Taran sat in his public office, waiting for his guest with a ledger in his lap. His actual office, at the top floor of the Cloudsculler, would be a much more pleasant place to conduct business, but it was also kept out of sight of the general population. Only Whalers conducted business there, and the Admiral's guest was no Whaler.
He looked up when he heard the knock. He had left the door ajar to avoid another airborne poisoning mishap, but this dwarf had chosen to knock anyway. Well, can't fault him for having good manners.
"Enter, do it please ye."
It was one of the recent migrants, the married one, armed with a winning smile and a confident gait. Taran wasn't much one for politeness, but business was business. He stood up to greet his guest.
"Good day to you, Overseer. My name is Serpine. Andromodo Val Serpine, at your service." Still smiling, the newcomer gave Taran a vigorous handshake. Taran noted that he had the hands of a lifelong worker, rough and powerful, though not as crushing as a soldier's grip.
"Glad ta have ye, Serpine," Taran replied. If the accent perturbed Andromodo, he gave no sign of it. "Now, what brings ye ta my office?"
"Oh, I merely wished to make my agenda known to the dwarf in charge," Serpine assured. He was still smiling. This dwarf was either high or lying through the teeth.
"Oh? By all means, oot with it then."
"I represent the interest of a politically active group called the Coalition of Steel," Serpine continued. "We found ourselves grossly unrepresented here in Crownhammers, so I was sent to remedy the issue."
Taran eyebrowed Serpine. "Very well. Crownhammers welcomes th' Coalition o' Steel. Best o' luck to ye in th' election. Now, is there anythin' else ye want ta discuss?"
"Well, there is one thing," Serpine considered aloud. "There seems to be very little in the way of entertainment to be had here."
"Well, we are a fledglin' fortress," Taran explained. "Our priorities still lie in makin' th' place liveable an' defensible. Fun an' games can come later."
"I see. Well, I do believe that is all then. See you around, overseer." Serpine was still smiling. "Remember, we of the Coalition are always at your service!"
"I appreciate that." A blatant lie. "Fare ye well, Andromodo Val Serpine."
They parted ways with another firm handshake. Once Serpine was out of sight, Taran left and made his way to his office aboard the Cloudsculler. Sitting at the table he had built with his own hands, he logged the day's events into a ledger. He would have to ask Balor about this so-called Coalition of Steel at a later date.
Winter had come to the territories of Crownhammers. The local dwarves welcomed it like they would a rude relative who eats all the food, defecates on the dining table, molests the cat and sets the house on fire before leaving.
The blood rains continued, but colder than ever. Flocks of migratory birds far overhead brought with them a sense of dread as they passed, southbound. Nobody could tell if they were undead or not. Their only solace there came from the four-dwarf crossbow squad the Admiral had appointed.
The Admiral's occasional nights of telling sailor stories carried on in the winter, though the venue had changed. His usual crowd had moved from the cramped dining hall to the more spacious ground floor of the Cloudsculler. They had evenings of stories and evenings of shanties. Taran had heard the rumor that Perseus had quite a voice on her, so he tried convincing her to sing every now and then.
It was after one of Taran's story nights, once most of the patrons were gone, that it happened. A dwarf with long hair and hands stained with soot approached him as he and Bembul cleaned up. She was fascinated by the tales of the high seas and the wonderful whaling songs. She wanted to be a part of the Admiral's group.
So it was that Alath Lirukonol, legendary weaponsmith of Crownhammers, joined the Whalers. It would be months yet before she would be allowed into the grotto.
"Year's windin' down, Cap'n."
"So t'is."
"D'ye suppose we'll be elected again, ser?"
"Bembul, I'm nae even sure I want us ta be."
The two old sailors stood in the crow's nest, gazing out over an crimson ocean. The winter rain drenched them in the congealed blood of elves.
"I hear our new mate Alath locked his arse in th' forges with nae but a piece o' adamantine last week."
"Aye, ser. Made us a spear what's worth more than th' half th' fort put together. It's one o' them recursive thingies too."
A murder of undead crows passed by, hundreds of feet overhead. The creatures didn't notice the dwarves in the settlement below. They wood have swooped in if they had.
"Are ye sure ye can go through with this, Bembul?"
The old Whaler sighed. "Shite, Cap'n, how should I ken? E'en with all we've done o'er th' years, nothin's ever compared ta this."
Taran held his tongue. They had already discussed every last possible detail of the plan, and it was quite clear that Bembul wasn't comfortable with it. Who would be? They were gambling with lives at this point. Discussing it further would only cause tempers to flare at this point.
Seeking a distraction, the Admiral cast his eyes over the land. Despite their unrestrained logging efforts, the southern portion of the territory was still a solid mass of woodland. He didn't much like that. Too easy for greenskins and hippies to hide in.
A hint of movement beyond the tree line caught his eye. He nudged Bembul, beckoned.
"...Th' fuck is that?"
