It is raining putrid sludge, just as it was when the 7 dwarves started their fortress.
The dwarves knew they had to endure. Situated between a tower and a goblin fortress, they were going to stop the threat of their homelands once and for good. Experienced fortress builders as they were, they set swiftly about their task.
It didn't take long before the last mountain hall succumbed to invaders and after a polite discussion, Medtob the engraver became king. It was raining putried sludge. Again. One other hillock remained. The dwarves had to endure.
Despite the harsh environment, the fortress thrived. Artifacts were created. Scholars and legendary musicians started to visit and add to this already legendary place. Alas it also attracted some less savory types.
Between the disgusting rains, the dwarves easily dealt with a giant and a small invasion of goblins. Soap usage was high. Temple visits were frequent. Stress was surprisingly low.
But this fortress was about to tested even more. With the rains, a human criminal washed up and took off with an instrument made of gold. The dwarves laughed at him. Some junk made by an apprentice to learn his skill. A much better one was crafted.
The criminal returned. Time to craft more musical instruments? The criminal was just mingling and listening to the many performances. It seemed rather innocent. Maybe he bettered his live?
Then a blasphemous act occurred. The sheer profanity! One of our very own stole the artifact perfect peridot gem from its display. Even before he could be interrogated, he was seen passing on the artifact to the human criminal. Something really foul was going on and it was not just the rain!
The criminal was quickly apprehended and sentenced to a full month in jail. The artifact put back on display again. The dwarves had heard frightening legends about the inability of retrieving stolen artifacts, but they did it. Nothing was going to stop them.
So it was on an uneventful day, the criminal was released again. He headed straight for the inn. Every sane dwarf would go for a drink, so the dungeon master thought little of it. His carelessness however spelled doom for the fort.
Around the same time a slightly drunk militia member decided to go to the inn and correct the alcohol issue (slightly? common he needed more, the poor chap). There he met the criminal. On the loose. Or so he thought. He immediately fired a shot and hit his mark!
The criminal stumbled, bleeding, into the inn. Panicked he didn't know where to go. Another shot was fired at him. Miss! Several dwarves behind him had to dodge the bolt. One of them he recognized as a friend. He was still panicking and trying to just get away. His friend thought different about it. In rage for nearly being shot the dwarf drew his axe an joined the fight on the side of the criminal.
Utter chaos followed. Everyone was fighting everyone. Even the kids joined in and started to fight everyone. Whenever wounded were taken care off, new fights would start again. Quickly everyone even remotely skilled in medical care was killed.
No one escaped unharmed. Without medical care the wounds soon infected. The once proud halls became silent.
Now only the masterful inscriptions in the grand halls tell the tale of this fortress. Because there is not a living soul still alive that remembers its name. Or it must be the human criminal, as his body has never been found.
Ir is still raining putrid sludge. Beware what it brings!