A wave of ten or eleven migrants had repopulated Gangtours to 15 grown dwarves, and three or four children. The task load on each dwarf was now lightened to the point where they could dedicate themselves to singular tasks, such as barrel-making, booze-making, gem cutting, and so on. One brave dwarf was even selected as a militia commander, and outfitted with a bronze spear and nearly full metal armor, which they acquired from the mountain home caravan.
The trouble began when the seasons changed and the overseer decided to open the gates in anticipation of the elvish caravan. Ordinarily, they wouldn't care to deal with the pointy-ears, but they were low on any non-edible supplies and were willing to trade anything with anyone for just a few stray pieces of armor, ammo, weapons, or more animals to expand their farming operations.
One of the war dogs they had brought with them on embark, long since turned into a zombie, slipped past the gates before they could be snapped shut. Poor fortress planning at its finest, to be sure. The lone military dwarf rushed out to great the foe, followed by a rag-tag band of hastily recruited chefs and farmers.
The courageous dwarf stabbed and hacked the undead beast with his spear time and time again, cutting off the monster's nose and thrashing the innards all about the main hall. Still, it would not die. The fight was in the dwarf's favor until, in a stroke of bad luck, the dog caught him in the hand with his powerful jaws, wresting the spear from his hold. Still, he fought on with the last of his strength, biting and shaking the dog by the feet until he collapsed from exhaustion. A newcomer to the fight, arriving late after picking up his gear, quickly ended the fight soon after, cutting off the beast's head with a powerful stroke.
Four brave dwarves were sent to the infirmary, unconscious and dying. Before the doctors could attend to them, another terror was upon them! A zombified falcon! The blasted overseer had not ordered the gate shut during the previous melee! The best armored and skilled dwarves were all laid out in the hospital, unable to fight for their fortress. The children burrowed into the hospital as well as a last resort to hide from the undead bird.
One by one, all able-bodied dwarves outside the hospital died, slain by the winged monster. Then, possibly, salvation! The elvish caravan had arrived! But, no, what were they doing?! They wandered too near to the undead turkey in the mountains, and it proceeded to kill the entire company. There would be no help from those poor souls. The children huddled around their fallen heroes in the hospital and waited to die.
And then, a miracle! A migrant wave of 30 dwarves, just in the nick of time! Several fell to undead falcons on their way to the fortress while the rest dashed through the gates as quick as they were able. They found themselves suddenly recruited, picking up whatever fallen arms were nearby, and attacked the lone undead bird still terrorizing the inner fortress. One dwarf, whether he was strong, skilled, or just lucky, defied all odds when he punched the beast in the chest, blasting it to smithereens. The horror which had nearly destroyed an entire fortress, finally destroyed by a single blow.
The fallen heroes of the original group died of their infections and thirst only a few days after before proper care could be arranged, so long had they been waiting. Only the children had witnessed their deeds, and they would tell the engravers and statue-makers what they had seen so they might be properly remembered. No dwarves from the original embark had survived. Would the overseer and these new dwarves learn from those who came before them and properly secure their halls? Only time would tell...
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Topic: What's going on in your fort? (Read 6229463 times)