< The following is written on a number of dirty rags jammed in a wine bottle >
Queen Iton,
Per your request, I've travelled to Cheesesplatter to urge them to continue the production of the foodstuffs our Deephold has come to depend on. I intended to arrive with the caravan, but left it once I learned I would make much better time by travelling through the wilds with other hardy souls. After no few troubles, I arrived on the 24th of Limestone. Your Majesty, I must admit the situation here is dire. I have attempted to do what you might think best and apply some order to the shape of things. Still, I know you appreciate the context to a tale, so allow me to lay out the pieces.
Your servant,
Doren Staffended
-- Arrival
I could smell Cheesesplatter hours before I could see it. The pungent smell of too many animals entirely too close together choked all of us as we hacked our way through the dense underbrush. As we got closer, I feared we had arrived in the middle of a terrible siege. The sound of shrieks and roars grew louder with each step, and the smell was knocking the smaller flies out of the air. Spotting a break in the tree line, we crept up to the last line of bushes and peeked out. It seems obvious now that not much can be seen from under a bush, but we were quite ready to plant ourselves there until it was safe. The northern gate was open, and humans wandered freely in and out. This was, in our estimation, "Not Great, But Not The Worst". It wasn't until we saw a dwarf wander out that we worked up the nerve to approach. As we neared the walls, I noticed that the grass around the walls was packed with what looked like old branches and rags. As we approached the gate, we were met by a dwarf and a human. The standard greetings took several attempts, as we were constantly drowned out by whatever was making the noise inside the walls. When prodded for an explanation, the dwarf assured us there was no danger, that it was only "Feeding Time". Our host also advised us not to trip on the way into the fort: "You'll stab yourself to death". Those sticks I had noticed? The bones from many battles. Your Majesty, this is where I got my first indication of true trouble. On top of the largest piles of bones were piles of dwarven armor, and bones still inside! How awful must the environment be if they can't even entomb their dead? I've bundled my own rendition of the scene around the walls.
And managed to badger a list of the (known?!) dead from Mayor.
-- While waiting for the caravan
Months have passed. I assumed I'd meet the caravan here and send back my report to Your Majesty. But the caravan never arrived. I've spent my time poking around, trying to better understand what is happening here. In my free moments, I've taken to wandering around and opening doors. This has lead to any number of surprises, some mundane, others terrible. An example of the latter:
My guide chases off a feral dog that was bothering the dead. These dwarves died of dehydration. No one I questioned can seem to remember what they were doing in there. Or why the door was locked from the outside. Or how come no one answered the days of banging as the dwarves... Well, best not to think on it too much.
-- I assume authority (as manager)
I could wait no longer, I had to take action! On the 17th of Timber, I cornered Mayor Zulban and demand he let me take responsibility for the fort. He was curiously calm about this? It seems this fort has the unusual custom of changing management on a yearly basis, and no one else was particularly interested at the time.
--- A note on Zulban and Edzul
Zulban is the stereotypical mayor. Friendly, optimistic, not too bright. Still, if you can put up with his endless efforts to 'align synergies and optimize competencies', he's not too bad.
Edzul is the (former) manager... that poor old girl. She puttered around her office in a iron helm and ratty vest, compulsively arranging the furniture, constantly suggesting the brewers make "A few more drinks". I suggested she take a break when I took over. When Zulban suggested a 'hand off period of shared responsibilty to acclimate me to the role', she punched him in the face. I'm not sure if it was the stress, or just Zulban. Probably Zulban.
-- Reorganizing labors and military
After a brief meeting with the local organizers, I've asked the most talented dwarves to take true ownership of their roles. Most agreed, as long as 'they were out of the rain'.
--- A note on "rain":
Imagine the ominous feel of the first few pebbles from a cave-in. Then make them cold and wet and able to penetrate any clothing you have on. Then make them endless. If your conscience will allow it, give them a hostile, malign intelligence and wings like a fly. They may move in ANY direction at LUDICROUS speeds, the better to strike you in the eye between blinks or to choke you when breathing! They swarm in the low places of the land, creating 'puddles' that turn ordinary dirt into a boot-eating slurry. Everyone I have questioned here has a story of the time they were trapped outside with the rain, and few were better for it.
--- Not everyone was pleased
Your Majesty, we have thousands of urists of drinks and food, all waiting for the caravan. I wish I could say all your citizens were pleased to continue this endless production on the foodstuffs the Deephold desires. But not everyone was happy to learn that food and drink production would resume, especially given the existing stores.
Unfortunately, we were unable to reason with the dwarf, and in the end, only the most drastic measures stopped his rants about 'food can have more than four ingredients'.
Others were even less subtle that they consider their debts to the Deephold paid:
----
Some OOC notes:
It's been a while since I've done any creative writing, so please bear with me. I'm trying for one update a season.
Content is written from the perspective of an autumn 255 migrant, Doren Nomallushon.
Hopefully, no one is too attached to the animals. We have over three hundred, and the fps (on my computer) is struggling. They're going to find "a new home on the farm" very soon.