My first (proper) fortress has fallen.
A fine garrison it was, which had weathered many a mishap. Marsh Titans were waved aside by the ferocity of stray dogs and the vicious pecking of highly-trained attack chickens. "The Mighty Vanguards", sole defenders of the fort, in their infinite military wisdom had courageously sacrificed many a warrior to the goblin armies, each sallying forth one at a time to gain the maximum share of honour in death.
Rich supplies of dwarven booze lined its storage rooms, with lavish stocks of microcline and siltstone as high as the eye could see. Truly, 'twas the envy of traders the continent over, with its ponderous piles of plump helmets and generously populated coffin chamber.
Yes, and what refuse piles it could boast! What haphazardly perfect pastures, chewed upon by yak and chicken alike! What glorious further treasures would it surely have uncovered, had it lasted for just a while longer, but woe... woe to the fortress of Zocolral!
For there came quite suddenly, and without warning, a vile force of evil! Not one, not ten, not fifty, but over one hundred goblin warriors, baying for dwarven blood and treasure! At once and without thinking, I bellowed out the order to retreat. "Every dwarf and beast inside the fort!"
The diminutive creatures hurried at once, dropping their fishing rods and breaking off the hunt. Faster and faster they ran, as behind them amassed a sea of glistening steel and bloodthirsty eyes... closer and closer yet to the drawbridge they drew, and poised was I to give the command to pull the glorious lever which would seal off the hoard from the outside world, its occupants safe and protected until their oppugners realised their efforts were all in vain!
Almost in the same moment, I did. A cry was heard ringing around the halls of Zocolral; "Pull the lever! Lower the drawbridge!"
I waited.
I waited further, as the goblin horde drew nearer.
I waited with increasingly concerned impatience, as the task appeared to occupy not one of the blithe dwarves' minds.
"Hurry!", I exclaimed, as the first goblins breached the walls! "The enemy is here!", I cried, as their initial forces fell to the meagre array of traps and cages which awaited them! Yes... and suddenly, finally, one of the dwarves came to his senses! He would pull the lever - and posthaste, or so it seemed!
It seemed, that is, until he changed his mind and abandoned the task altogether. Indeed, both he and his many companions.
Defeat was surely inevitable. I could but weep as waves upon waves of craven bandits swarmed the encampment with furious abandon, and though the Mighty Vanguards fought honourably and to the very last man, the cause was surely lost.
The fortress of Zocolral had fallen.
(Thanks to some people on IRC, though, for telling me how to make burrows to deal with the Marsh Titan!)
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Topic: The Fall of Zocolral: a story of woeful tragedy (Read 1561 times)