Crashmaster's Accounting of the End
Ledger A
It's said that some dwarves can sense their own impending doom and become compelled to record the mad, gory descent into oblivion. So I guess I'll get started then. Not surprisingly there are quite a few others carrying journals around here these days.
Life should have been long and simple as a weaponsmith, but his Gaudiness wanted excellent beds and for reasons unexplained he wanted said beds from yours truly. Yeah, me, and not iron beds made of swords like what would seem logical but actual wo-ugh,... w-ugh,... wo-od ones.
I felt the doom when I overheard it was my neck on the line over the beds no one was making but I resisted and taught myself to make the damned things well enough in time to satisfy the mandate. And that's where I elfed it all up. I would have stood a chance at surviving a jail term but working outside of orders and misappropriating resources got me landed in this outpost of the damned. Worst of all I'm officially a carpenter now.
Other then some time spent at the forge here everything only ever gets worse. The first guy in charge rides me like a sonovacrundle all mothersporeing year. Finally get out from under his thumb and find from the new guy, Flint, we need more weapons (that's good) because we are beset by murderous, grotesquely-enlarged and misshaped wildlife and quite possible soon some of our brethren (that's bad).
It seemed it couldn't but this year's been worse, there's a planter running things now, seems almost sober-ish most times. Good foreign policy though. As broker I only had to meet with him once. He couldn't recall my name, I told Jet not to worry, not many dwarves know me as I had been keeping a low profile and generally looking busy since being nearly worked to death by Mr.Fog but Jet here takes the meaning all wrong and the meeting to the halls and is soon introducing me as Crashmaster to what seems like every dwarf in the fortress. Not my thing but what harm could come I asked the doomy feeling intensifying in my stomach.
Not four months later when the question was asked who would replace the hideously deformed mutant freak-bag of a mayor the name Crashmaster was fresh on many minds.
And so book, there it is, I am not just doomed, but a doomed noble, a cure-able nobility maybe, but I fear I see the next step down into madness already, I have feared it since those awful beds, to horrible, to shameful to bear, making an artifact out of wo-ugh,...
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