From the desk of Scaglia Pagetributes, Junior Apprentice to the Historian’s Guild, 22nd Hematite 8—It would seem that I happen to be in luck!Apprentice Pastlight has recently fallen rather ill – badly-prepared fish, as I understand – and in “the absence of anyone more competent”, his assignment has been transferred to me!
The assignment, on the face of it, is a fairly standard one – I cannot claim to have heard of this “Vafice” the masters wish me to investigate before today. Still, I suppose it does not matter all that much, in the end. This is a chance to prove myself, and I won’t let it pass me by!
Vafice is something of a folk-tale in the wooded lands of the far north. A cautionary fable against wild adventuring and recklessness, or so I understand it. Ah, but here – here I come to the crux of the issue. No written version of her tale is known to have survived, beyond second-hand accounts tainted by the insufferable moralism of the writers. The guild wants the truth uncovered, or at least as close to it as possible.
With what I have to go on, I think I have a rough outline of the path she took…
I can rule out any field-work, from the very start! That path leads to the far south – across the Tundra of Heroes, and even to the Realm of Silver. I’ve no desire to risk my hide travelling that far. But the Museum of Boltspumpkin – aye, that is far more accessible, and a place that the Guild knows of old. They’ve helped us dozens of times to date on esoteric or “lost” histories, just like this one. Even without that, it’s a common stopover for wanderers and adventurers alike.
I set out at dawn’s first light!25th Hematite, 8--I arrived at the Museum of Boltspumpkin a few hours before dusk. The air here is far colder than I expected – how do these people put up with such chills, in summer of all seasons?
No matter. My task awaits!
I made certain to greet the curators before I began my search through the stacks. No exhibits bear the name of any “Vafice”, not even the miscellaneous bits of equipment or the detritus of past visitors. None of the journals of past adventurers displayed beside the exhibits or upon the creaking shelves bear that name, either. I asked the staff of the Museum, who know nigh upon every adventurer to have walked the world of Orid Xem, only for them profess they do not know of her beyond the folk-tales. Not entirely unsurprising, though I cannot deny that these are hardly promising signs...
No. The Guild wants this story uncovered for a reason, whatever it may be, and I'll make it so! It seems I will have to dig deeper to find the truth behind this...27th Malachite, 8--Useless!
I’ve spent the past month digging through every shelf, pile, drawer, and chest in this castle, and I still haven’t found a damned thing of any substance! All I have found so far are crumbs – tantalising ones, aye, but crumbs nonetheless. Most of them come from those northern folk stories that the few elven travellers tell, and the occasional reference to the name in old economic and judicial records.
I can’t return empty-handed. Not now. Not after I’ve come so damned far!
One last look through the records. There’s got to be something I’ve missed, something I’ve overlooked…9th Galena, 8--Kas and Ura take me if I lie, I’ve done it!
I was searching through the deep piles of journals and esoteric tomes when one caught on my foot; it sent much of one pile scattering across the floor. I set to trying to re-sort them immediately, of course, when one caught my eye – a simple stone-bound volume, battered by travel, bearing the name of my quarry in crudely-carved letters!
I can hardly describe my excitement as I scrambled to find a free table and almost flung open the book. The pages were cockled and stained in a dozen places, but it did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm.
Beneath, I have done my best to transcribe the contents of the journal…
18 Sandstone, 845Recent issues have come to a head.
Perhaps I was wrong to deny the druidess so violently when she came to me with her demands. But I cannot care any longer. I am what I am, and they can call me what they will.
I was born to a dancer in a wandering performance troupe; I scarcely remember even that, for I was still a young girl when the troupe’s crippling debts and ill-conceived deals saw me parted from them by force (may the Nightwalkers gnaw their bones forevermore). My father, I know almost nothing of. Mother used to say I had his height and build, and that he once travelled with us, but never anything more than that.
For years, I dwelled in the guildhalls and trade-houses of The Creamy Confederacy, the ‘apprentice’ of a powerful noble. (In truth, no more than a glorified slave – a symbol of wealth and status to my self-proclaimed master). My desire for freedom grew with each day, as did my master’s age. When he was found bludgeoned to a paste in his counting-house, there was only one figure upon which the suspicion could fall.
(They were wrong; that I could not claim that one life is a regret I still bear.)
