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Author Topic: Demongate: Wrapping up the Loose Ends.  (Read 696795 times)

MDFification

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2190 on: September 29, 2014, 09:41:55 pm »

Weird. I guess my save's buggered.
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4maskwolf

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2191 on: September 29, 2014, 09:43:21 pm »

Well, I've got good news and I've got bad news.

The good news is that the military is back in action.

The bad news is that the military now outnumbers the civilians.

4maskwolf

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2192 on: September 29, 2014, 09:47:21 pm »

Oh, and our crippled veteran is back in combat duty, I needed another skilled macedwarf to train the rookies.

MDFification

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2193 on: September 29, 2014, 09:49:29 pm »

Well, I've got good news and I've got bad news.

The good news is that the military is back in action.

The bad news is that the military now outnumbers the civilians.

If only they didn't all insist on performing individual combat drills when not ordered to train, this wouldn't even be a bad thing logistics wise.
Hooray for extreme militarization! I want to create propaganda featuring the ghost of Vlad now.
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Gnorm

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2194 on: September 29, 2014, 09:50:06 pm »

Perhaps an update will be coming our way?
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And we were this close to yet another victim of Gnorm, the Overseer Killer.

4maskwolf

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2195 on: September 29, 2014, 09:51:00 pm »

Well, I've got good news and I've got bad news.

The good news is that the military is back in action.

The bad news is that the military now outnumbers the civilians.

If only they didn't all insist on performing individual combat drills when not ordered to train, this wouldn't even be a bad thing logistics wise.
When did I say they weren't active duty?

Perhaps an update will be coming our way?
I've already told you basically what I'm doing for the rest of the turn, but if you really want a story post I can do something for you all.  Gimme a second.

4maskwolf

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2196 on: September 29, 2014, 09:52:09 pm »

Hooray for extreme militarization! I want to create propaganda featuring the ghost of Vlad now.
DO IT!

4maskwolf

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2197 on: September 29, 2014, 10:11:53 pm »

"Beef Vanderhuge, come in, " Sir Brenzen said, a grim look on his face.

Beef stepped gingerly into his superior's office, glancing around at the various religious symbols displayed prominently on the walls.  If it gave this dwarf something to live for, so be it, he supposed.

"So Beef," Sir Brenzen said, pulling out a file, "you appear to have... quite and interesting history.  Your wife and child died in 662, and ever since I have reports saying that you have seemed rather... off.  Care to explain?"

Beef just shrugged his shoulders.  How could he ever explain in terms the knight would understand.

Sir Brenzen nodded, going back to his file, "You were assigned to the 1st Hammer under Thane, but were given a spear, as was your previous training.  You have had an excellent career of service, and have apparently even deemed your weapon worthy of a name, as it should.  You are the most skilled speardwarf of Demongate and one of the few dwarves who still have training in the weapon.  Is that all fair to say?"

"I suppose so."

"Good.  Let us continue.  In the summer of 666, you were appointed out of the 1st Hammer to captain of the 2nd Hellguard by Overseer Brenzen, along with most of your surviving compatriots from 1st Hammer.  Why you all were wielding spears, only the dead know," a brief flash of sadness crossed Brenzen's face, "You were given seven raw recruits to train and have managed to ensure that they don't kill themselves in the process of learning warcraft."

Brenzen pushed the notes to the side and looked straight at Beef, "This is important, Vanderhuge, so I want you to listen up.  You hold one of the most important jobs in the entire fortress right now without even knowing it."

Beef frowned.  He was a militia captain, with orders not to fight in the case of a goblin invasion.  How was that important?

Brenzen walked around the table until he was standing five feet from Beef, staring him straight in the eyes, "There are many, even in this fortress, who would seek the downfall of all that we have built here.  There are many who would seek to turn the fortress to their own diabolical ends.  Your job, Vanderhuge, is to ensure that that never happens.  You and your squads were handpicked because you are all loyal, good-hearted dwarves who will put the fortress above themselves."

