2nd Granite
Deep below the rock of Necrothreat is a pool of molten rock. Streams of pure light blast from its surface and have a crazy, courtly dance on the roof of the ceiling many levels above. I look into the seething mass and feel an affinity for the shifting liquid. Utterly changeable, and yet constant. A liquid which rejects other fluids. It reminds me of myself.
The moans of the dead plagued me in my sleep. They lie in wait beyond the gates of the fortress, and their sibilant whispers taunt me with tales of what has been and what will be. They prophesy a time when Forumites are nothing but shadows of their current forms, doomed to wander the wastes for ever. I cannot let this happen. Necrothreat will stand! As such, I have ordered a corpse disposal system to be implemented. The living rock will be fed with the corpses of our foes, and Armok will thank us for the sacrifice. Already I feel like I can hear him, like a roll of thunder on the horizon. Our fort will truly be blessed.
8th Granite
No more migrants have appeared since my arrival, but I intend to keep hoping. As such, I ordered the listless excuses for flesh to mine out a new bedroom wing. May Armok send us more Forumites, that Necrothreat can rise from the ashes!
15th Granite
Again, my sleep was plagued with visions. There is something about this place – the very walls speak to me. And what’s beyond them…what’s beyond them is even worse. The wastes of Necrothreat stretch on, barren of life, void of kindness or warmth. Just the gaping jaws of the undead. Apiks and Highmax inform me that they are outriders of Ur’s forces, a mere trifle compared to those of the old Necrothreat. I scorn their superstitious nonsense of other worlds, but can’t help but quake at the idea of more of these beasts.
There can’t be more, can there?
Regardless, I shall stop it. My eyes are red and itchy, my beard unkempt and dishevelled. This lack of sleep is driving me insane. Only yesterday I found myself telling one of the Forumites that we should build a military based on War Reindeer. Needless to say, he stalked off muttering about the insane overseer. Not that he knows of the stresses of the station, of course. With a name like Mastahcheese, he could only be a lowly cheese maker, not the stuff of leaders. I mentioned this to Apiks over a pint of NAV’s golden new vintage, which I ordered mass produced, and he rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“War Reindeer, you say? Why, I’ve not heard of such a thing since….” He looked at me shrewdly, then turned back to his beer. “Well, for a long time. And you thought of it yourself? Interesting… Still, we have none. What we need is more Forumites on the field, a united army to stand against the foul beasts.” I nodded. He was right. Conscription must begin. The machines of war must have their fuel, and We. Must. Stand.
18th Granite
Today I stumbled on a scene from a nightmare. Blood stained walls, axes used as surgical instruments and foul miasma. This was what greeted me in Necrothreat’s Hospital. I demanded of the doctor his name, and with a gleam of his teeth he told me. Sprin. I asked him why he was keeping this place of healing in such a state, and he laughed maniacally and said “to heal you must destroy. To heal you must destroy” over and over again. They tell me he is cracked, and I look at him critically. Blood shot eyes, foul breath, tangled beard. In short, every bit the mad doctor. But then his nurse comes sweeping in and starts tending to the sole patient, and he lights up. The mad glint in his eye fades to adoration, the hacksaw I had not noticed clutched in his hand was set on a table, and he went over to assist her. She smiled as he laid a hand on her shoulder, and continued to deftly wrap bandages around the patient. I marvelled at the relationship between the two, the bloodstained Forumite and the innocent girl, and felt a form of hope blossom in me. If, even in the dark vaults of Necrothreat, a love like this could blossom it may be that we can stand against the promised tides of undead. Perhaps this, the last bastion of the Forumites, could survive after all.
A scream tore me from my thoughts, and I looked at the patient. His head was being held by the nurse, who I now know to be Jenny, and his wounds being…tended….by Sprin. The card at the foot of the bed displaying his name read.
May the eternal smithy of Armok light his way to recovery, and his life be long. With a last look around the dismal healing place, I left with screams still echoing behind me. Unlucky sod.