The wretched bastard died, and I expected to follow suit – an elven slave remains a slave, and for a slave to strike their master means death in the human realms. Instead, I found myself traded away again, this time to the frozen south. The Realm of Silver’s mines inhale flesh, exhale ore and minerals… and as I would soon find, they are hardly picky as to who the overseers send into the darkness below. For a dozen decades, I worked in the deep mines of The Realm of Silver, breaking rock and sifting through the slag-heaps for any stone of value. Though my kind was not made for manual labour, I grew used to it soon enough, though I would never match the fearsome efficiency of the rare dwarven slave-miners. It is down there that I learned how to fight, how to scavenge from scraps, how to read and speak the basics of the human and even the dwarven tongue.
Decades ago, in the year of 7__, the mine fell to ruin. We had all noticed changes in the guard: every week there were fewer, and the ones that remained would twitch at the slightest provocation, strung tighter than a bowstring. Rumours, whispered in the dark, spoke of a terrible disaster afflicting The Realm of Silver – a plague that spread like wildfire and killed like the beasts of the Great Anguish’s era. Eventually, they ceased to come at all – and many of us wasted no time in seizing our freedom.
Enough of myself.
The elves are dying. We have been dying ever since the Great Anguish fell upon Orid Xem centuries ago; the rampage of the Fanged Destroyer and the spreading darkness of the recent years have whittled them down even further.
A few hundred of us throughout my kind’s ancestral lands; the rest, long-dead or vanished. Foreign creatures and adventurers from the distant southern realms come and go into the settlements with impunity, taking what they wish, doing as they desire. The elven capital stands dead and empty.
We are dying. But that does not mean that we cannot burn bright before the end.
When a small band of travellers passed through this forest, I spoke with them; my supposed kin spurned them for some offence against their customs, but I suffered no such qualms. They spoke of the Obin Blight and the Prophetess of Dalzatèzum, the Crowned Gravedigger and a Kobold who slew a great wyrm of the tundra. They spoke great tales of heroism and travel, of a dwarf condemned to neither live nor die and of a many-armed warrior said to have slain armies of murderous goblins with words alone.
But above all else, they spoke of a castle where peculiar artefacts and tales of great heroism were displayed and cherished. And in that moment, I saw what the others cannot. This is an opportunity for us – a chance to carve a tale of the elven race into memory, such that it will never be forgotten!
The druidess and her acolytes disagreed. Mere hours after I returned to the grove, she sought me out to demand I remain here and “fulfil my duties to our nation” as an elf, or be punished. Things swiftly escalated, and before long, it was clear to us both that no agreement would be reached. (I maintain breaking her arm when she called me a “half-breed bastard” was a reasonable action.)
I left without looking back.
20 Sandstone, 845Cresting a small hill, I caught sight of buildings in the far distance.
Upon closer examination, the township was long-abandoned: the wind whistled between the ribs of decaying roof-beams and what few buildings still stood were marked with the signs of rot. Not a living soul stirred.
I moved on.
21 Sandstone, 845A few miles south and to the east, I found Archquakes. It was an old fortress, but a prosperous one – many a traveller had given high praise to the mugs crafted and sold there. Now it is no more than a gutted ruin, the fields before it carpeted with the dead, a few shambling around in a grotesque half-life.
The inside of the fortress was little better. It stank of death, both old and new. Brutish trolls lumbered here and there amidst the halls, their matted fur stained with long-dried blood. Whatever dwarves had once lived here were long-gone; the contents of the fortress’s stores and workshops lay scattered in all directions.
I moved on in haste.
23 Sandstone, 845The snow-clad peaks rise above me. The spine of The Perfect Horns is a rugged and dangerous mountain range, one that few have crossed in the past.
It will not be an easy climb – the sides are sheer indeed, to say nothing of the creatures said to lurk ‘midst the highest peaks. Worse things are said to lurk to the south-west, where the ancestral lands of the dwarves lie in ruin and ash. Yet… there are said to be items of fame and legend amidst the ruins – long-lost artefacts, and treasures from before the Great Anguish.
The risk, I think, will be well worth it.
28 Sandstone, 845Gods’ teeth and damnation!
Coming down from the mountains was a mistake. Those clouds on the horizon heralded the beginnings of a full-fledged storm. High winds and pouring hail forced me to find shelter – a set of small, squad pyramids, almost buried beneath massive drifts of snow. It seemed abandoned, at first glance. I wasted no time in making for the nearest of the structures, seeking shelter from the storm.