Sir Brenzen's face was deadly serious as he continued to speak, "Know that what I do, I do for the good of the fortress.  I will do everything I can to ensure that no more families are split apart like yours was.  But I am only overseer for a year, and I do not know what my successors will do.  Help me to ensure the safety of the fortress, Beef."

Beef stared at Sir Brenzen, his gypsum-addled mind trying to comprehend what was going on here.  Was Sir Brenzen asking him to report directly to him, regardless of who was the overseer?  Wasn't that against the law?

So what if it was against the law.  Sir Brenzen was trying to help people, and that was what mattered.  Beef knew that he would never wish what had happened to his family on anyone else, and Sir Brenzen wanted to prevent that.  He nodded slowly.

Sir Brenzen smiled, "Thank you, Beef.  You are dismissed."

Deus Asmoth

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« Reply #2198 on: October 01, 2014, 11:56:41 am »

Small update for our legions of avid readers: we're working out some plot details regarding various aspects of Demongate's story. We'll return to your regularly scheduled mayhem when these are finalised.
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4maskwolf

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2199 on: October 01, 2014, 04:37:51 pm »

Small update for our legions of avid readers: we're working out some plot details regarding various aspects of Demongate's story. We'll return to your regularly scheduled mayhem when these are finalised.
What he said.

Also, Rhaken requested I hold off on posting the first part of a scene until he posted something he wants to happen canonically earlier, so give it a little bit.

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« Reply #2200 on: October 01, 2014, 11:21:20 pm »

Clad in heavy robes, the three Scribes of Saint Zane went about their daily duties within their small rectory. Erith cleaned and organized books, while Onul and Sazir went about their studies. This had been their routine for the past several years, ever since they had volunteered to join the Scribes at Thane's insistence. Though far from the most exciting of ways of life, it gave them knowledge. And knowledge, as they had come to learn under Master Tarmid, was more valuable than gold.

How unfortunate, then, that knowledge, like gold, did not buy happiness. The madness that gripped Demongate was taking its toll on everyone, Scribes included. Though Master Tarmid had taught them many exercises to steel their wills, not even a dwarf is made of stone. To make matters worse, the Master had become more reticent as of late, less willing to share valuable information with them. They all knew something was getting to him, but couldn't really ask about it. He never opened up to them.

Lunchtime had come and gone. Usually, the Master spent most of the morning with them, but on this day he had been conspicuously absent. Fearing he had fallen prey to one of his famous research binges, Onul had gone to check on him in his office. He was quite awake, but looked and sounded like a dwarf twice his age. When she asked why he hadn't shown up, the Loremaster merely shrugged.

The Scribes were distracted from their work by the sound of the heavy mudstone door sliding on its hinges. They prepared to shoo the visitor away, until they saw who it was that had graced their rectory.


"Master Tarmid!" Onul was on him in an instant. Rith and Sazir sometimes commented that their colleague had a bit of a crush on the Loremaster. Nevermind that she was married. "How are you feeling?"

"Somewhat better, Onul," the tired dwarf replied. "I feel it is time to make up for a lost morning of lessons." Gingerly, Tarmid maneuvered himself into his high chair, facing his three students. "I believe today we had planned to look through thaumaturgy law?"

The Scribes exchanged glances amongst themselves. "Actually sir..."

"Yes?"

"We have a question, but we feel it's a bit... deep."

"I see." Tarmid remained impassive, though he truly had no idea what might be coming. "Ask away."

It took several moments of ponderous silence for Erith to speak up.

"How do you keep faith from wavering?"

If ever a question had caught Tarmid off guard, this was it.

"Well, that's not a simple one to answer," he said, at a loss for words for the first time in years. "Do you mean faith in yourself, or faith in the Gods?"

"Both," she replied, shrinking inward on herself. She seemed ashamed to have even asked.

"No need to hide yourself, Erith. It's a perfectly legitimate question."

