Please. Stop. You can send another liaison. We're ready this time. I got a new office and everything."
In the capitol the clerk finished reading the letter to his supervisor. The supervisor glanced over to the copies of the recommendations - each a thick, fat, stack of promise. Above reproach? Those three dwarfs had been everywhere, done everything.
"Is there a problem with the new doctors we sent to Sikelcatten?" he asked in surprise. "Nah." the clerk replied as he tossed the letter into the fire place with all the rest "Just them country folk. They don' know how to handle professionals."
***
Current population: 1 Forlorn haunt, 3 vampires, 41 regular peeps. Also 45 occupied coffins. Seemed like a good point to pause and take stock.
Right.
The first chance I get to jump start a functioning hospital after managing to stabilize this nightmare of an embark and what do I get? Everyone who has some medical skill is a vampire. "HFS" indeed.
Meanwhile I've got a new rule-of-thumb. If one of your neighbors in the embark screen is listed as a "Tower" then reconsider. A TOWER IS NOT A GOBLIN CITADEL! Not a nice safe, sane, goblin citadel of old. Not the kind you once knew and loved. Not a good neighbor.
Full on sieges of undead with less than 20 dwarfs in the fortress? In less than a year? Wow.
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Topic: First impressions of 2012 (Read 853 times)