Print

Please login or register.
1 Hour 1 Day 1 Week 1 Month Forever
Login with username, password and session length

[Niccolo]

Well hello there!

We have numerous topics on people drawing your combat reports, but I have seen none (that won't require me perverting the line between life and death) that involve writing your combat reports.

'Cause let's face it, that'd be silly, right? I mean, they're already words!

Bah! I say to you, bah! Give me your combat reports and I shall weave them into narrative of blood, fire and death! Give me the combat report of Urist McDoomed's duel with the goblin horde and I shall render for you a tale of nobility, courage and sacrifice as he dies, cursing the goblins' mothers' mothers with his final breaths. Of how he swore vengeance from beyond the grave.

Or, you know, the true story of how he ran out to collect his mate's sock and got brutally murdered by fifteen lashers like he walked into the local S&M club by mistake.

Your choice. Challenge me!

One little request. Please make them combat reports. Thrilling duels and the like, not some half-baked line about a dwarf going missing for a week. I know I said to challenge me, but by God give me something to work with! There's no need to compete to see who can give me the shortest possible segment to narrate!

[Domicrow]

This seems cool but will you do it for Adventure mode reports aswell?

[TheFlame52]

This will be epic. PTW.

[Doughnut189]

Does it count as combat if the unit is fighting against the laws of nature? and losing

Triciblishmiccicuty Collubidifintetriblucitenianalinin, Miner cancels Dig Channel: Dangerous terrain.
The weather has cleared.
A section of the cavern has collapsed!
The Stray Kitten's head takes the full force of the impact, bruising the muscle!
The Stray Kitten is caught in a cloud of boiling magma!
The Stray Kitten regains consciousness.
The Stray Kitten stands up.
The Stray Kitten is no longer stunned.
You have struck shell opal!

[Dishwater]

I guess we could start simple just to see your narrative skills

ahem "The dwarf stands up".

It counts because its in a combat report so there you go.

[FrankyPlaysGames]

I'll bite:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Here's a basic one to show your skills.

[Niccolo]

@FrankyPlaysGames: I'll get to yours in a little while. I just finished this one when you posted.

Spoiler: Doughnut189's battle against Nature (click to show/hide)

Triciblishmiccicuty Collubidifintetriblucitenianalinin, Miner cancels Dig Channel: Dangerous terrain.
The weather has cleared.
A section of the cavern has collapsed!
The Stray Kitten's head takes the full force of the impact, bruising the muscle!
The Stray Kitten is caught in a cloud of boiling magma!
The Stray Kitten regains consciousness.
The Stray Kitten stands up.
The Stray Kitten is no longer stunned.
You have struck shell opal!

What the hell is with that name, man? Yeah, I'm calling him Tricib for short or I'd use up the entire post length just writing his name.
It had been a long, hot, boring day. Tricib had been toiling down in the dark for far too long, searching through the earth in vain for something of value. But there had been nothing, absolutely nothing but rock, rock and more goddamned rock. Behind him, the tunnel stretched for miles in a meandering path back towards the main fortress. He couldn't see a thing, since the lack of dirt meant that the faintly phosphorescent moss that grew in the upper levels didn't stretch this far, and his lamp had run out of oil several hours before.

He cursed, loudly, as he stubbed his toe again. That was, what, the fifth time that day? He had carved this entire damn tunnel out himself and so he knew exactly where every edge, every outcropping was - and still he managed to kick his toes on the uneven floor! Tricib muttered under his breath and trudged for the end of the tunnel. He had a channel to dig, dammit, and if he didn't get it done by the end of the day then his booze ration was cut by half. He planted his feet solidly and heaved his pickaxe high above his head. The best thing about being a miner is there's always a way to get your anger out of your system, he thought as he swung the pick as hard as he could.

The pick hit the ground with a satisfying crunch, but then the crunching sound didn't stop. It grew into the tortured screaming of rock tearing itself apart and Tricib swore loudly, stumbling backwards from the now-shaking floor. Cracks grew all around him, faint sparks from the shattering rock glowing like the sun to his dark-adjusted eyes. He knew what this meant. He ran, pounding up the tunnel as fast as his stocky Dwarven legs could carry him.

***
Far below, in the large cavern that was to become the heart of the fortress' magma forges, an architect and his cat were busy mapping out the location of the first smelter. His cat had just had kittens; the father appeared to be the cat owned by that good-for-nothing broker. He hated that guy. Damn fool never did any work. But the kittens were now all dutifully following the architect and his cat around like ducklings and damn if he couldn't get the broker to at least help care for the bloody things.