The Scribes leaned in closer, expecting an answer. Tarmid adjusted himself on his seat. He had never felt so self-conscious before.

"Well, faith is no simple issue, to be sure. There are times when everything seems dark, and that we don't know what to do, and our prayers seem to fall on deaf ears. Am I hitting home so far?"

The Scribes nodded. Tarmid somehow felt like he was teaching children.

"At times like those, when nothing seems right, is when we should truly focus and pray. A wavering faith is like a cracked bone. Leave it be, and the crack will widen and the bone break. But tend it, mend it, treat it well, and it will grow back stronger than ever before. be it faith in yourself, or others."

It was Sazir's turn to speak up. "Master Tarmid, may I confess something?"

"Certainly. I trust it's nothing serious?"

"Well..." She bit her lip. "I feel like praying is a waste of time. It's like I'm speaking to wall and hoping the wall will respond, but it never does. And no matter how I try, I just feel frustrated. What am I praying to? Do the saints even care about me? Do the gods? Why can't they show me if they care?"

"Now, Sazir, that's understandable," Tarmid replied, not at all liking where this was going. "But you must persist. There is an element of contemplation in our prayers. Even when you doubt that the gods listen, you can still use the opportunity to look inward."

"Can't I just meditate? At least I wouldn't feel like I'm wasting my breath."

"You aren't, Sazir. The gods and the saints are ever there for us. They watch and protect us."

"What makes you so certain?"

"Well, faith, I suppose."

Sazir's eyes fell to the floor. "Master Tarmid, you know about my daughters, correct?"

"I am," he said, with a note of sorrow. Both of Sazir's daughters had died infants, prey to goblins and disease. Tarmid said nothing more, letting Sazir resume at her own pace.

"When I found out that my little girl was sick, I prayed," she said, a tear peeking out the corner of one dazzling blue eye. "I prayed for three days, at her bedside. I did not eat or sleep or drink. I just prayed, and asked the doctors what could be done. They did their best, they said, but it wasn't enough."

Another heavy silence fell on the room as they waited for Sazir to bite back her tears.

"The gods didn't aid me, Master Tarmid. Not in my most desperate hour of need. Why would they help at any other time?"

Tarmid nearly tripped on his own tongue. "I'm afraid I have no good answer to that, Sazir. But I do know this: in the end, the burden of action falls to us."

"So why do we need the gods?" The tears came to Sazir like a winter storm. It wasn't just the loss of her children. It was the potential loss of her faith, the one thing that had kept her together for so many years. "If they don't do anything anyway, why would we pray to them in the first place?"

Tarmid tried to say something then, but he stumbled over his own tongue.

"Help me, Master Tarmid," Sazir sobbed. Her fellow scribes put comforting arms around her shoulders. She didn't seem to notice.

"I can't."

She looked up at him through teary eyes, a frightened little girl in a grown woman's body. Tarmid had never felt so useless in his life. "I don't have the answer this time, Sazir. I'm sorry. I truly wish I did, but I don't."

Silence visited them once again. In the end, after consoling Sazir to the best of his ability, Tarmid excused himself and went back to his duties as fortress manager. On the way out, he promised Sazir he would search for a better answer.

Tarmid wasn't sure he would find one. That conversation had pressed all his buttons, poked at every fresh wound with the tip of a sword.




Mind racing with trepidation, Tarmid walked the sprawling halls of Demongate like a dwarf late to his own funeral. His whole life, he had quested after the truth, diligent as any knight. But now that it was right around the corner, he was finally afraid. What if the truth wasn't to his liking? What if it turned his life on its head, left him without compass?

What if there was nothing left after he realized the truth?

No. He must press on. He had been lied to long enough. Probably his entire life, from the moment when he was four years old and shipped off to the Keep to learn the ways of the Scribes. He had worshiped criminals as if they were demigods. He had been fed falsehoods from a rotting spoon, and he had sucked them up greedily and asked for more. How could he tell others to keep faith at a time like this, when his own faith was faltering?