20th Granite
By now the Forumites have accepted me as their leader. After weeks of empty stares and passive greetings, I have finally become a part of the tapestry of life here. The exponential increase of NAV-grade booze during my reign may have helped matters, but whatever the cause I am now partial to their conversations – where before they fell silent, now when I come to drink in the Aleroom they continue their conversations. Far from being dull, the range of discussion, the depth of talk, and the general ambience of togetherness was a surprise. I decided never again to look in a Forumite’s eyes and call them vapid and lifeless. Vibrant life, it seems, dwells just beneath the surface, waiting for an opportune moment to rise. Most talk centred around the enigmatic figure of Highmax, the Swordmaster who loathes the blade. The one who sees but has one eye. A Warrior God among men. Some speak of NAV with admiration, others of Apiks with respect, and yet others of me with a tinge of reluctant acceptance, but with Highmax a cocktail of emotion surfaces in the speech of these common beings. And where there is such awe, there has to be some motivation…I tried to delve into the tale, and this is what I heard, related to me on a gust of yeasty breath from a fellow Forumite:
“Highmax was a solitary being. He arrived a migrant, like yourself, and was hailed as a brother by the Loremaster, Apiks. But none truly know his past, even himself to hear Apiks speak of it. One thing is certain, though, and that is that he is a fighter. In whatever battle that cost him his eye, he seems to have gained knowledge of the mystic arts.” Here, the inebriated Forumite hiccupped and mumbled something about wanting more drink, before turning back to me. “Shining swords he bears. Shining blue. Don’t know how, but it must be the loss of his eye. Everyone says so.”
“But what is more amazing is this – he hates the Way of the Blade and all it stands for. He stands in the fighting yards and watches others fight, a frown of displeasure wrinkling his time-weathered face. In his hand, he grips his own sword. Some have even said they can hear the leather groaning when he clutches it. And that is what truly makes him something. The Forumites who bear a sword or axe against the undead hordes for the sake of glory and a legendary death are a dime to a dozen. To have a man who clutches the thing he hates day and night, just to protect his home? That is something. To have a person who uses his anger and his hatred to fuel him, to protect his home, his very love? To stand against the undead hordes, even though it kills him to do so? That is what it is to be a true Forumite. To be Highmax.” Suddenly, the talker didn’t seem so drunk. A gleam of sobriety lurked deep within his bloodshot eyes. “There are some things all men should fear. An angry woman is one, a debt to an enemy another, but worst of all to his foes is the man who has been driven to the fight against his will, for he will battle twice as hard, and shed twice as much blood.”
21st Granite
Buoyed be tales of warfare, I attempted to build a Zombie killing zone where the death of our ancestors could be avenged.
One of the fort’s previous leaders hollowed out the hill of Necrothreat, revealing the bare loam beneath the ground. Red like blood, but also flame. Hopefully it is an omen of the destruction the Forumites will wreak on this ground. But not yet….we need more recruits. Helping us on this point is Captain Kaladin, whose good news buoyed the spirits of everybody in the fortress. Everybody was enamoured by the child and its antics, and Kaladin sat beaming with her precious child throughout all the praise. Truly, good things do come in small packages.
25th Granite
Mastahcheese was pressed into the army in a more conventional fashion. Conscripted to the ranged squad, he proved to be a natural with the crossbow. Apiks and Highmax insist he had a place in Old Necrothreat, that he was a figure of awe and myth. His Reindeer were the pride of the fort. At the mention of Reindeer, I gave a start, but quickly shrugged it off as coincidence. Mastahcheese, too, found the tale a bit steep and laughed when informed of his place. Nevertheless, he gripped his crossbow with ruthless determination. We have the makings of a marvellous recruit.
2nd Felsite
NAV approached me today in my office with a keg of beer. With a contented sigh, he settled beside me and said nothing, just poured out two mugs of his frothy concoction. Not one to thirst when there is drink to be had, I seized my mug and took a long draught, settling back afterwards with a sigh. It had been a tough few days, organising the running of such a large fort when I can barely see to my own needs. With a small smile, he settled back as well. Minutes past, and then he began to speak. “I wish to join the military. I’m a brilliant brewer – or so I’ve been told – but I cannot stand by and let my home be threatened. I wish to set aside the brewery for the training yard, and serve my brothers in arms. Can you do this for me?”
I nodded solemnly and, with a strange sense of foreboding, entered him on a list of recruits. “What weapon would you prefer?” Grim-faced, he responded immediately.
“Crossbow.”
15th Felsite
One of our number has been struck by a strange mood! When informed, I heard Apiks mutter under his breath that “he had better make a door.” Confused, I went to check on the Forumite. May his crafting bring much joy to the fort!
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Topic: Necrothreat III, whatever that is (Read 336771 times)