One of my oldest dwarves, Mammouth Tank, has died.
He was among the first waves of migrants at the fortress, back in the 500s. As the fort was struggling itself to greatness, a weremammoth bit him in the arm, irreversibly infecting him, and rendering him into a danger to the rest of his brethren.
Quietly, he was led to the Vault, on the pretense of a guard duty. A drawbridge raised behind him, and it remained so, sealing him away for all eternity.
Month after month, he transformed into a weremammoth, and back into a dwarf, never experiencing hunger, or thirst, or exhaustion. A man of simple tastes, he spent his time simply wandering the surface of his entombment, and admiring the craftsdwarfship of the drawbridge between him, and civilization. Not once was he heard complaining. Not once did he throw a tantrum. He remained calm and peaceful - unlike the vampiress in the next cell over: the vile, cunning, reality-breaking Samantha Fisher.
And then, in the spring of 601, he lied down, and at last went to sleep, forever. He died as peacefully as he had lived, after living one hundred and sixty-six years. Stoic, never breaking.
A monument was erected in his honor, and placed next to the memorial dedicated to the first werebitten dwarf of the fortress: Poor Bastard 1.