The founding of a new outpost is a time of much haste.
When said beginnings are accomanied by the dread shufflings of the undead, things are hastier still.
Four days pass in a flurry of activity. A hole is squared; supplies are hauled. A hatch is set.
Having secured the essentials, the shroom-folk lock themselves in for the time being.
Tecŕk the miner finishes the first level, and starts excavating downwards…
Four levels down, disaster!
The groundwater is far more vigorous than expected. A fungal curse escapes Tecŕk's gills, and she moves upwards to prepare a space for food storage.
A little ways above, Tecŕk the planter prepares her plots.
It would be sacreligious, to raise plump helmets for consumption. Cave wheat will grow here, when spring gives way to summer.
The scourge of the undead falls upon a hapless snapping turtle.
Emboldened by the chilonian distraction, Nish the woodworker takes a risk!
The silver had been intended for trade. With things as they are, it makes for a fine kiln.
It is a mystery of the shroomish psyche, that a shroom will not gather clay unless a kiln has been raised. The necessary structure in place, Nish can commence the gathering of a now-precious building material.
Having served its purpose, the kiln is demolished. Valuable workspaces emerge in the rooms surrounding.
The butchery is ready. A packbeast is marked for slaughter.
Having struck a killing blow, the shrooms scurry to process the hair and hide-- lest the untanned skin rise again, and strike at vulnerable shroom-flesh.
Too late.
The militia commander is sent to test his mettle…
A fine hit!
The hair is inert. Activity resumes in the young settlement.
The surface is quieter than usual.
Nish the woodcutter ventures forth to attempt something desperate.
The work is quickly done.
Three shrooms scurry to claim the prize…
Disaster!
Tecŕk the miner rushes forward, buying the others time to find safety! Three fine blows she strikes.
She pays dearly for it.
The turtle loses its bite after awhile, and gnaws at her for what seems an eternity…
...until at last she tears herself free, and runs as best she can back into the sheltering darkness.
The turtle stands guard over her pick.
Tecŕk may never swing a pick again.
((Well that didn't go as planned. Good grief but these guys are easy to break...))