Turn 159 - Rith & Morul 1The Odyssey of the Sliver Barb26th Obsidian 1159New Year's Eve draws close. It is bitterly cold even as spring lies on the horizon in the Eternal Citadel, as it had been in the many years since the sun twisted in the sky at the beckoning of the malign honey fiend.
Morul Roughnessbeak was nervous. He had never been summoned to the Baron's domain before. He was told to meet with Degel Bloodwrath, Baron of Keyconjure, in the library above the crypt of the infamous Moldath Mournsaints, the Baron's legendary grandfather.
"But what could the Baron want with me?" thought Morul. He was a farmer to trade, of some skill it must be said, but certainly no hero. Morul had spent his time in the militia as many of his brothers and sisters do, but he was the first to admit he was not very skilled with a spear.
Morul rubbed his arms against the cold absent mindedly. He could still feel the scars where both his arms were broken by an enraged Hand of Planegifts during the last ambush by the foul elves.
He had to wear steel splints for weeks and his squadmates teased him unendingly about the shame of dropping his shield and spear. His elbow still ached, the cave spider sutures testament to the nasty compound fracture.
"No, I am no warrior," he whispered under his breath.
He was a legendary farmer though, and one of the most skilled herbalists in the realm. It surprised even Morul that when the hand of Armok guided his limbs and the strange mood took him he found himself crafting an adamantine spear.
Thankfully the Citadel had no shortage of legendary weaponsmiths and so he was not called to repeat the endeavour. The spear,
Limartinan Girustalodducim - "Wealthysneer the Scintilating Day-works" - gathered dust on some pedestal.
The door to the library creaked open, and there he was. Degel was a dwarf of ordinary stature but possessed of a piercing intellect and wisdom. His long white beard was tucked into his breaches, a masterwork forgotten beast earring twinkled in his ear. The scribes eyed each other hastily before retreating.
"Morul! Glad you could join us. I imagine you are quite surprised at the summons?" The Baron at least attempted to sound jovial.
"Ah.. of course not, Baron. Always happy to serve The Book of Dreams!" replied Morul somewhat unconvincingly.
"Quite. How are the arms?" enquired the Baron.
"Er.. you heard about that then. Yes. Better sir. Elbow still a bit rusty. But I will be back to the barracks for training in no time!" replied Morul in a failed attempt to sound optimistic.
"That will not be needed, Morul. I have need of your particular skill set for an important quest."
"Me? I am no adventurer sir. Begging your pardon!" Morul was sweating despite the cold.
Degel, for his part, ignored the impudence.
"To the north, in the badlands near the great sea, is a fort. Hewn of red stone and within a sinister region, it goes by the name of Bloodspire, the Crimson Bastion. The dwarves there set out to harvest sliver barbs. Know what a sliver barb is?"
Morul's eyes widened. Sliver barbs were almost legend. No living dwarf had ever seen them. Tales were told of a rich dye, black as night, that could be ground from their fell bulbs. But the reason that he, legendary herbalist, had never seen one is that they are said to only grow in soil churned by the bones of the undead.
"Ah, surely you jest Baron. Sliver barbs? Ha. Good one." Morul's nerves got the best of him and he realised the words had tumbled out of his mouth before he had chance to think.
Degel's face remained passive.
Realising the Baron was not in jest, Morul felt a sense of panic building. "But how am I to venture all that way with two broken arms?!"
"Are you not a militia dwarf of the Book of Dreams?," bellowed Degel suddenly. "Are you not Morul Roughnessbeak
the Pale Naughtiness of Danger?"
Morul found himself answering quietly, staring intensely at his own feet.
"That was all a misunderstanding. They gave me that title as a joke. You know I killed the same goblin skeleton eight times and they give me a name like that? I am no warrior, sir. I stick to my plants and my farm and I am no fan of danger... pale, naughty or otherwise."
Degel's manner softened. He could sense a warmer touch might be required.
