For now, unless there are any objections, I'll go for another turn.
Looking forward to the action. Take care for those treasure hunters, I think there might be a whole lot more coming. . .
Ask and ye shall receive.
Granite 1st, 178-inally got away from those bastards in the capital, though not how I’d’ve liked it. Couple of the Preisthood’s Thralls showed and informed me I had the ‘honour’ of being selected as the next leader of that fort – Smith-something-or-other.
Personally, that’s a wagonload of shit. Maybe implying Baroness Bardumoddom shags Beak Dogs was a bit much, but then she shouldn’t have tried to muscle in on my business. Demanding I hand my captures over and sell goods straight to her for a ‘reward’? That ain’t how I do business, no sir!
Either way, I’m stuck with this.
I’ve heard rumours of this place – ‘parrently, it was made specifically to piss off the Goblins in the area. Not sure if it’s succeeded so far, but I can only hope there’s blood there.
Zefon willing, I won’t end up shanked in the back and thrown into the mire.
Well, I’ve reached the fort – Smithsoldier, apparently – and it ain’t looking too bad. Sorta.
There’s far too many bloody human bards for my taste, singing their silly little songs in some sort of meeting area. Why the idiots there were listening to them, instead of, y’know, working is fucking beyond me. And what, in Armok’s name, is with the howling from that sealed-up office? All the guys I’ve asked just mumbled something about ‘wallrunners’ and ‘infectious bites’ and a ‘hero’ before slamming back their drinks and loudly ordering another.
Anyway, met with the previous Overseer of this place. Some guy named Salmeuk – doesn’t seem too bad a guy, quite effective with his reorganisations and work, and he’s given me a mine’s worth of plans and notes detailing every little bit of the fort at current. That’ll see no end of usefulness in the coming days, I imagine.
Went on a little tour of the place: Salmeuk’s ‘reorganisation’ looks to have been a big one, with the spinal staircase and industrial centre of the caverns. Heavy emphasis on metals production; you can barely go a step without tripping on metal bars, or catching some smelter-smoke on the nose or in the throat. Bit of grumbling from a few workers when I asked about him, but most seem fairly supportive.
Then, there’s the Vault. Oh, sweet Armok and Avuz above, the Gem Vault.
Apparently, I passed out when I saw it. Straight-up passed out from joy at the sight of so much money-to-be; I think that’s hogwash. Just a bit of light-headedness, that all.
Defences up top (once my legs finished attempting to kill me) are solid – though I will admit, I was surprised by the caged menagerie of creatures. A few crow-people, some Goblins, even a couple humans, with signs on their cages reading ‘Thought they could steal Artefacts, were proven wrong’. Idiots, the both of them, though seeing some of the rowdier Recruits poking sticks at them was fairly funny.
Maybe we could add an archery range and fortifications here?
2nd-5th GraniteThe natives of this fortress indicate that someone was captured during the assault against the vile Goblins – Shem Wasptomes, a Dwarf. Apparently, there was an attack on this very fortress by them scant days before my arrival; no casualties, and several Goblin-captures. I refuse to let their provocation go unanswered!
Three of the squads of this military were gathered in the barracks; I have ordered them to march north, and raze the Goblin holding of Kindledticks to the ground. If they are wise, they’ll salt the bloody earth and render it inhospitable enough no creature may ever live there again. With luck, that force should purify the place and return unscathed.
A messenger from the metalsmiths tells me that Iron Bars have been misplaced, and that it was the work of one… I can’t spell that name, moving swiftly on: The blame was laid on some Carpenter, but a quick check of Fortress Records indicate he died a while back. One of the Masons made some quaint religious sign, then dashed off to his workshop, saying something about a memorial slab to ‘appease the angry spirit, and entice him to the Sunless Country once more.’
In an effort to put those caged idiots up top to some use, I have ordered the construction of a mass-use pit. Assuming they are not so fragile as to die from the fall, the military will sacrifice them to Armok when we are done.
What th- A
Goblin Bard, of all things, comes to us to entertain?!