He had arrived. The door came open after three knocks. The lunatic known as the Fractal Dwarf stood within the bedroom, looking rather surprised.


"Hello Tarmid, how may I help you?"

Tarmid stared the dwarf dead in the eye. All of the usual warmth was gone from him. After a moment to calm himself down, the Loremaster finally trusted himself to speak.

"I know who you are."

The Fractal Entity raised an eyebrow, but invited him in. He offered Tarmid a seat, sat sideways in his own chair.

"Are you sure you know what you're saying, Loremaster?"

"Positive. Now tell me everything. About Steelhold. About thaumaturgy. The truth."

"What makes you so sure I'll speak truthfully?"

"I just know."

The Fractal Entity smiled, amused at some private joke that only he would ever understand.

Then he told Tarmid everything.




From beyond the stars, through the veil of eternity, a lone being stands watch. He gazes down into the mortal world, hands clasped behind his back, ancient brows furrowed in the promise of a scowl. He watches the mortal world below - if there is such a thing as below in this place - and monitors the pieces as they move about the board. He nudges one in the right direction. It complies without ever knowing it is being watched.

Another being joins the first, materializing through the endless expanse. It peers down through the aether, at the confused masses below, and sighs.


"You're pulling strings again."

"Aye," the watcher replies, not sparing his company so much as a glance.

"Doesn't it ever bother you that they would hate to know they are being moved about without their consent?"

"Once upon a time, it did," he replies, cold and distant. "But I was young then. I didn't understand the bitter truth of my calling."

"Which is?"

"Everyone and everything is a resource. Sympathy is poison. It would be like feeling sorry for a hammer after a long day at the forge."

"I see where you're coming from. Would that you were wrong about this."

"Perhaps I am. Perhaps we just don't know it yet."

Silence settles upon the watchers as they peer into mortal affairs. The elder watcher plucks at strings and wills. At times he is so subtle, even his companion does not notice. Below, a piece changes direction. It moves toward another with purpose. The pieces begin to communicate. One knows what is happening behind the scenes. The other can only guess.

"You've told him to seek out the truth."

"Not quite," replies the puppeteer. "I nudged him toward it. Showed him the road. He walked it of his own volition, in the end. Though we may have to take a more direct approach soon."

"Don't you fear that the truth will break him, rather than set him free?"

"I have contingencies in place should that happen."

"Right. I should have guessed." The watcher gazed down at the other pieces. The untouchable one, ever more distressed. The faltering one, upon which hinged so much. They would need contingencies, all right. They would need as many as they could get.

"You play a dangerous game, my friend," Jackal said, eyes ever on the mortals that would set the course of Existence.

"I know. But the Enemy is playing it too. This gives us the upper hand."

Jackal raised an eyebrow. "How do you figure?"

Rhaken's scowl deepened. His mouth twisted into what could have been a long lost relative of the grin.

"My game. My rules."




Tarmid stared into the wall of his bedroom. He didn't trust himself to sleep. He didn't trust himself to write down what he had just discovered. A million new lines of inquiry raced through his troubled mind. What he had learned was outlandish. Outright heretical, if you asked anyone in the Order. Yet it was the truth. All of it. He didn't know why he knew, but he did.

But the truth brought more questions than answers. Why had only this twisted mockery of the events of Steelhold survived the ages? Had Karius Durtis lied? That didn't seem likely, from the Fractal Entity's description. Somewhere along the timeline, the truth had been left by the wayside. Had it been done on purpose? Had someone thrown it by the wayside, like one would leave a moth-eaten shirt that is falling apart at the seams?

And what of thaumaturgy? What if it wasn't all demonic in nature? Then he had been persecuting innocent civilians. How many had died imprisoned for dabbling in the arcane, when they could have contributed to the improvement of all dwarvenkind with but a little supervision?

And what would he do with himself, now that he knew his life had been a lie?