The two dwarves strained their vision to make out the hulking shape wandering around outside the lands of Crownhammers, but were unable to make out what exactly they were dealing with. Whatever it was, it was moving away, to the southwest. Perhaps they wouldn't have to deal with it just yet. Taran would later leave a note with Perseus to stay alert.
They had spotted her from the crow's nest nearly a month before, but the creature had decided to stay away. Now she entered the lands around Crownhammers, attempting to sneak up on the unsuspecting dwarves. Unfortunately for her, the Admiral and his first mate had been spending a lot of time at the crow's nest, from which they commanded a view of the entire territory. Even more unfortunate for her, but doubtlessly fortunate for the dwarves, the Admiral had a voice that could be heard over thunderstorm.
"Ettin enterin' from th' sootheast! Get crackin', soldiers!"
Soldiers mustered outside the gates, their weapons eager to taste blood. Many among them felt the need to redeem themselves in the aftermath of the minotaur fiasco, and this was the perfect chance. They formed up by the trap line to the best of their ability, four underfull squads of melee combatants forming a loose wedge of fourteen dwarves. They waited as the ettin approached through the trees, hoping their drills would pay off and the rookie marksdwarves got there in time, but they had no such luck. It would be a brawl.
The ettin - female, if the teats were any indication - ran within charging distance. The dwarves broke ranks and sprinted toward their foe, shouting warcries and bracing for impact.
Perseus got there first. Wasting no time, she rammed the head of her spear into the ettin's torso. The tip bit bone, eliciting a cry of agony from the creature's left head. Perseus ducked a massive fist, then twisted and pulled. The spearhead came away bathed in blood and bile. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she wondered how she would fare on a whale hunt with the Admiral and the rest of the Whalers.
The Adamant Guard was hot on Perseus's heels. Their maces began crushing the bones of the ettin's legs and torso. Eral of the Fellowship landed a vicious horizontal strike that tore a calf bone asunder. The jagged, fractured tip of the bone pierced the skin and brought the ettin to one knee.
Both heads were now screaming, arms flailing wildly in a desperate attempt to throw off the diminutive attackers. The dwarves ducked, weaved and sidestepped the sweeping blows with practiced efficiency. Perseus's long spear wrought havoc upon the ettin's torso, shattering ribs and ripping through intestines. The axes of the North Papers arrived on the scene, and immediately went about the task of separating as many of the invader's extremities from the torso as they could. Momuz, the militia commander, drove her feather-light adamantine axe through an arm and a leg in a single, fluid cleave. A mace caught the left head straight in the side, landing hard enough to deform the skull. The screaming from that head faded to a reedy, agonized gurgle. A swing of brilliant blue, and that head was cleanly separated from its twin. Racked by grievous wounds and monumental blood loss, the ettin fell to the floor.
It was nothing short of a massacre. Weapons rose and fell across her form, ripping away limbs and shattering what bones remained. Spears skewered her massive torso, leaving gaping holes that pooled with blood. Momul concluded the entire violent affair with a decisive swing of the axe, taking the second head from its shoulders and ending the threat to Crownhammers.
The battle-lust died down then. The more recent recruits fought the urge to retch at the carnage even as the veterans among them went for a celebratory drink. On the way in, Perseus chanced a look at the top of the Cloudsculler's single mast. The Admiral was still there, though she was surprised to find him staring away northward, away from the battle. His gaze was fixed far overhead, staring at a dark mass in the distance.
The realization hit her before the Admiral could call out the danger. She ran inside quickly, bellowing for the soldiers to get back outside. They were long gone. She called out to the haulers around her, telling them to stay inside, but they would have none of it.
The ensuing carnage would tarnish what little reputation the military still had. The crows descended in a cawing maelstrom of feathers and decayed flesh, diving like falcons toward dwarven heads. Perseus ran outside, trying to intercept them, trying to save any dwarf she could, but the previous battle had left her weary. By the time she had reached the hill to the south, the hauler was already dead and the crows had moved on.
She followed the caws and screams northward again, toward the entrance. A new sound joined the cacophony, the sound of ducks. It came from inside the barracks.
Soldiers started coming back up from their boozing trip, alerted by a fortress-wide panic. They dashed outside, spreading every whichway, but they were late.
Later that same day, Tim would abandon his mother's arms and venture out into the world on his own. He was inquisitive for a one-year-old, already contemplating the concept of agriculture. He was not so perceptive, however, of the many grieving dwarves around him.
For the first time in months, the blood of dwarves had mingled with the blood of elves.
Well fuck me sideways, this week did not go as planned. I'd say "final update tomorrow", but we all know how that turned out last time. Hope you folks had a fine Easter.
There are only 7 days left in the year. Please perform all last-minute political maneuvers as quickly as possible so we can hand this save off to another player. I've taken far too much of your time as it is.
Author
Topic: Crownhammers, the #1 undead, murderous bird sanctuary in the world (Read 69715 times)