((OOC: These are just my notes taken while playing the game. I write for DF in a sort of "stream-of-consciousness" style, so some of this may of may not seem "unimportant" or "boring."))
This is a -cat leather bound journal-. The thread is midnight blue with dimple dye.Overseer's Log, Spring 241:
I, LordBrassroast have assumed control of this "fortress". And by fortress, I mean Filthy Human town. A bare few things are below the surface, in rightful stone. Nigh-all important buildings are built aboveground and we sleep in filthy sand or far aboveground.
We have 9 full-time soldiers and 10 "Neighborhood watch". We have a lot of people, and I am expanding the military by at least 15 individuals.
As Vucarstinthad, Cook has been convicted of multiple counts of disorderly conduct, which in our society means "beating the living shit out of random people until the militia takes you down".
Speaking of justice, we have no Fortress Guard, just one guard captain. This needs to be rectified.
Umm... As was beat to death by Sanctume in the course of justice. I was thinking he would be imprisoned for a little while. Whatever. One less dwarf to feed.
A semi-wild giant olm has forgotten their training. This is a slight problem.
Said olm has just reverted to a wild state. However, it is surrounded by other giant olms. Who the HFS thought this was a good idea?!?
I am putting through the order to build more butcher shops and butcher several excess animals. We should have more meat.
The elf caravan has just arrived!
And a few hours behind them, some bastard diplomat. She goes to talk to Gwolfski. I follow, while QuQuasar goes to give the snooty treehugging elves all our hard-earned food.
The elf wants us to stop the "senseless slaughter" of trees. Lady, did you not smell the charcoal when you came in? See the village made of
wooden buildings! No. Screw you. We cannot stop our production because of your quaint (read: stupid-arse) sensibilities. She blathers about some goblin attacks, and it sounds like they're having a bit of a hard time with it. Then she makes a short joke and leaves.
I order more wardogs to be trained.
By armok, it takes forever to haul all the food we produce to the depot.
While trading, I realize I am an idiot. The dwarves are uselessly hauling a ridculous amount of wood barrels to the elves, who will refuse to take them. I amend my earlier hauling orders.
Some dwarves aren't hauling. Say it's not their job. I tell them it's their gorram job now.
I trade for 2 male dingoes (hopefully a female will show, if not they'll be tasty), a black bear, and all the clothes they have. I noticed some citizens committing indecent exposure earlier ((and OOC I'm too lazy to make a real clothing industry)) so these will help. The elves leave with a little less than every gorram crumb, because we literally cannot fit all the crap onto their mules.
We traded
3620 drinks,
3469 prepared meals,
24 raw meat, and
a few raw plants. It's hard to get an exact count on the plants.
Our woodcutter has no axe. I assume this is because of Bearskie and his "Total Armanent Project." I will remove the woodcutter from his squad and hope that solves the problem.
Except he's not in a squad. He's hauling, so I can only assume he will pick up an axe after he is done. We certainly have free axes.
While wandering in the halls of our forefathers, I discover a naked, crying gorlak chaired to the coffin of SQman. WHAT THE SWEET ARMOK F**K.
Gwolfski wants us to forge more armanents in the form of battleaxes. I heartily agree with him.
I begin adding another level to the aboveground apartments.
Just in time for a horde of migrants to arrive.
2 millers, a surgeon, a diagnoser, an engraver, a miner, 2 carpenters, a shearer,
4 fisherdwarves, a mason, a metalcrafter, an armorsmith, some miscellaneous farmers, a clerk and a man who apparently dissects small animals for fun. All told, nigh on thirty souls.
Quasar, in the spirit of goblin-murder mandates, has mandated a set of bolts. I am very happy he mandated this, and not a slade bed like the typical noble moron.
We ran out of bauxite and petrified wood blocks, so instead of the new apartments having a beautiful red color scheme, they are a bastard mix of random colors. Wonderful.
Some random fisherdwarf is stumbling about obliviously. I decide that happiness is an important priority in this fort.
The idiot hunters keep getting scared by the animals they were happily pumping bolts into a moment before. Freakin' idiots.
Gwolfski starts a pointless and boring party, the kind that's just an excuse for nobles to talk about themselves. I don't really value merrymaking.
One of the new miners wants to be called "Bismuth Lad, the Rock Collector". Whatever. As long as he keeps mining.
Gwolfski mandates more axes, new butcher's building is being set up, clear-cutting inside the walls proceeds apace, all is well.
New Butchers:
The rest of spring proceeds uneventfully.
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Topic: Breadbowl: a Succession Farm [42.06] - Breadbowl Ends (Read 446436 times)