From above him came the screeching, grinding sound of tearing rock. The entire cavern shook and the architect stumbled. Rock began to fall from the ceiling, landing all around him with almighty crashes. A huge rock smashed into the ground near him, sending a billowing cloud of dust washing over him and his entourage. The shockwave knocked one of the kittens flying; he watched, helplessly, as the poor animal crashed headfirst into the wall. The mother cat yowled and tried to run for her injured child; he scooped her up into her arms as more rock fell, directly into the channels of magma. A great gout of angry, red magma surged up into the air, falling as rain more deadly than any the architect had seen before. That poor kitten, he thought sadly. That poor, poor kitten.

He turned to leave. His nerves were shaking, he needed a stiff drink. Or several. But from behind him came a sound he had not expected; pitiful mewling. The architect turned in shock, his beard twitching as he tried to vocalise his surprise. There, on shaky legs, stood the kitten! Her fur was a little singed and her eyes had the unfocused look of concussion, but the small, delicate animal was somehow still alive! It was impossible. The kitten should have been nothing more than a bloody, burned smear. But here it was, tottering towards her mother as the big grey cat fought him to be put down.

"Huh."

Spoiler: Dishwater's Test (click to show/hide)

The Dwarf stands up

It was no good. He was beaten. He couldn't feel his left hand; one bleary look showed that this was because he didn't have a left hand anymore. It was lying about three feet away, where the cruel, jagged edge of the goblin's dagger had cut it from his arm. It had been a perfectly good hand, too. He called his hands 'Punchy' and 'Holdy', but now he didn't have 'Holdy' anymore. He dimly decided that Punchy was going to have to hold things for him too, and if it complained then it could join Holdy in being out of a job.

They gathered around him, prodding him with their toes. "Think he's dead?" one asked in its grating, guttural voice. The others laughed as if this were somehow a really funny joke. Another kicked him in the ribs, eliciting a groan. "Oh, goodie. He isn't. What should we cut off next?" another of them rumbled. He was glad, in a way. They weren't elves. That would have been embarrassing. And then there was the whole 'eating' thing. He had heard that sometimes they didn't wait for their opponents to die, and just went straight to the eating. "Check out his socks!" one of the nasty little creatures growled, kicking at his ankles. "I call dibs!"

Fire surged through his brain. First my hand, now my socks! He coughed again. "Over..." he muttered. He felt the goblins' attention draw to him. He tried again. "Over..." He pushed himself up with his stump; the searing pain was nothing compared to what the goblins threatened. "Over... my..." He coughed. Blood came out. He growled, heaved, and got one leg under him. He knelt in the ring of goblins, his stocky, square face twisting into a mask of rage that set the ugly little things back on their heels. He pushed himself up and stood, spitting and snarling. "OVER MY DEAD BODY!" he roared.

Welp. First try. I'm a tad rusty, but hey. Also, yes, I will take full and complete advantage of lack of detail and will use wild poetic license to set and advance the scene.

[Loud Whispers]

The Necromancer has been encased in cooling ice.

Rather humorously, the Necro's master wrote a book a few years prior called "Common Sense."

Dwarf ponds > The secrets to life and death.

[Niccolo]

@Loudwhispers: I'll do yours after class.

Spoiler: FrankPlaysGames orders what looks like torture porn (click to show/hide)

The Axedwarf bounced his axe a few times, loving its trusty weight. The wicked edge to the axe invited him to swing at anything handy, and who should he have bumped into? "Ye know," he said amicably to the thief that he had cornered. "I think the miners call this i-ro-nee." His axe whistled as it cut through the air; it did not whistle quite so much as it cut through the goblin's leg. "See, 'tis irony acoos I am goin' to kill ye wit' iron." The goblin didn't answer, sadly. The axedwarf had hoped to have a good battle of wits with the goblin. Just like in those stories of spydwarves, well dressed in black silk, who had verbal duels with evil Elves before shooting them with a crossbow. They always somehow found something pithy to say when the elf was dead, too.

The goblin refused to say anything at all, really. He just sort of fell over. It was kind of sad. "Ach, come oon. The least ye could do is curse at me, bloody thief!" The prone goblin's left hand twitched towards the dagger strapped to his leg. "Ye're as eloquent as ye need to be," the axedwarf chuckled. "I'cn respect that." His axe dropped onto the hand,tearing the fleshy wrist open. The goblin screamed as blood pulsed out of his arm. The iron axe pinned the goblin's wrist to the floor, lodged firmly in the bleeding mess. "T'would seem I have a-wrist-ed ye!" the axedwarf quipped, wishing that he had been wearing a sliver-black silk suit instead of clunky platemail. Puns didn't sound right in armour.