In moments, the folly of my actions became clear. Figures lumbered from the pyramids, bursting out from beneath the snowdrifts and lurching forward with awkward, twisted gaits. I initially, foolishly, hoped that they were at least unwilling to fight – and then I saw the burning red lights of their hollow eyes, the broken bones and the frost-bitten limbs.
The first blow crushed the throat of one creature. The second and third reduced the skull to splinters. Others tore limbs away cleanly, or sent scraps of old flesh flying through the air. Yet despite this grievous damage, they continued to close in, forming a stinking press of rotting flesh around me.
These lumbering remnants were not strong – lurching and brittle-boned from the freezing cold - but terribly tenacious. Many times, I was knocked to the ground as the walking corpses used their dead weight to as a weapon, driving me to one knee in the dirt. It was a battle that would rage throughout the night and into the early hours of the morning; one that I did not escape from unscathed.
A few makeshift bandages, made at the cost of my cloak, managed to stem the worst of the bleeding, thank Cacame. My arm is still numb, though able to hold a weapon. And my arms and armour are still intact – the dwarves of old forged these to endure.
The rest of the place was blessedly clear of the walking dead – or at least, any that could cause me harm. For in the brooding spire at the centre of this place, one of its long-dead occupants still dwelled: a mutilated, headless revenant, still driven by some dark magic or final impulse. The headless thing lumbered past me, blindly feeling the walls around it with its outstretched hand.
Whatever evil it had once done it the past, it was now no more than another sad, harmless remnant. I left it to its wanderings, and continued my journey south.
2 Timber, 845The Tundra of Heroes lies ahead of me – a desolate, bitter plain of snow and ice, populated only by savage beasts and roaming creatures of the night. It has been the death of many a traveller and valiant hero in the past, yet it is an obstacle I must overcome, for in my way it lies.
May Kas Bannershocked guide me.
12th Galena, 8--Of all the infernal-!
The record ends here. The remaining leaves are blank, or spotted with long-dried blood, in what I can only assume to be an indication of its luckless owner’s fate. So close to uncovering the full story of this “Vafice”, and then this!
I can’t give up, though. I won’t. I’ve been waiting for this opportunity too long to turn back because of a shoddy record, of all things!23rd Galena, 8--I have spent the past two weeks digging through the stacks of books in this Museum, asking every traveller and passer-by from adventurers to traders to wandering peddlers, all to see if they have so much as a single scrap of knowledge about my quarry.
And finally – finally – I might just have it.
A small party of travellers from Omon Obin recently visited the Museum. They brought with them news from that dark, plague-ridden land; much of it was inconsequential to this tale, and so I shall not bore you by reciting it. One fragment of conversation stuck out to me in particular – a tale of a towering brute of an elf, clad in heavy armour and carrying a great silver flail, slaying citizens of the realm who had succumbed to the foulness of the Obin Blight!
Reticent and impatient to continue their travels though they were, I managed to accost them late last night. Though initially unwilling to speak, the promise of much of my dwindling coin pouch and several drinks soon loosened their tongues – and from them, I might just have managed to uncover the truth behind Vafice Wispcrypt’s fate!It seems that Vafice crossed the Tundra of Heroes, as the original tales indicated. Curiously, she seemed to shun the towns and monasteries that bordered the Tundra, instead choosing to venture toward the hamlet of Whippedgleams. Vafice would speak with the “Overlord” of this place, one Cani Breechesmighty; whatever passed between them, sadly, remains lost to history.
Having spoken with the self-styled Overlord of Whippedgleams, it seems that she moved further into the Realm of Silver – perhaps seeking a foe whose defeat would be worthy of song. At the hamlet of Speechrags, Vafice fought to the death against Blight-stricken citizens, slaying several of them in a series of vicious one-on-one duels. The elf would receive little welcome here – the hamlet was all but deserted in the aftermath of their battle, the remaining citizens barricaded behind strong doors or roaming the fields with the other Thralls.
From there, she turned away to the hamlet of Toothsneaks, and met the end of many a would-be hero against the living dead that have so threatened the Realm in recent years!
The hamlet itself is far too south for me to investigate; I will leave it to someone more suitable than I to found whatever remains of this misfortunate adventurer. With this tale, I should just be able to finish my investigation!