…If someone put Quarry Bush in my rum again, I am going to throttle them.
7th GraniteOut of nowhere, a messenger brings word that Ast Bronzefought is to become King of The Bridled Pulley, our parent civilisation! Apparently, the old one vanished off the face of the world en route here.
No idea who killed him, but that Salmeuk guy looked oddly shifty when it was announced to the fort at large. Maybe… nah, was probably the bloody Gobbos. Armok alone knows those gits would’ve gone for him, important to us as he was.
In an effort to further fill out the Gem Vault- (obscured by drool stain) – have given the order for them to be put into construction; the jewellers will certainly be busy when they are finished, and my-
our purses shall swell ever more!
You have got to be yanking my chain. A performance troupe has arrived, calling themselves the Crimson Gavels. One human followed by two of those filthy Goblins. I had to resist the urge to have the Guards gut them both on the spot, if only for reasons of our reputation; as it stands, they seem to be performing alongside the other Bards down on the ex-workshop levels.
9th GraniteYou are ‘Zon’ Ironmarks, Captain of The Barricaded Trades, and you have reached the Pits of Kindleticked.
The Goblins claimed this place long ago, during the Long Night; they had boiled out of the ground in the Evil regions of the South, overrunning whole fortresses in a numberless tide of green horrors. There are still signs of the former Dwarven occupancy – a half-effaced mural here, a badly-defaced statue there, the corrupted, warped architecture of the walls. Defaced and tainted beyond salvation, but certainly not recognition.
Your squad stands at your backs, weapons readied and armoured bodies close. Iron armour is good, but enough Goblins show up, and they will find a way to breach your shell and cut you to shreds.
The creatures are there below, wandering about the terrain without a care in the world; you know better, directing your soldiers into ambush positions. They conceal themselves in the leaves and mud, others moving back to form an ‘anvil’ with their backs to the wall. You breathe in, breathe out, gauge the distance between the Goblins and your squad.
You
move.The Goblins see you in moments, charging towards them like a madman; eager cries come from their throats as they charge you in return. You pivot hard, rushing back towards your own lines. They follow, like the rabid beasts they are, screeching in their profane tongue and waving weapons eagerly. They are fools, blood-mad and hungry for a battle.
As the bulk of the Goblins enter your chosen area, the trap is sprung. Speardwarves erupt from the underbrush to drive spears through skin, bone, and muscle; Axedwarves follow suit, bursting forth to hack Goblins apart like wood. They wheel, suddenly terrified, comprehending the trap they have sprung.
The battle rages, but the Goblins stand little chance. In the space of moments, they are a broken mess of severed limbs, shattered bone, and pulped flesh, corpses strewn across the soil of their foul home. They live like beasts, and they die like them.
The gates of the Pit swing wide, and a horde of the damned pours forth. Trolls, Goblins, and-
Your blood runs cold for an instant, then ignites in terrible, burning hate.
Shem Wasptomes, the Dwarf you were sent here to rescue, leads the horde. His flesh bears the marks of horrific torture, entire sections wrenched upwards and barbed hooks embedded in his flesh. His lips, exposed by the helmet, are all but gone, the teeth chipped and bloodied; his nose little more than scraps. But the eyes… those horrify and enrage you the most.
Any semblance of the Dwarven spirit than animated him is gone. Hate, rage, torment – all that remains, the stare of a feral beast asking to be put out of its misery.
Before you have any chance to react, Zasit Boltopened plunges past. Hammer raised and a curse screaming from his lips, he moves with the speed of one possessed by Armok.
Two blows is all it takes.
The first bursts Shem’s left lower leg apart as though it is a rotten fruit; Zasit brings his hammer back into an upwards swing, driven by a berserker's fury. Shem’s head jerks back on his neck with such violence that you can see the bone protrude from the nape.
He crumples to the earth, and Zasit’s men plunge in after him. Any chance you have to assist him is gone in moments as the trolls charge you, a group twenty strong. Their barbaric howls ring from the walls as they come, a tide of flesh and raw, unholy hate.