"If I sent Rith on his own he wouldn't know a sliver barb from a glumprong. I need you to go with him. He will keep you safe, while you complete the task at hand. You are to visit these dwarves and barter with them for some barb seeds. You will return them to the Citadel, and also provide some to the great Museum so that all can benefit."
Rith? The Bat Man?! Morul sputtered despite himself.
"Best be off then you two. Oh, and before I forget, the dwarves of Bloodspire call themselves The Bloody Hand." As an afterthought he added "..and they're Staff of Kissing."
Morul groaned. "Aren't we techincally still at war with those stoneheads?" he ventured.
"I am sure we can be discreet!" came a gravelly voice and Morul turned to the sound.
There was a grunt behind him and a dwarf stepped out of the shadows. Rith grinned. If it was meant to be friendly and disarming, it failed.
Rith Fountainhumid the Noble Tattoo of Ankles was well known in the citadel for his ... eccentricity. An accomplished swordmaster, he was born in the citadel nearly a century ago, to an infamous dwarf Kurel Soothtired, the Thief of Icefury.
Emerald eyes glinted underneath a masterwork hood of giant bat leather. Rith was clad head to toe in the hides of the huge winged beasts that roamed the caverns below.
As if to answer Morul's unasked question Rith continued. "Aye, I will keep the dingoes at bay while you pick your flowers." The muscular swordmaster scratched the huge scar on his left cheek with his steel scimitar. "Unless you're too feared to follow me?"
Morul swalloed. He could see there was no choice involved here. He had been given a task by the Baron and he would die trying.
"I might not know the pointy end of a spear, but I am no coward, Rith. Morul clenched his jaw. What are we waiting for?"
"Excellent!" beamed the Baron. "You will need this."
Degel handed Morul a draltha leather backpack containing ten bars of precious blistered metal - a gift from the dwarven God Udir. Within the pack was something more familiar.
"My spear!" Morul gasped.
"I figured you might need it. Rith will take you to the armory to get equipped, then you leave at nightfall. Head northwards. Rith knows the way."
Rith grinned, the huge scar on his check rippling and flexing. It was not a reassuring sight.
The two unlikely companions headed north out of the citadel, and onward into adventure.
***
They travelled in silence for several hours battered by wind and sleet, heading north through snow-dusted forests and past frozen rivers. There was a sinister glacier to the north, home to several forts.
Frostwall, Free the Eggs, Palacework and Championvault among others. The dwarves felt no need to visit these places and headed north east at a steady pace through the Pristine Tundras.
They would need to traverse the mountains into the Tundra of Heroes, and it was best practice to pick a narrow part of the mountain range to ford a crossing.
A heavy snowstorm begins as they trek through the mountains. Rith's giant bat leather cloak kept the worst of the driving snow at bay. Morul was less fortunate.
"Rith.. it's the middle of the night. Its snowing. If I could feel my legs they'd be on fire. Can we camp for the night?"
It was the first words they'd shared in hours. Rith grunted and began looking for some form of shelter. Miraculously he got a small campfire running. The dwarves ate a meal of peach roast and barley wine before a fitful rest.
27th Obsidian 1159Morul was unsure how Rith knew it was morning in this bleak landscape, but the hardened soldier gruffly demanded that they start their journey once more. Morul knew better than to argue with the crazy Bat Man.
Travel through the frozen Bearded Horns was slow going. Morul pleaded for rest and Rith merely grunted as he continued a steady pace. A group of shivering mountain goats are encountered. Their meat bolsters the dwarves packs.
After many more hours of silence, Morul couldn't hold his tongue any longer. "Rith... why do they call you the Bat Man?"
There was a noise that Morul could not decide was a laugh or a grunt.
"I wondered when you were going to ask me that, farmer." Rith looked at Morul from under the brim of his mastercrafted giant bat leather hood, his emerald eyes glinting in the low light.
"It's on account of this," replied the solder, rubbing the huge scar on his cheek.
