Journal of Kom ‘QD’ Uzinithbi, 18th Malachite, 703.This is the journal of Kom ‘QD’ Uzinithbi, a Black Mamba Man of Sparkhides. I’ve called this place home ever since I crawled out of that stinking hole of a marsh; the humans here didn’t really like me, but if they wanted fresh meat on their tables, they had few other options. I can drop a deer with a copper bolt through the eye at a dozen paces while lying down, and all of these bastards knew it.
Today, though, I leave. I have no choice but to do so, for the place is completely deserted – everyone’s seemed to vanish overnight, leaving me to remain. Rumours reached this sleepy little hamlet of a Museum, just before all this – a massive fortress, where adventurers bring items to be enshrined within. I know my destination, then: I will find an item worthy of this place, and bring it to them.
Should you find my diary, I will have failed in my quest. I don’t care what you do with this, or with my corpse; I ask only that you bring something to the Museum, and submit it in my name.Kom closed the book and slipped it into his one of two backpacks, along with the necessary quill and ink. His serpentine head twitched from side to side as he looked about, before raising himself upward and beginning to slither off. A copper crossbow and a quiver of arrows were strapped to his back, while a bronze breastplate, copper helm, and copper gauntlets protected the rest of him.
The air was cold, though not bitterly so, and the sky above was clear. The Sun was directly overhead – noon, it would seem – as a cool breeze began blowing in from the west; over in the east, a waxing crescent moon had begun to arise. For a moment, he hesitated, considering where to go. West held nothing but stony mountains and ruined fortresses; to the east, there was rumour of a powerful magicker, raising the dead to do their bidding. North was no better, the empty plains stinking of death and dark magic.
South it is, then.
Journal of Kom ‘QD’ Uzinithbi, 18th Malachite, 703.Scarcely a day’s travel, and I have found something. A tower of some kind, abandoned, yet filled with bags and chests. Searching them proved fruitful; among other things, I now have seventy five bolts (twenty-five silver, fifty copper), an equal number of arrows (plus bronze bow) a bronze shield and spear, and two statues. The latter of the two is particularly curious: it is cast in silver, and depicts some strange beast, all tentacles and claws and eyes, yet it bears the marks of no craftsman I know of. I have managed to take it with me, if only due to its relatively small size, though it is a significant weight upon my shoulders. Perhaps I may sell it, or provide it to the Museum.
Either way, I grow drowsy; I must sleep, and soon. This meadow is dense, and the grass will be more than sufficient to light a campfire – I will write more tomorrow, when I have the time.
Kom awoke to the sound of a howl. Dingos, an entire pack of them - they were racing towards him, eyes ablaze with hunger and drool dripping from exposed teeth. Teeth fouled against his gauntlets and bronze breastplate as the pack began their assault.
He scrambled upright, lunching forward to meet the pack’s alpha – a brutish, muscular thing, charging towards him.
Teeth sank into the creature’s leg as it lunged, and he could feel his venom pump into its blood. The Dingo snarled and clawed at his armour; the two of them carried on like that for what felt like a small eternity, the Muscular Dingo snapping and snarling, Kom biting and injecting as much venom as he could.
Then, at last, something shifted.
The Dingo’s second-in-command – a chubby, fat thing – rushed in without warning, leaping into the fray on the ground. The creature’s teeth closed on his right eye, punching through with ease. Kom’s scream of rage and pain echoed across the meadow as blood flowed from the pierced eye, his violent shaking hurling the Dingo away. Half-blindly, he reached for his backpack, seized something. It felt heavy, reassuringly weighty, and he flung it at the charging Muscular Dingo without a second thought. The creature staggered as the wooden chest impacted its lower body, the rest of the pack pulling back for their next charge.
His hands found their way to the crossbow and buckler. In the time they took to charge, a single arrow went wide – after that, he was back in the thick of it, slamming the crossbow against one attacker’s chest, driving his fangs into the neck of another.
With a scream half-muffled by the Dingo’s fur, he pumped all the venom he could into the Muscular Dingo’s upper body, shaking him around like a rabid beast. It was still fighting, despite everything; most went wide, or were dodged as the beast began to sway drunkenly, his venom finally taking effect.
Thing ran together for some time – everything was little more than a blur of strikes, punches, bites and dodges, frantic and disorganised. At last, there came a lull in the fighting. His bronze spear was drawn in place of the crossbow, his teeth bared in pain and rage as the pack charged forward to strike. The pack leader’s lunge was met with a strike to the chest and foreleg; the Dingo went down shrieking, before finally passing out from exhaustion.
He wasted no time in stabbing the downed beast through the throat; another dingo suffered the same fate, choking on its blood as the spear punched through the neck. The pack fell back in disorder as Kom switched once more to his crossbow, reloading and firing towards the fleeing pack members. A few bolts hit home, mostly against the legs or the lower body, sending the Chubby Dingo staggering. The final member of the pack came charging in, another muscular brute. His teeth swiftly punctured its lung, and venom began to pump in as the spear was once again drawn. Awkward to wield as it was, he still managed to drive the tip into the Dingo’s head – it convulsed violently, before finally going still as he levered the head off of the beast’s neck.
Kom breathed, ragged and half-exhausted. He managed to slither back over to his campfire, pulling up close to the warmth; he was freezing, and he needed something to drink before he did anything further. Gingerly, he placed a finger against the bloodied wreck of his eye, then looked down at the spear and the fire beside him.
Barely half a minute later, a cry of pain rang loud through the meadow.
Full battle text:
https://pastebin.com/FpBFcZQR(OOC: Got ambushed by a Dingo pack while asleep. 'least I still have my left eye, and got more than enough food out of it.)
Author
Topic: Museum III, adventure succession game (DF 0.47.05) (Read 473417 times)