A barbed wooden bolt thudded into the goblin's arm. "Private, git yer head out of yer arse and joost kill the bloody thing!" the commander barked at him, tossing the crossbow aside. "Tch, fancy custom job and the bloody thing still pulls to the right." The commander drew his sword and stalked forwards. "Kill the damn critter or stand aside and let me. This isn't one of ye damn books."

The axedwarf grumbled under his breath. "Fine, dad." He wrenched the axe out of the goblin's hand, twisting it maliciously. "This is all yer fault," he muttered to the bleeding thief. "If ye had just responded like ye were supposed to ye'd be dead already!" He swung at the goblin's chest, opening a long, jagged rip in the pectoral muscle. A buckle on the thief's really awesome looking cloak - which the axedwarf quietly hoped to appropriate from its cooling corpse later - deflected the axe blade downwards; black blood spilled out of the wound. "Ooh, t'would seem I got ye liver! I guess ye won't be liven fer much longer, eh?"

The goblin glared at him through bloodshot eyes and raised his right hand with his middle finger extended. "Just goddam kill me already. It's less painful than your damn puns, you asshole!" The axedwarf growled and slapped the thief's hand down hard enough to split the skin open. he could see bruising already spreading as the hand flopped uselessly to the ground.

There was a schlunk as the commander's iron sword cut through the downed goblin's right leg. The next thing the axedwarf saw was the goblin's left glove streaking towards him; it hit him solidly in the face with a disturbingly wet sound. "Oh, god, the damn hand is still in there!" he yelled and flung the heavy glove away. He glared at the commander with what he hopped was an icy look, not wanting to admit how jealous he was of the commander's speed. Axes were awesome, but swords were just so cool with how fast they were. Not wanting to be outdone, the axedwarf let out what he thought was a mighty yell and swung his axe as fast as he could into the goblin's chest.

The blade of the axe was nothing but a blur as it sheared through the ribs and jammed deep inside the goblin's pleural cavity. He could see a shrivelled, pink... thing inside the opening, pinned down by his trusty axe, Chopper. Yeah. Chopper was a good name. All cool weapons had a name. Now, the goblin must be dead... he just needed a good one-liner. Something breathing related. Ooh! The axedwarf drew himself up to his formidable three feet of height and planted one steel-booted foot on the goblin's chest. He wasn't going to try and tug the axe out until the commander had left, since failing would be unbearably embarrasing. He gave the goblin his best sly smile as he had seen on so many engravings. "So lung, thief."

The thief coughed. He nearly screamed, which would have been totally mortifying. One bloodshot eye opened on the thing's face as the rest of it screwed up in pain. "Fuck... you..." it grunted, the speech making a horrendous gurgle emanate from the opened lung. Next to him, the commander sighed. "Sloppy, private. Ye're sloppy." The commander reversed his sword and as fast as lightning, jammed the hilt of his weapon right between the goblin's eyes. The hapless thief's eyes glazed over and he slumped to the ground, the sword sticking out of his forehead like the world's worst flower. "With skills that rusty, ye'll never get ahead of me."

[Niccolo]

Not sure what happened here. Why is there a second post of mine?

[FrankyPlaysGames]

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

@Loudwhispers: I'll do yours after class.



[spoiler=FrankPlaysGames orders what looks like torture porn]

The Axedwarf bounced his axe a few times, loving its trusty weight. The wicked edge to the axe invited him to swing at anything handy, and who should he have bumped into? "Ye know," he said amicably to the thief that he had cornered. "I think the miners call this i-ro-nee." His axe whistled as it cut through the air; it did not whistle quite so much as it cut through the goblin's leg. "See, 'tis irony acoos I am goin' to kill ye wit' iron." The goblin didn't answer, sadly. The axedwarf had hoped to have a good battle of wits with the goblin. Just like in those stories of spydwarves, well dressed in black silk, who had verbal duels with evil Elves before shooting them with a crossbow. They always somehow found something pithy to say when the elf was dead, too.

