You're in the Keep of Boltspumpkin, clothes still dripping from the rain. It's well after nightfall, and outside, the hills and woods are dark. There's no-one else here besides an exhausted-looking Dwarf sweeping the floor angrily, if such a thing is possible. After you walk around for a few minutes, you come across a stack of codices and scrolls in a tucked-away corner; these aren't museum pieces, these are the journals of those brave souls who often went to hell and back to bring the museum pieces here or died trying. You pick one up at random. a thick, battered codex bound with leather and covered with cuts, scratches, and stains. On the cover, written in dark ink, is the name 'Imic Egeshalu'. You open it, and begin to read.
Music
9th of Slate, 700.This is the journal of Imic Egeshalu, Heatherwind, a Moth Man from the east. I got this quire and pen from a passing trader, and I kept it for some time before I decided to start writing. I've lived my life in the Village of Dikebored in the Steppes of Urging, ever since I left the Invisible forest, years and years ago. Since then, I've worked as a hunter. I never managed to get the hang of bows or even crosssbows though, and in the end I found I was more comfortable throwing my blades. I've never been truly comfortable here, however. Every day, I've wanted to wander beyond the fields. The steppe disappears in every direction, until the hills rise up in the north and the east, and those hills have taunted me for years. I want to see mountains, I want to see the lost realm of the Dwarves, I want to walk in the forests again. The world is wide and open, and ever since I heard of Boltspumpkin and the Museum within, I've contemplated leaving. So that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to leave, I'm going to see what I can see, and I'm going to find something to give to the Museum. If you find this journal, wherever it may lie, I am likely dead, and if you can, I ask that you bring it to the museum. It's not fit to be a museum piece, but perhaps the story will be enough for them to keep it around somewhere anyway. I sit now in my home in Dikebored, my things gathered, and the closed door taunting me, hiding the wide world beyond it. If I'm still alive when I rest this evening, I will write again. I go now into the unknown. If this is to be my last entry, goodbye.Imic closed the book and put it into his backpack, along with the pen and a bottle of ink. As he stood up, he used two of his four arms to stretch, and the other two to scratch his back. He picked up his cloak and stuck it on, followed by his hood.
He gave his last goodbyes to his roommates, before opening the door and stepping outside.
Outside the door, the sky was clear above and the sun was low in the east. There was a cool breeze blowing in from the west, and the waning crescent moon could be seen directly above, outlined with blue in the daylight. The house was made with logs, and thatched with the long steppe grasses. a lettuce patch was planted around the front garden. The green steppe stretched in in every direction, broken only by those distant, taunting hills in the north and east. After he left, he wandered around the village aimlessly and in silence for some time, before he found himself turning right at the statue of Ngoso Thiefclasped at the crossroads, and heading down the road towards the other statue, of Ihhi Strayednest.
He walked up to it. There was a divination die here, that he and the other villagers used occasionally. He gave it a roll.
He smiled, suddenly, and gave a small laugh. The naysayer's folly. He put the die back down, and adjusted the straps on his backpack. He thought for a while, as he began to eye up the cardinal directions. East was filled with old forests, the north was filled with Goblins and old Kingdoms. The south had little besides Goblins and eventually, the tundra of Heroes. The west held Boltspumpkin, it held the old realm of the Dwarves, it held Kingdoms old and new, it held the lands where Humans now sought to reclaim their old Hamlets, ans it held mountains. He put one foot in front of the other, and began on the road. A few people ran past chasing another group, one of them screaming his name. They disappeared behind him. It didn't matter to Imic. The problems of Dikebored wouldn't be his until some distant day when he might return, if he didn't die. It made him feel a little twinge of guilt for running off, but it wasn't enough to overpower his wanderlust. The road faded behind him, and soon the Village disappeared behind the horizon. He was free.
He walked for some time. He passed through a few villages through the midday, and each time he would find the occasional ruined or abandoned house standing out against the rest. There was a tension in the air. People looked at each other with wary eyes. As he passed through one such village, he came to a fork in the river. He stopped for a little bit, to take in the bubbling brook, when something stirred behind him. The sound of feet on grass turned into a Man introducing themselves, and then screaming in fury. Imic turned around, and a swordswoman stood there. Her voice was different from the one he had heard previously.
Imic stood dazed for a second, not processing this. A second too long.
As he desperately dodged her constant blows, his cloak flew up to reveal two massive papery wings, which began to beat. He would not be able to run away from this.
It was starting to look like he wouldn't be able to fly away from this either.
Each time he prepared for flight, she dragged him back to the earth. Soon, his legs couldn't hold him up. His hand was mangled. His wings were the only things keeping him going. He had thought that this would have hurt more.
He gave one last beat of his wings. His ichor coated her as she grabbed him again. With one last beat, he tried desperately to get away.
He hung there, limp in the air, ichor trailing down to the grass beneath. His legs hung uselessly below him.
Hiding his overwhelming fear, with the hands that could still move, he took his copper arrows out of his backpack, and threw.
The first strike hit her. He threw another, but she jumped away. He threw another.
Yet another arrow flew, as she jumped away. He could see vomit on the ground around her. She hit the next arrow away with her sword.
She did not do so again for the next one. As yet another arrow flew, she rolled away from it.
She didn't make it much further.
Imic landed, and hit the ground with a thud. His breath was laboured and slow. He closed his eyes, and gave a sigh of relief, as he finally allowed himself to relax. As he stared at the cold, unseeing eyes of the Human lying in a growing pool of her own blood, he felt sick, and scared, and horrified. Slowly, the pain came to him in full force, and he simply lay there for a long, long time, before he finally gained the strength to drag himself over to his abandoned trousers and his bloody arrows. Then he saw her. Another human. Eyes set to kill. He beat his wings faster than he ever had before, and watched as the other human ran away.
He lowered himself to the ground and took a look at the Swordswoman's corpse. She had no belongings on her besides her sword. He left everything he hadn’t already picked up, and as quick as he could, he dragged himself away, away from the Village, away from the other Human, away from the corpse's dead, cold eyes.
9th of Slate, 700, late evening.
I got into a fight today with a Human. They started with punches, but they kept mangling me until I was forced to fly and use my arrows. I crawled away in the end. Part of me says that she didn't intent to kill me, but I have too many scars now for that to be true. By the end of it, I couldn't use my legs and I could barely use my wings. I still haven't gotten the ichor out of my clothing, it remains as a constant reminder of what happened.
After I made it out of the Village where I ran into her, I fiollowed the river north. I ran into a pack of boars, and I took one down for dinner. The river froze over even as I butchered it, and the snow came down soon after. I found a suitably shady tree, and here I am now. there isn't much more to say. I set off to the north-west in the morning. The hills grow ever taller in the distance.He put the book, pen, and ink back in the backpack, and shut it, placing it beneath the tree and beyond the touch of the snow. Finally, he himself lay down in the embrace of the tree behind him, and he slowly drifted off to sleep, the crackling of the fire a gentle lullaby to his tired ears.
That took much longer than I expected it to. It ended up more grimdark than I had intended, too. Hopefully it's alright.
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Topic: Museum III, adventure succession game (DF 0.47.05) (Read 473288 times)