Taran sat in his quarters, a heap of papers on his lap. The Whalers had delivered the fortress ledgers to him in less than an hour. Now he would have the pleasure of spending the rest of the evening poring over the papers. Wonderful. At least he had a full flask of rum to keep him company.
The situation didn't seem too dire. They had food and hooch to last them the year, and stocks were going up. The entire population of the fortress had access to personal quarters. They had metal aplenty, including a short supply of adamantine. At some point in the previous year, they'd acquired a herd of crundles, and those were being domesticated for food and profit. All in all, a cozy situation.
If you didn't take the military into account, that is. Crownhammers was a poorly defended hole in the ground. They had but a handful of dwarves on duty at any given time, even fewer after the incidents with the undead birds last year. The Might of Killing, now severely diminished, couldn't handle the task of protecting Crownhammers by themselves. Taran didn't exactly trust them either. Perseus had joined the Allied Lancers as a speardwarf, both to lend a hand in defending their home and to keep an eye on the military in general.
They were still underequipped. Taran made a note to get them fully armed and armored as quickly as possible. While he was at it, he checked the cloth stocks. Not the most dire of situations, but he couldn't find a mention in the census of any clothiers. Taran wasn't looking forward to the wave of discontent he'd face if he allowed everyone's clothing to go to rot while he was in charge. Another note in his log then.
Finally, after hours of going through page upon page of detailed stocks, he checked the lumber supplies. Over ten thousand unprocessed logs were laying around Crownhammers. Taran's face shifted to a heartfelt smile for the first time since coming to this place. He knew now what to do.
He didn't leave the workshop for days. Various dwarves stopped by to talk with him, and all without exception had to do so over the sound of a hacksaw on wood. Taran worked with practiced ease, shaping tables and chairs beds and planks, even as he spoke with Balor or Illevaihcam or Nobeard. At one point he was approached by a strange dwarf by the name of Father Wolfe, who wanted a church to be made and consecrated in Armok's name.
Taran told him he would see what could be done and sent him on his way.
The soldiers of Crownhammers gathered outside the walls, clad in their new suits of bismuth bronze. They'd received orders from the Admiral to stand outside and look sharp, though none but Perseus had the slightest idea why. Overhead, a murder of crows circled the territory. They flew silently, far above the treetops, where the only danger they represented was a rain of birdshit. Some of the soldiers just rested against the trees to shield them from the blood rains, chatting away the time on this pointless mission.
Dwarves emerged from the gatehouse, heading in the general direction of the soldiers with tools in their hands. Half of them hauled wheelbarrows filled with long wooden planks. Bringing up the rear was the Whaler Bembul, carrying a wide sheet of paper and barking commands left and right.
"Alright ye sods, get ta clearin' the sight. Watch yer 'eads. You three, make with th' hammers. Come on now, we 'aven't got all bleedin' day!"
As the dwarves set about their tasks, one of the soldiers decided to confront Bembul. He was a Whaler, he'd know why they were given pointless orders. And he seemed more likely to spill it than Perseus.
"I'll tell ye why ye're here, mate," Bembul sneered. "See them birds o'erhead?"
The soldier nodded.
"They're attackin'. Ye might want to look inna that."
Civilians ran every which way. The military of Crownhammers brought out their weapons. They had just enough time to form up before the undead crows struck.
Ferocious as they were, their talons could do nothing against metal. The abominations stood no chance. The soldiers dismantled the lot of them without so much as a scratch between them. One blow from an axe severed the head of one crow clean from its neck, and it went flying into the upper boughs of a nearby tree. The severed head cawed incessantly, even as the soldiers finished crushing the undead birds to keep them from rising.
They stood watch in the area for another handful of days at the Admiral's behest. No further undead bird attacks occurred, so the idle soldiers turned their attention to the recent construction site.
None of them had the slightest bloody idea what it was.
"Why do you get to call him 'Captain'?"
Bembul stopped halfway through putting his trousers on and breathed a short laugh. "Y'know, tha's nae even the strangest thing I been asked after spendin' the night with someone."
Atir sighed. She was still in his bed, covers up to her neck to keep her naked form from the cold. She flashed him a serious look.
"I mean it, Bembul. You're always going on about how we should show him respect and call him by his title. But while the rest of us have to call him Admiral, you still call him Captain. Why?"