The goblin refused to say anything at all, really. He just sort of fell over. It was kind of sad. "Ach, come oon. The least ye could do is curse at me, bloody thief!" The prone goblin's left hand twitched towards the dagger strapped to his leg. "Ye're as eloquent as ye need to be," the axedwarf chuckled. "I'cn respect that." His axe dropped onto the hand,tearing the fleshy wrist open. The goblin screamed as blood pulsed out of his arm. The iron axe pinned the goblin's wrist to the floor, lodged firmly in the bleeding mess. "T'would seem I have a-wrist-ed ye!" the axedwarf quipped, wishing that he had been wearing a sliver-black silk suit instead of clunky platemail. Puns didn't sound right in armour.

A barbed wooden bolt thudded into the goblin's arm. "Private, git yer head out of yer arse and joost kill the bloody thing!" the commander barked at him, tossing the crossbow aside. "Tch, fancy custom job and the bloody thing still pulls to the right." The commander drew his sword and stalked forwards. "Kill the damn critter or stand aside and let me. This isn't one of ye damn books."

The axedwarf grumbled under his breath. "Fine, dad." He wrenched the axe out of the goblin's hand, twisting it maliciously. "This is all yer fault," he muttered to the bleeding thief. "If ye had just responded like ye were supposed to ye'd be dead already!" He swung at the goblin's chest, opening a long, jagged rip in the pectoral muscle. A buckle on the thief's really awesome looking cloak - which the axedwarf quietly hoped to appropriate from its cooling corpse later - deflected the axe blade downwards; black blood spilled out of the wound. "Ooh, t'would seem I got ye liver! I guess ye won't be liven fer much longer, eh?"

The goblin glared at him through bloodshot eyes and raised his right hand with his middle finger extended. "Just goddam kill me already. It's less painful than your damn puns, you asshole!" The axedwarf growled and slapped the thief's hand down hard enough to split the skin open. he could see bruising already spreading as the hand flopped uselessly to the ground.

There was a schlunk as the commander's iron sword cut through the downed goblin's right leg. The next thing the axedwarf saw was the goblin's left glove streaking towards him; it hit him solidly in the face with a disturbingly wet sound. "Oh, god, the damn hand is still in there!" he yelled and flung the heavy glove away. He glared at the commander with what he hopped was an icy look, not wanting to admit how jealous he was of the commander's speed. Axes were awesome, but swords were just so cool with how fast they were. Not wanting to be outdone, the axedwarf let out what he thought was a mighty yell and swung his axe as fast as he could into the goblin's chest.

The blade of the axe was nothing but a blur as it sheared through the ribs and jammed deep inside the goblin's pleural cavity. He could see a shrivelled, pink... thing inside the opening, pinned down by his trusty axe, Chopper. Yeah. Chopper was a good name. All cool weapons had a name. Now, the goblin must be dead... he just needed a good one-liner. Something breathing related. Ooh! The axedwarf drew himself up to his formidable three feet of height and planted one steel-booted foot on the goblin's chest. He wasn't going to try and tug the axe out until the commander had left, since failing would be unbearably embarrasing. He gave the goblin his best sly smile as he had seen on so many engravings. "So lung, thief."

The thief coughed. He nearly screamed, which would have been totally mortifying. One bloodshot eye opened on the thing's face as the rest of it screwed up in pain. "Fuck... you..." it grunted, the speech making a horrendous gurgle emanate from the opened lung. Next to him, the commander sighed. "Sloppy, private. Ye're sloppy." The commander reversed his sword and as fast as lightning, jammed the hilt of his weapon right between the goblin's eyes. The hapless thief's eyes glazed over and he slumped to the ground, the sword sticking out of his forehead like the world's worst flower. "With skills that rusty, ye'll never get ahead of me."
[/spoiler]

I love you.
I love you, so much.

[Niccolo]

Glad you like, Franky.

Spoiler: Loudwhispers' tale of Robert, the world's dopiest Necromancer (click to show/hide)

The Necromancer has been encased in cooling ice.

Robert loved being outside. It didn't matter what season it was - they all offered something new and exciting. Spring was his favourite, with all the new grass and leaves and happily singing birds. Every year, he tried to convince his Master to hold classes outside. But his Master got the sniffles from springtime pollen; privately, Robert suspected that this was why he had become a Necromancer in the first place - to curse all that was lively and lovely in the springtime months.

Robert supposed that as a Necromancer, he should love winter the most. He liked winter, since the snowflakes were pretty, but he didn't really enjoy it because his Master got grouchy whenever he ran outside to play in the snow. Robert loved the snow. he loved dancing in it, playing in it, throwing snowballs at the zombies... He had once convinced the entire tower's zombie army to head outside and have a huge snowball war. After all, common sense dictated that dead flesh was preserved longer in the cold, right? He figured that he was doing his Master a favour. But no, his Master had all been "Worship of death and murder" and "show dignity" and "look, they're all frozen into fleshcicles".