Cursing aloud, you raise your weapon and brace yourself for the fight ahead.
You are ‘QD’ Practicedlashes, and you are currently drenched head to toe in blood.
None of it is yours, of course. The colour is a dead giveaway, as are the bodies.
You stand at the centre of a circle of corpses, Goblin and troll alike. Your chest still heaves slightly with exertion, and your spear-hand shakes like that of a fresh recruit, but you feel as jubilant as the day you left the Mountainhomes for Smithsoldier. By Armok, it felt good, to plunge into the fire and strike with such force!
Your force had been able to push the beasts back, cutting a bloody swathe through the defenders, towards the walls of their foul mimicry of a fortress. The twenty trolls were little more than cannon fodder, their bodies swiftly speared and hammered into submission; the only real challenge came as you reached their defensive positions.
Then again, to call them ‘defensive’ positions would be…questionable. Little more than bashed together constructions of wood and soil, but they’d held them back long enough for enemy reinforcements to arrive. That had been Fun; there was barely enough room to wield his spear, and those trolls had gotten far too close for comfort, but the squad had managed to help drive them off.
The other squads hadn’t been as lucky. The other two leaders were incompetent idiots, and their tactics wanting – they were damned lucky there were no deaths, and only a few cuts and scrapes among their soldiers.
A loud whistle cuts through your memory. The order to march back to the Mountainhomes has been sent; you re-join your comrades, many laden down with treasure and pulling around eleven Beak Dogs on rope leads, for the long journey back home.
11th GraniteApparently, a Mason has been jailed for, quote-unquote, ‘[a] violation of production order’. 57 days remain on the sentence, apparently put in place by the damn Broker.
16th GraniteNoting the number of Beak Dogs wandering this fort, I have ordered the bulk of them be put up for slaughter. Their meat and fat should prove quite useful for our rendering and soap-making industries, as well as providing some bones for Marksdwarf training at a later date.
New bedrooms have been placed under construction due to the rapidly-increasing population – we have something like seventy-one Dwarves and Humans in this fort at the moment, and barely half that number in bedrooms. Despite what the one creepy guy near the shrines keep saying, I sorely doubt my comrades will react well to sleeping on hard rock.
You are ‘Zon’ Ironmarks, and you wished you would never have to set foot in this shithole again.
Kindledticks rises above you once more – your squad failed to cleanse this place last time, a few survivors lurking in the barrows and boltholes of the Pit. Now you will finish what they started, putting down the last few beasts that call this place home.
The survivors of your first assault sally out, hungry for blood and half-mad from trauma.
Just as you fear, another Dwarf leads them – it looks even more ravaged than the previous leader, burns, cuts, and protruding bones visible even from your distance. This must be the other prisoner, Ducim Tongsthroat.
Bloodlust overcomes two of your subordinates; driven by hate and the sight of their once-comrade’s fate, both squads rush forwards amidst a litany of war-cries. With little choice, your Speardwarves follow suit.
Cyan blood flies as trolls are cut down by axe and spear alike, little more than chaff against the blades of your troops. The remaining Goblins charge with the, only for the axe and speardwarves to cut them off – and indeed, going by blood-spurts, down – as the trolls meet their ends.
A blade skitters harmlessly off your armour. The Broken Dwarf that leads the enemy has struck you, but the profane shank of iron he wields fails to penetrate. His dull-eyed look of calm never changes; he just raises his weapon again, like the Undead of age-old tales, and lurches towards you once again.
Your spear punches through its throat before it has a chance. Blood bubbles around the shaft, the Broken Dwarf attempting to haul itself closer to you before it falls limp.
Growling, you tear the weapon free of your once-comrade and wheel to face your comrades. They’re mostly done – only the looting remains.
“Burn this place to the ground!” You roar. “Leave nothing for these abominations to salvage!”
The cries of acknowledgement go up almost immediately: torches are lit, hammers driven into stone, and general destruction of the Pit begins as your soldiers go to work.
One of the soldiers comes over, looking down at Ducim’s broken body.
“Commander, what do we do with him?”
