This is a slightly dramatized story of the last moments of my favourite fort so far. Tell me what you think, altough I mainly wrote this small text because I'm bored.
The captain paced around nervously, stroking his beard with his good hand, while the broken one merely hung from the bloody lump that once was his left lower arm. Some of the moisture from the upper halls had begun to drip through the ceiling, not enough to sate one's thirst, but enough to be a painful reminder of how dire their situation truly was. The captain opened his mouth again, but before he could utter a single word, he was interrupted by a slant-eyed cheesemaker charging at him. The crazed dwarf was cut in half with a single, decisive stroke from the captain's steel sword. "So, yer telling me that ye sorry sacks of draltha shit are all that's left?", he asked with an angry tone in his voice, kicking the berserker's lower body to the pile of corpses that had begun to form next to him. "Where the FECK, is Olin?"
The militiadwarves remained silent, trying hard to avoid the gazing eyes of the captain. A loud crash sounded from behind the dining hall's wooden doors, soon accompanied by a monstrous screech. Other, more familiar voices joined it, the cries for mercy could be heard for a brief moment, before they turned into screams almost as terrifying as the beast's. Finally, one of the more experienced militiadwarves gathered up her courage and almost whispered: "Captain, I saw him before we closed the doors. Olin was working at the cavern lake breach, trying to seal it off with the rest of the masons." The captain didn't seem to understand what the militiadwarf meant. However, before she could explain the matter any further, the captain had drawn his sword again and was running towards the barred doors. He moved so quickly that none of the swordsdwarves could even react appropriately, altough each of them realised what the captain was about to do. "I'M COMING OLIN! JUST HOLD ON, BROTHER!"
The doors gave in instantly, shattering into a hundred pieces. The spectacle took everyone, even the captain, by surprise. For it was not the captain who had broken through them, but the Horror From the Old Deep. A gigantic monster with large horns protruding from it's silver body, with a slight resemblance to a frog or a walking fish. Even in the dim light of the dining hall, the runic inscriptions and countless battle-scars in it's shell were clearly visible, it almost seemed as if they were giving off a faint, red glow. The captain stood there, between the beast and the squad, then turning around and yelling from the bottom of his lungs: "Draw swords! Ogon Dastot! OSOR, GESHUD!" And the dwarves answered to his cry, and so did the beast.
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Topic: A short story, concerning the fall of Zefonlaz (Read 932 times)