Hours went by. Tarmid couldn't sleep. He considered getting his drink on, but felt too nauseous to keep anything down. So he lifted himself from the bed in the dead of night, donned his robe and shoes, and made his way topside. He walked through the cool night air of the surface, with nary a soul to disturb him. More than ever in his life, Tarmid felt alone.

Solitude was good. It would allow him to pray.

He entered the chapel and knelt in the center of the smooth floor, where the mudstone gave way to microcline and then to cobaltite, a serene shift in texture. Faint but brilliant moonlight filtered through the gemstone windows, casting colored shapes of gods and saints upon the pews. Before him were the stone statues of the Saints of Steelhold. Tarmid looked into their cold, dead eyes, unsure of what to think or feel.

Tarmid shut his eyes and began to pray. Not to the Saints, as many times before, but to Armok himself, the one true god of gods. He prayed for strength and guidance. He prayed for wisdom and courage. But above all else, he prayed because there was nothing else left in him.


"We hear you, Tarmid," whispered the still air of the chapel, in the rough voice of a dwarf in the twilight of his life. "Do not shut us out. We will show you the path, if only you will let us."

Tarmid snarled, rose to his feet. He ran to the doors, peered outside. He began to run around the chapel, chasing shadows, looking for the inconsiderate asshole who was messing with him.

"Show yourself, coward," he snapped. "How dare you try to mess with a dwarf's faith? Come out. I would know your face, that I may rearrange it later."

"You are the only dwarf there, Tarmid," the voice replied. It seemed to be coming from Tarmid's own skull. "No one is mocking you. Now, we must speak. Our time together is short, and there is much to be said."

Tarmid's heart hammered in his chest. He felt something prod at his mind, gentle but persistent. He noticed that he could hear the echo of his ragged breathing. But the voice had no such echo.

"Who are you?"

"A monster, Tarmid. A monster you now know well."

Tarmid's head turned toward one of the statues, forged of pure silver. It depicted an ancient dwarf, thick with muscle and clad in armor. His hands rested upon a massive morningstar as if it were a cane. Above the thick beard peered hard eyes, capped by a severe brow. Tarmid swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Saint... Rhaken?"

"Yes, Tarmid. Wicked though we may have been, Armok saw fit to take us under his wing for the ordeals to come."

"Ordeals?"

"Listen carefully. Time is short. Write nothing down, commit everything to memory. There is very little I can tell you, but it may change the fate of the world. Of many worlds."

Tarmid listened to every word. In the morning, they found him kneeling in the center of the floor, perfectly awake, eyes wide open. He took this opportunity to return to his duties. Before he even stopped for breakfast, he went to the rectory to visit his students.

They looked disheartened, shaken after what they had seen in their mentor on the previous day. Immediately they approached him, hesitant but curious, unsure of what to make of the exhausted, but serene dwarf before them.


Onul was the first to speak. "Master Tarmid? Are you feeling well?"

Tarmid smiled. "Better than I've felt in years, my dear. And I believe I have your answer now, Erith."

"Beg pardon, Master?"

"I know why we still pray to gods and saints." There was unwavering conviction in his voice, something he thought long gone.

There was a moment of fateful silence before Erith could muster the will to ask. "Why do we pray to them, Master Tarmid?"

"Because they listen." Three sets of eyes fell upon him, uncomprehending. "We may note be able to see the results of this, but they do listen."

He could see by their expressions that they had completed the sentence themselves.

The burden of action falls to us.
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Of course, he may have simply crushed the forgotten beasts with his massive testicles.

Forget a spouse, he needs a full time gonad wrangler.

fractalman

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« Reply #2201 on: October 02, 2014, 11:46:03 am »

Wow.  Nicely done.
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The untouchable one, ever more distressed.



Lines of pseudocode filled nearly half a book. Lines of actual code filled almost three. Page after page of yet another book began to fill with attempts to integrate a particularly stubborn function. Eventually, the writer sighed and switched to a tedious numerical integration to twenty decimal places: such precision would be necessary, for what was being designed now was not just a simple, one-use spell, but a compiler for future spells. A tiny mistake at this stage could result in disaster at all later stages.