All that remains is to finish writing this up…
13th Timber, 8--Vafice hit the ground, chest heaving as she tried to force breath into her lungs. The thrall had come out from one of the houses like a runaway wagon, ramming into her chest shoulder-first, knocking the air from her lungs. It didn’t give her a chance to breathe, swinging a massive, crude copper mallet directly down onto her leg.
She had enough time to shout a denial before it impacted, her voice cutting off into a yelp of pain – her leg didn’t feel broken, but when she tried to rise, it crumpled beneath her, pitching her back to the mud.
Gritting her teeth against the pain, Vafice retaliated. A series of vicious blows from her flail shattered bone and sent tainted blood spraying, the final one almost completely collapsing the creature’s torso. It staggered back several steps, almost drunkenly, then collapsed to the bloodied ground with a low groaning of breath.
The breath hissed between her teeth as she tried to bring herself upright. Pain was throbbing up both her legs, now, hard and red. Trying to move them brought fresh spikes of pain, but she refused to give in.
Another thrall – a lumbering, boil-covered brute, drooling thick strands of saliva from a shattered jaw – lumbered out from the open door of another house. It wore the tattered, bloodied robes of a priest, overlaid with an eclectic mixture of stained copper and iron armour. The thrall’s milky eyes roamed over the field listlessly, before settling on the fallen elf, still struggling to rise.
Vafice’s breath caught in her throat as feral intelligence sparked in its eyes. It reached to its side, drawing an iron axe from a sheathe, and rushed forward with deceptive speed. The fallen elf struggled to rise –
Too late. The axe’s head passed between the gap in the plates of the armour, through fabric and flesh alike, and cut most of the way through her leg. The weight of her body and armour did the rest.
Vafice, for all her will, could not keep herself from screaming as her leg was severed completely. Blood was pouring from the wound, hot and red; it seemed to excite the thrall even further, the air filling with its snarls and baying cries as it pressed the attack, mouth slavering and eyes ablaze. Claws raked against her breastplate, seeking the gaps in the iron and steel; its axe swung in clumsy arcs toward her. Blows rebounded from her shields, jarring the bones of her arms.
She could feel her strength beginning to ebb. Each blow came slower. Every block left her staggering. Every dodge took more and more effort. Her armour seemed to grow heavier by the second.
Vafice missed a block.
Vafice bit down on her tongue hard enough to draw blood as the axe struck home. Hot blood poured down the skin of her arm, now hanging limply at her side. The thrall renewed its attacks at the sight of the blood, driving the axe down further – bone shattered, muscle tore, and in a single, horrible motion, the thrall cut her arm away from her body completely.
Blood jetted from the ruined stump of her arm. Vafice locked up in shock and pain, eyes wide, staring at the ruin of her limb. The thrall made a low choking sound, almost like malevolent laughter, before rushing forward to finish the job.
Vafice took a last, desperate chance. She swung with all her remaining might, sending Foracovema singing toward its head in a lethal arc. The world seemed to slow for a long, long moment as the head of the flail drew close – and then, at the very last moment, the thrall raised its right arm.
The flail-head rebounded from the iron with a sharp bang of metal-on metal. The thrall roared as muscle tore and bone bruised. And its axe came singing through the air, right down onto and through the exposed flesh of Vafice’s right upper leg.
The last vestiges of strength bled from her body. Vafice was dimly aware of Foracovema falling from her blood-slicked hand. The world was dissolving into a mess of red and pain; only the face of the thrall came through clearly, its burning eyes, its snarling, fanged mouth.
She tried to spit, to snarl, to speak one last time, give one last cry of defiance against the monsters that had infested her homeland. She couldn’t. Her mouth was full of blood and she couldn’t even breathe.
Hmm… a little dramatic, perhaps, but what is history without a little embellishment? Yes, I feel the Guild will be pleased by this indeed!
Now, with that little tale done...
Raise one for our fallen Dwarven King Bralbaard and Museum founder
He fell the day after i retired the fort. During the Angry Onslaught of Monsters, as part of the ongoing Roaster war waged by the Knowing deceiver. If it wasn't for his defensive stratagy, the walled dye would of lost for sure.
The King is dead. Long live the King.
(Well, at least until someone buries or resurrects him. Again.)
EDIT: Speaking of Historians Guilds and resurrections - Pictham Contestlaboured has risen from the ranks of the dead at Herograves as a Dark One.
Author
Topic: Museum III, adventure succession game (DF 0.47.05) (Read 473901 times)