"I was always a bit of a loner. The other kids liked to play in the forgehalls, or the stockpiles with their toy forges and miniature axes. But I liked to make believe in the caverns, in the quiet dark. One day a great giant bat swooped out of the blackness and attacked me.
"You ever seen a giant bat?" Rith paused. "Three times the size of an adult dwarf, and I was nearly six years old. Its dirty claw took a chunk out of my cheek but I punched it hard in the face. Enough to surprise the beast long enough for the militia to arrive and scare the bastard away."
Morul thought he could see a tear in the gruff swordsdwarf's eye, but perhaps it was the wind.
"They patched me up good enough, and it never stopped me going back to the caverns." He paused for a moment before continuing.
"I had a son. Once. Dumat was his name, he was a recruit, barely into his twenties. Wanted to be a soldier like me, like my old man before me. Seventy odd years after the beast took a gouge out my cheek it killed my son. Yeah, I know what you're thinking, it couldn't have been the same bat. But I'll never know for sure.
"They called the beast that slew my son 'Squeezingblinded'. Zulban was one of Dumat's squadmates, same age as my boy - he stuck his spear right through the beasts eye and that was the end of him. Made a good cloak, that fucking bat."
Rith turned away. When he spoke again, Morul wasn't even sure the words were directed at him.
"I dunno. Me and bats just always seemed twined together some how."
There was an uneasy silence. It was a while before the dwarves talked again, trudging slowly in the cold. Visibility was poor in the wintery weather but they could tell by the change in the ground under their feet that they had entered the Tundra of Heroes at last.
Rith reckoned they were a short distance east of Warshrieks. That accursed place had fallen to eldritch magic centuries ago; none could visit and return alive. They gave it a wide berth and changed direction northwards, towards the human lands of the Creamy Confederacy, where many dwarven forts had sprung up over the centuries.
They soon find themselves in a sparse dwarven hillocks, Wheeldells. The sherrif and militia commander greet them warmly. They tell the travellers that the hillock trades with Futureseals, to the north. They press onwards, making best of whatever meagre daylight remains, before spending the night in an abandoned camp.
28th Obsidian 1159The trees here are strange - tall branching saguaro cacti. Unlike anything in the valley to the south. It seems to be some kind of desert, yet we are still in the grip of winter and snow blankets the earth.
Tomorrow will be New Years Day. The dwarves cannot help but think of the wives and children they left behind in Zilirmestthos. Will they see them again? Rith has a daughter, he telss Morul, born the same year his son died. Morul shares that he has three children - his eldest a leatherworker in Livingdead, his youngest in Keyconjure, and a middle child just starting out as scribe in the Citadel.
Heading north in the direction given by the dwaves of Wheeldells, they arrive at what must be Futurseals. It lies at the foot of the mountains to the west looking out over a frozen lake.
Many animal corpses litter the snow, long dead. How curious. The bleached carrion-pecked skeletons of scores of goblins are piled against the stone wall of the fort. This place saw some grim battles. A dented copper helm bears the image of a fungiwood - The Knowing Deciver. Rith spits.
Atop the compact fort the companions find two artefact stone millstones on pedestals. Perhaps farming was important to these people, whoever they were? A lone hammerer is the only living soul they find - driven mad through the piles of corpses and the bleak unending winter. The journey north continues, over the frozen mountains for many hours the dwarves travel.
Near nightfall they arrive at a strange structure of heavy stone unknown to either dwarf. Within are the ever burning corpses of strange hideous beings, and perhaps even more strangely, a band of hardened gorlak warriors.
Ah, these must be the gorlak troops sent to conquer the vault of Cradledmartyrs! The gorlak axe lord they encounter first introduces themselves as Aban Plankteal the Pure. Rith and Morul both remember the many gorlaks of Zilirmestthos who came in from the caverns and took refuge in the citadel. Some became scholars who travelled the lands, others still learned the military crafts and defended the interests of The Book of Dreams.