You shake your head. “His flesh has become too tainted to lie in the soil of our home. Make a pyre of the scrap wood, and burn him atop it – we will see his memory carved into the stone when we return.”
25th GraniteA Raze mission has been sent further afield, to the Goblin Pit of Equalhated. Our most experienced troops will give them a battering and hopefully destroy the settlement, complicating any attempts to revive Kindledticks for the nth time. With any luck, this marks the start of our actual Reclaimation Campaign. I feel I should investigate that office, the one right from the very start. I swear I heard footsteps in there, yet there are no entrances or exits, merely sealed walls.
The Overseer walked briskly towards the sealed-up office. It was late in the night, at this point, and most of the other Dwarves were in bed – he didn’t feel fear, though. That was for the weak, like the Nobles that infested the Mountainhomes, sucking resources from those who needed it.
When your empire faced destruction, surely its survival meant more than your own purse? Not to them.
He reached the stone of the wall, cocking his head to the side as he listened for the footsteps. There it is! A light, steady foot, tap, tap, tapping up and down the length of the room. He pressed his ear to the wall, listening closely.
Other sounds came to his ear: strained, painful breathing, soft muttering and a female voice, seemingly talking to herself to or the thin air. But why? He could make out no more than a few snippets – they reminded him of the prayers he had been taught back in the Mountainhome, supposed to ward against curses and isolation.
There came odd cracking noises – then a sudden, terrible scream, mingled with the sound of cracking bone and shifting flesh. He jerked back in shock, the scream deepening and changing to a monstrous, feral roar. Even muffled by the wall, it was clear there was something behind there.
As the wall shook from an impact on the other side, claws scraping across the stone, the Overseer took to his heels, back to his quarters.
He would not sleep that night, mind wracked with images of feral eyes and snarling teeth; his thoughts seethed with fearsome possibilities and dark implications, all wondering what the Thing behind the door was.
The Chief Medical Dwarf looked up from her work as the Overseer entered the room. He looked like he hadn’t slept a wink, dark circles ringing his eyes and frequently yawning long and wide. There was something else, though, beneath the exhaustion - the look of a Dwarf who had found something strange and terrible.
She tossed him a small vial, filled with a noxious, stinking liquid.
“Sleeping drought,” she explained, shortly. “Will ensure you’re out like a light.”
He nodded, but did not leave. Her face creased in a frown as she looked over towards him. “Is there something else, Overseer?”
The Overseer hesitated for a moment, before it all spilled forth. “During the night, I heard… roars. Screams. Sounds of pain – all from a walled-up office. I was wondering if you know anything about this?”
The Chief Medical Dwarf’s jaw twitched sharply, locking as hard as iron for an instant. Then she sighed, and began to speak. “Well, I suppose you would have found out sooner or later.”
Before he could interject, she continued, putting her quill off to the side.
“One of our Dwarves was injured by a creature of the Dark Gods mere weeks before your coming. Whatever vile curse it carried infected her before she could slay it,” A note of bitter anger entered her voice. “And as far as we know, there is no cure. We were forced to quarantine her, within that office – a fine reward for heroism!”
There was no mistaking the sarcastic snarl at the end of her voice. The Overseer raised an eyebrow, and the Chief Medical Dwarf grimaced at the unspoken question.
What is this curse?“Once or twice a month, when the full moon shines bright overhead, she becomes a monster. The curse within her blooms to full, and her mind is lost for the night; her body warps to that of the monster that cursed her, and she attacks anything in sight in a mindless frenzy.”
The Overseer stepped back at that, eyes widening in horror. “By Armok…”
The Chief Medical Dwarf nodded gravely. “Aye, Overseer. We were lucky she was quarantined before her first change - Armok knows she could have ripped us all to tatters. Now she dwells within there, sealed away for the rest of her days. Regrettable, but required.”
The Overseer nodded, already drawing the plans for a food-chute and wall-grate in his head. Cursed or not, that Dwarf was a damned hero, and deserved some contact with the fortress she had fought so hard to protect.
