My thanks and applause go to the previous overseers for making such a delightfully insane fortress; it's been a fantastic read.
I can't recall my first words after seeing this fort, but I know they were expletives.
So my dwarf lost a leg, and got kicked outside?
Sweet.
May I request another dorfing?
Done, along with lots of other dorfings on the list, thanks to a migrant wave. However, given this place and its likelihood of a swift death, I'm thinking to wait on posting the unit list until the end of the turn.
From the Diary of Sethrist Orsharlokum, Overseer to the Baron Kozothungék:Snowblind, having depleted our rations, subsisting on ice and fear of the cold, it stands a miracle that the storm came on us as late as it did. All the same, I fear that without Silverlock's uncanny tracking abilities, we would each still be out there, frozen in death with all the other corpses.
Party of Migrants:
- Sethrist, Emissary of Emaltekkud
Kaamen, Mining Jeweler
Silverlock, Sharpshooting Glassmaker
Mr Frog, Harmless Bystander
Kirby, Soap Warrior
Deathsword, Cthonic Cultist
Mr Snyde, Child Smith
This is as fell a land as I've ever seen. To the west, a vast malodorous plain of ooze suffocates the bones of those who perished therein. To the eastern woods from whence we emerged, the vines of the forest writhe and squirm in quiet rage as frost-covered eyeballs emerge from the brush to unnerve and take note of intruders. The land here itself is aware - though I could not not say alive, how mingled with death and hateful of life as it is. It may be that those whose bodies rot here find their flesh absorbed into a great organized decay, wholly dedicated to its own promulgation and all too capable of maintaining it.
An odd sight lay to the north, where a dwarven figure strode calmly through the storm, straddling a wooden bin in her arms. An obvious vampire, her bloodparched and pale skin gleaming even brighter than the surrounding snow, her eyes were sunken, blackened pits, cracked and oozing a foulness not dissimilar to the noxious ooze blanketing half the terrain. I would later learn more of this vampire, whom the undead consider kindred. None of us dared approach or make ourselves known. At the time, it was only a curious sight before terror would inspire a change of pace.
At first, there were only a few skeletons, on the very outskirts of the fort's territory. As we drew inward, their number grew. By the time our spotters caught sight of the lookout tower, we could notice that some of their number were moving.
Panic broke out then, as everyone made a maddened dash for the tower and its presumed safety. We could still outrun the stiffened abominations, however animate they might be, but a worry crossed me even as we sprinted across the ice. Would these dwarves even let us inside?
This worry soon passed. The marksdwarves had seen us from their lookout, and already there were fighters - some well protected, some completely naked - charging out into the blizzard from beneath the trapdoor that would serve as our passage to sanctuary. Steering towards them, I risked a glance behind as Silverlock let fly a bolt square into the skull of an undead dog, finally bringing it to a rest. A kindness. What manner of creature would ask to be a zombie?
What manner of creature would choose to live amongst them? I couldn't help wondering, passing through the creaking board and down the muddy dirt steps, coated in sweat and snowmelt. It was warmer in the fort, at the least, the clay walls serving their purpose in utility if not aesthetics.
My party and I had come only for the orders of King Avuz. Nothing else could bring us to such a place. Uncertainty amid the frozen waste is better a fate than certain death in a dungeon. His Majesty would likely come in the night to drain us of blood himself.*
When the last of us were beneath the ground, the denizens of Horrorfailed followed us inside and threw the lock on the hatch. I was told that the local innkeeper was injured and trapped outside, and was unlikely to survive. We must never forget that he gave his life for ours.
Mr. Frog had counted the footprints leading to this place, numbering well over two hundred. There are more tombs here, than there are people. Without an extreme change of circumstance, I do not favor our own chances of long-term survival.
I've never seen a fort like this, so wracked by the constant struggle to live. Beyond our muddy entrances, a sandy tunnel sweeps around the aquifer responsible for our drinking water. There are six levers surrounding the main stair, four of them unlabelled, two of them not even connected to anything. Stairs are half-built or end at the ceiling, when the steps are at least in the expected spots. Scattered haphazardly throughout the rock underneath are workshops and stockpiles set against winding tunnels spiraling recklessly into one another after a wide turn, if not ending in great empty spaces. The numberless rooms are as varied as they are mysterious.
Like this. The hell is this?
There is one room where a small menagerie of skeletal monsters and severed heads gnaw angrily on the bars of their cages. The doors barely serve to subdue their unnatural wailing. I'm certain they can serve some useful purpose, but for now they are merely a dreadful nuisance. Yet another room is devoted to a collection of dwarven teeth whose purpose I cannot fathom.
The watchtower that somehow managed to get built was constructed without walls. Our Trade Depot, having seen a surprising amount of business, is entirely covered in somebody's vomit. The entrance hall is barely more than a bloodsoaked mound of dirt, and dwarves fashion themselves in barren, roughly-hewn bedrooms, most residents lacking even a single bag to secure their possessions. Yet there is much potential here. An endless supply of water, more than enough food. And the rumors of adamantine were not unfounded.
It took a small while to find the expedition leader and Baron Apparent, one Eric Nokimlenod, who had managed to trap himself inside a well in what I suspect was an attempt at avoiding a meeting with the visiting outpost liaison. Guy doesn't seem extremely excited about his newfound nobility. He'll probably take to it, like they all do. Six months from now he'll be yelling at Spishaban for having a better room.
After rescuing and informing him that I would assume the position of overseer, he appeared relieved and hurried up the stair, hopefully to find some clothing befitting his station to replace those soaked and tattered rags he's calling an outfit.
We certainly have no lack of spare clothing. Entire vast rooms of this fortress are devoted to storing the recovered clothes of the dead, meticulously lain out side by side in an eerie testament to the numbers of our fallen, made all the more shocking by the realization that these were only the clothes we were able to recover.
We also have an abundance of cats. Someone here must enjoy cats as much as I OH GODS WHAT THE FUCK AM I LOOKING AT
(several pages later)The unfortunate cat has died. The cause of its illness is yet undetermined as no contaminants are present on the body, apart from those of its own secretion. Could have been anything, the way they clean themselves. I am concerned.
As I would come to learn from the fortress log, Horrorfailed began as a small prison camp on the orders of King Ïngiz of the Sacrificial Sword. It was abandoned shortly after its founding - one can hardly imagine why - and the site was reclaimed by the Sensitive Picks some six months later. What interest could our King possibly hold in this terrible place?
And now kitten rot? It's all chillingly reminiscent of the old tale of Battlefailed. Thank the gods that's only a story.
The current plans for this fort are as follows: (1) find me a warm bedroom, (2) have the smiths complete Eric's armament orders for these poorly equipped dwarves, (3) redesign our entrance hall, so that we may work up here with something other than dirt walls to look at, and (4) make some damn bins and bags to try and contain this swamp of junk we inhabit.
But foremost: to find a way to deal with that Nexus freak.
* "Oh Sethrist," they who know me will say. "You think everyone is a vampire," they'll say. It isn't true! I speak only the truth, and mark my words against the future: King Avus is a bloodsucking, dayfearing vampire. One day I'll prove it.
Meanwhile, ThatAussieDwarf and a ghost collect some raw adamantine.
Author
Topic: Horrorfailed the Battle-Cannon of Hell - Please do not feed the nobles (Read 578686 times)