Bembul cinched his belt and turned to face her. "Lass, ye've known him lil' more n' a year. I've known th' Cap'n since afore ye were born. He n' I been through more shite t'gether than most dwarves will ever experience. Ta ye, he's th' Admiral. But he'll always be me Cap'n."
Atir didn't reply. She knew better than to pry at this point. Bembul and Taran never spoke openly about the past, as if they wanted it to remain buried. She would just have to respect that and turn her curiosity elsewhere.
For example...
"Did you ever, uh..." Wow this was a difficult one to talk about. "You know. Do it. With a human."
Bembul lifted an amused eyebrow in her direction. "Y'mean, 'ave I ever shagged a humie woman? Aye."
Well, that's one way to say it.
"Doesn't it bother you?" She asked. "Doing that with someone without actually being lovers?"
The handsome sailor laughed. "Oh lass. It's nae tha' simple. At sea, ye could spend over a year without seein' a single woman. They were exceedingly rare, y'see. Humies dun believe in gender equality, n' we sailed with lotsa humies. Whene'er we made port, we'd go into town n' try to seduce us some ladies. Oh, we told 'em th' tallest tales if we thought it'd get 'em into bed with us. If the landfish were nae bitin', the Cap'n would go n' find us some women o' the less savory persuasion to keep our beds warm."
Atir's eyes fell from his half-naked form and turned to the foot of the bed. It's not like she didn't expect this. He was older than her by far, and had probably been with a few dozen different women in different ports over the years. Not once had he stayed behind to court them, love them, build a future with them. She would be no different. Just a pleasant distraction of the flesh. To tell herself otherwise would be self-deception.
"Did you ever have any trouble with humans because of that?" She asked after a fashion. Bembul was mostly dressed by then.
"Well, once," he said. "Though not in th' way ye might be thinkin'."
He sat at the edge of the bed before continuing. "One o' the humes on our ship went a wee bit bonkers during a long trip. Name was Amsan or some shite. Started actin' all kinds o' loony. When we hit port, we all went aboot our usual lass-huntin'. Most of us found us some comp'ny for the evenin'. Amsan weren't so lucky. So he tried the whores, but couldn't afford any. Nobody 'ad spare change to 'elp the bugger out either. So he went n' took matters into his own hands."
Atir shuddered. "You mean he..."
"Aye," Bembul said in a stiff monotone. "Made no secret o' his crime either. Poor lass was devastated."
They sat in uncomfortable silence for a time. It was Atir who broke it.
"Did he get away with it?"
"Nae. Once th' Cap'n found out, he took th' matter into 'is own hands."
"What did he do?"
"Gutted the stupid fecker in th' street with a harpoon."
Immigration Ledger
4th of Slate, 202
Mid-SpringNish Bimstorlut, Fishery Worker (m)
Ingish Mengkubuk, Brewer/Mechanic (m)
Rigoth Imushavuz, Trapper/Wood Crafter (m)
Atir Mafolitdun, Glassmaker/Gelder (m)
Zasit Ezumimak, Presser/Weaver (f)
Ast Stukosuz, Trapper (f)
Ezum Tusunglikot, Tanner (m)
Fath Kubukam, Jeweler/Axedwarf (m)
Bomrek Unibbabin, Engraver/Diagnostician (m)
Ral Zithisustuth, Swordsdwarf (f)
Etur Astinal, Animal Trainer (f)
Rigoth Thothasmel, Mechanic (f)
Unib Dumatizeg, Soldier (f)
Avuz Eralsumun, Gem Setter (f)
Endok Bardumkivish, Bone Carver/Metal Crafter (m)
Thob Zonmuzish, Gem Cutter (m)
Unib Zursulvutok, Wax Worker (f)
Lokum Idrathobok, Spinner/Siege Engineer (m)
Kubuk Ralukinod, Glazer (m)Total: 191 Guineacock
1 Turkey Gobbler
1 Baby Llama (m)
1 Baby Llama (f)
1 Blue Peachick (f)
1 Lamb (m)
1 Water Buffalo Calf (m)Total: 7
There are now 72 dwarves living in Crownhammers. Faction leaders, feel free to stake your claims.
jrrocks1:
Here are Perseus's thoughts as of the 6th of Slate.
Author
Topic: Crownhammers, the #1 undead, murderous bird sanctuary in the world (Read 69642 times)