4th SlateSome stuffed-shirt calling itself ‘The Human Representative’ has showed up at the fort – it seems harmless enough, and it is currently allowed to wander the fort. I’m keeping an eye on it, though – if it turns out to be a spy… well, the Goblins we have upstairs always need more raw meat.
The report from those troops sent to purify Equalhated has reached us: Equalhated has been battered badly, reduced to about twenty Goblins plus unknown number of trolls and Beak Dogs. Preparations are already being made for a second strike – I’ll need to give the troops some time to recuperate and rest first.
8th SlateDamn these Nobles to the black pits of Hell!
Some raging maniac ordered our imprisoned Mason to be beaten in lieu of serving the rest of her sentence out – they’re now lying in a hospital bed, senseless and incapable of standing. They’re a skilled Axedwarf as much as a Mason, and – cherry on top of the diarrhoea sundae – we haven’t got a single bloody crutch for them for move on.
I have ordered the Craftsdwarves to spring to work, making crutches for both now and the inevitable future injuries.
13th SlateAnother two missions marched out today – our more experienced soldiers march upon Kindleticks, freshly repopulated by reinforcements from the neighbouring Pits, while our fresh recruits have been commanded to finish off Equalhated. The twenty-odd beasts there should prove little threat to them – this will also be the first time our newly-made Marksdwarves see true battle.
Damn that troublesome ghost! Kastirdug has been misplaced, and we have not yet been able to exorcise the one responsible. I have commanded my men to search for it, and I can only hope that it turns up – its loss would be a tremendous blow, both due to its value as an apparent Artefact and its significance to our Fort. In the meantime, I will order the Priesthood to make ready to carve the slab and exorcise this troublesome ghost.
23rd slate(Two pages obscured, writing fragmentary and disordered).
I thought that two squads would have been able to deal with twenty-odd Goblins. I was wrong, and this fort has paid for my hubris in blood.
The attack against Equalhated was a failure. We lost Mansionrope and Pathgorge, with the rest of the Marksdwarves and their support sent fleeing like whipped dogs. The rest escaped unscathed, thank Armok, but we have still lost two soldiers. Orders have been given to engrave their memorial slabs.
8th FelsiteArmok’s temple is soon to begin construction. We must please Him, lest he choose to withdraw His blessings when we need them the most, as I fear shall be the case in our coming days.
Assuming all goes to plan, the Temple will be two-layered; the upper layer will be designed as a specialised mass-pitting area, with captured animals and Goblins being dropped onto Menacing Spike-traps. These will, of course, be guarded by specially-ordained members of our military, who will complete the sacrifice should impalement fail to end the offering. After that, the corpses will be hauled off to specialised stockpiles and left to rot to the bones - for some quaint reason, the Dwarves refuse to butcher dead Goblins - which will then be harvested as an offering.
Pedestals shall also be set up around the edges of the Temple; the skulls of particularly worthy or valuable foes will be honoured here, while the unworthy shall be discarded or used as totems.
Perhaps I should order a bones-only stockpile established, for convenience.
11th FelsiteSalmeuk has been taken by a fey mood. According to a Metalsmith, he abruptly abandoned his work, seized several nearby metal bars, and raced back to his forge, before beginning to work feverishly over some unknown item. Whatever he makes, Zefon grant it be good!
17th FelsiteSalmeuk has created ītatmostod, a thin lead left gauntlet. He has chosen the path of an Armourer, unsurprisingly enough.
28th FelsiteOur wounded mason-slash-axedwarf has dehydrated to death – the medical staff inform me that this was due to a lack of buckets to carry water. Damnation!
I have ordered around 30 rock jugs to be made and many to be earmarked for the hospital; with luck, this will ensure no repeat of this. A well should be constructed, or perhaps a pump established to provide a continued source of water there.
In the meantime, I must attend to the funeral preparations. One of the tombs will be filled, engraved, and sealed, Armok rest her soul.
1st HematiteSummer has come.
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Topic: Smithsoldier, Year 12: Clothes, Madness, and Beasts (And Candy) [47.04] (Read 63651 times)