Robert twirled in the falling snow. He had taken the day off from necromancing and headed outside to toboggan down a big hill while his Master did some weird dead stuff. Today was far too nice to think about his grouchy Master! When he got to the top of the hill he spun again and fell backwards into the snow, chuckling as he waved his hands to make a snow angel. Yet another thing his Master would not approve of, he guessed. He laughed again and stood up to admire his work. This was too much fun! With a smile, he picked up the shield he had 'borrowed' from the tower and took a running leap down the far side of the hill. He bounced on the snow and skidded along, a rooster tail of snow flying up behind him. The ride was long and glorious and he yelled out gleefully as he slid all the way down the hill and along a flat stretch.

He finally came to a halt and climbed off the shield. He wanted to do that again! As he bent to pick up the shield, there was a terrible crackling sound and the ground gave way beneath his feet. He plunged into icy water that drove all of the air from his lungs. He panicked and floundered, trying to get to the surface, but the cold sapped all of his strength. He felt his brain slowing down as the cold waters refroze around him. His final thought was I really don't like winter anymore.
That's the saddest DF story I've ever written.

[superbob]

The Minotaur has become enraged.
The Minotaur vomits!
The Minotaur is no longer enraged.

[Azrayel]

Robert's vivid joy and demise should be a short film (the shield should be called Snowball and the film entitled "Citizen Urist").

Loving this thread; I'll wait for a really good combat log to slog you with.

[Niccolo]

Spoiler: Superbob makes minotaurs vomit in rage (click to show/hide)

The Minotaur has become enraged.
The Minotaur vomits!
The Minotaur is no longer enraged.

"Thank you for your patronage, sir. I hope you visit again!" The Elf was extraordinarily cheerful as Basil paid him and headed for the door. "Uh, sir, watch your horns on the doorframe," the Elf told him uncertainly. Basil the minotaur looked up at the doorframe to judge its height and felt his horns gouge into the ceiling. He sighed and took a deep breath. I will not get angry, I will not get angry, I will not get angry... He nodded politely and ducked to leave the restaurant as gracefully as he could. He flipped a coin to the cloakroom Elf and took his warhammer back, hefting it onto one of his mighty shoulders.

Basil clomped down the grassy street, feeling his feet sink into the spongy sod with each step. The limited brainpower that his bull's head could generate vaguely knew that had he possessed hooves as his cousins did, he would probably get stuck; as it was, he roughly understood that he had some rather adventurous human female somewhere to thank for his ability to walk upright. He snorted at a passing Elf in what was an attempt to be polite, but it came out slightly... angry. The Elf paled and hurried on skittishly and Basil sighed. It came out as a basso moo. He grumbled at that. The convenience of Elven restaurants meant he had to put up with some language barriers, but their food meant he didn't have to eat grass like a common yak. Although...

He put one hand on his stomach. Something didn't feel right. Had they... had they... No. No way. They wouldn't be that foolish, would they? He was still bovine, which meant he couldn't eat meat. When he had ordered, he had mooed at them while pointing at a vegetarian dish, although his massive fingers covered nearly half the menu's page. They hadn't given him meat, had they? There had been something oddly chewy, but he had just assumed that Elves weren't idiots and it was just some weird plant he had never encountered before. He never really left his labyrinth, after all.

His stomach heaved. Oh dear. He had eaten meat. His primitive bull's brain flared red-hot and he snorted loudly. Stupid Elves! He mooed out a choice selection of bovine swear-words, causing nearby oxen to stare at him in alarm. He was going to kill them. He was going to kill all of them. It didn't matter that they were 'friends of nature', if they lacked the sense to give him a vegetarian meal then Basil was going to educate them. With his hammer. He snorted again and turned back towards the restaurant. He pawed at the ground and lowered his head. He was going to tear that stupid restaurant down, build a new one out of the Elves' bones and cook some real food! He mooed loudly, a reverberating wail that echoed off of the city walls, and his stomach heaved again. Basil fell to his knees as his stomach rebelled and he emptied the entire cursed meal onto the ground.

He stood up shakily and readied himself to charge again, but the moment was gone. He just didn't feel it anymore. He sighed again and turned once more towards the gates. Maybe grass was a better choice after all.

Artistic license ftw!