Hours passed. Finally, the third line had been translated into thaumic form.  The writer at last put his books away, and went to sleep.

That night, his dreams blended the eldritch madness of Swordthunders, the relatively mundane terrors of Steelhold, and the taunts of a graphing calculator, always dancing just out of reach.
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This is a masterwork ledger.  It contains 3719356 pages on the topic of the precise number and location of stones in Spindlybrooks.  In the text, the dwarves are hauling.
"And here is where we get the undead unicorns. Stop looking at me that way, you should have seen the zombie deer running around last week!"

4maskwolf

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2202 on: October 02, 2014, 05:10:03 pm »

Posting this on behalf and with permission of Jrrocks.



"I have a letter adressed to you, Thanatos," came the gruff voice of Sir Brenzen.  Thanatos turned around, looking for the source of his voice.  The 1st sword all stopped training and stared at Thanatos as he strode to the door where Brenzen was waiting for him.  Brenzen held out a letter, sealed with the mark of a foggy orb.  Thanatos tried not to let his shock show as he took the letter from the knight, who nodded and returned to his combat training.  Thanatos turned to his squad, "Continue training.  I will be with you shortly."



Gently, Thanatos opened the wax seal on the letter, opening the folds to reveal the inside.  In shaky handwriting was written:

Thanatos.  I hope that this letter finds you in good health, though given your military practices it may not.  Time is short, and what I must relay to you is of utmost importance.

We are going underground.  There is not longer any way we can hold the surface world against the bloodkin: they are too numerous.  We have slowed them down a year, maybe two, but too many of our members have been lost.  Zeus's entire squad was wiped out on a disasterous mission to stall the bloodkin about to invade the other defensive fortresses.  Soon, they will breach the defenses into the north.

We have found a way into the caverns, and are going to lay low there and eke out an existance.  The age of dwarves is coming to a close, replaced by these foul hordes.  We can only hope that when they have won the surface, they will be content with their gains and not follow us to the underworld.

I ask you to relay the following information to the one in charge at Demongate: the bloodkin are not attacking you now.  They have forces in place to prevent your retreat, but seem content to watch the pass.  I know not why they do this, but they refuse to approach closer than ten miles.

Lastly, I ask that you come down and join us.  If the bloodkin do follow, we will need all of the warriors we can get.  You are one of the last of the council, and I beg you to join us in our exile.

~Hecate

Thanatos folded up the letter and placed it in a drawer.  He would tell Brenzen the information contained in the letter, and then he would take his leave.  It was high time he retired from the military: he had never been much of a fighter, forced into war by the necessities of the bloodkin invasion.

At the end of this year, he told himself, at the end of this year.




And now something I wrote up as a teaser to what's going to happen late in my year.



Beyond the stars, a dwarf stared down.  He watched as The Adversary made its next move and grimaced.  This was a dangerous move by his opponent: high risk, but high reward.  If successful, it could topple many of the intricate plans he had built, forcing him to resort to riskier backup plans.  Which is why they could not fail.  He knew the weakness of his opponent's move, and knew that he could exploit it.

Rhaken breathed out a sigh and whispered to empty air, "Emdief, old friend, the world may need you one last time."

4maskwolf

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2203 on: October 02, 2014, 10:06:38 pm »

That awkward moment when you realize that the reason your defense revamp is going at a snail's pace is because you conscripted most of the civilian population.

I even made an attempt to avoid recruiting stoneworkers.

Welp...

FallenAngel

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Re: Demongate, home of the first and best Pimpstack.
« Reply #2204 on: October 02, 2014, 10:11:31 pm »

Did you conscript FallenAngel IV? If you did, make sure he's in a crossbow squad, because he made a scope for a crossbow and would force his way into being at a range when fighting random goblins and stuff.
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