This group have settled here under the leadership of the Administrator Nil Muteochre. Many have seen fierce battle against goblins and elves, and have scores of kills to their names. The dead angels of this place hold no fear for them. Aban himself is quite a terrifying sight. His round form is bulging with muscles, his golden skin blistered from many battles with the undead.
All counted we meet all ten of the gorlak warriors who now call themselves the Silver of Flashing - and even Tirist the gorlak baby! The gorlaks provide us with directions to the Museum, an important milestone on our journey far to the north.
1st Granite 1160New Years Day, and a new decade dawns. Rith and Morul spend the early morning in the hamelt of Inchtwists. Many curious objects are littering the floor of the mead hall but no living soul is to be found. The Museum is not far from here.
We spend the remainder of New Years Day in the colourful company of the faculty of the Museum - Thep Hearthsnarl the goblin monk, Glubbo Monstergully the goblin administrator, several gremlins, and a battle scarred one-eyed Warrior of Udir called Zefon. Perhaps the strangest person we meet is a serpent man blowgunner called Ssssteven.
The dwarves share tales with the Museum staff and the many interesting residents. They are provided with maps, provisions, and clean socks for some reason.
Consulting the maps, Rith and Morul decide they will travel north west, through the human valley of the High Confederacies, towards the Razorbridge, before turning east towards their intended goal. It is a trek of many days.
After a restful period in the company of the denizens of the Museum, the duo begin their travels again. They decide against visiting the closest fort to the Museum - Ironwards the Strifeful Hollows was well known for its many demon incursions, and since The Returning, those immortal beings have been returned to life. Rith is strong, but not foolish enough to take on a demon!
The dwarves camp for the night in the wilds. Spring is dawning but for now, the lands even as far north as The Museum remain blanketed in thick snow.
2nd Granite 1160After a perfunctory meal of strawberry wine and peach roast, the dwarves begin the travel north, in the direction of the lands of The High Confederacies.
The featureless dunes soon give way to the Subtle Hills, and Morul spots a tower on the horizon. An abandoned necromancer spire? The place looks deserted, not even a bone or shred of ruined clothing to suggest anything sinister ever happened here. A book authored by Kanil Mythice leads Morul to believe this place is Farmpuzzling, a very old tower.
The dwarves are uncertain if The Returning brought the necromancers who once stalked these hallways back, and gird their loins to explore the upper reaches of the tower. No sign of life, or unlife, is found - the tower is eerily quiet.
The Dune of Glistening is a an open expanse of grey clay. The surroundings are peaceful, and the snow has largely melted.
Quite by chance the dwarves stumble upon a curious object - a bucket of honey unattended in the middle of nowhere. A short distance away is an iron screw press with an iron jug stuffed with two helpings of prepared goblin lung. Someone has been making honey, in the middle of the desert.
Could this have something to do with the sinister honey fiend that brought about the change in climate and the resurrection of a thousand years worth of goblins and demons? We find no more evidence of the elusive honey maker. We stop at nightfall in a nearby deserted village.
3rd Granite 1160Divedact is a grand human city, and home of a great library. In the central keep we find a suspiciously wizened white-haired priest. He clutches strange coins in his grasp. He is clearly a vampire, and Rith beheads him.
A horrified goblin mercenary tries to flee, but the dwarves soon catch up with him. He claims to have been killed by a troll a hundred years ago. One of the foul returned goblins. Rith and Morul make short work of him. The vampire priest's wife, a metalcrafter appears and she too is a night fiend - she loses her head like her husband. The dwarves do not dally long in Divedact and continue north, spending a short while in a quaint mead hall named The Elder Execution.
4th Granite 1160On the outskirts of Oilylimb, the travelling dwarves have their first true encounter with the undead. A zombie human of some kind appears in the snow, its armour ragged and its flesh marked with scars. Rith suddenly drops to the ground, his face twisted in an unnatural contorted mask of horror. His weapon and shield drop to the snow and he realises he cannot breathe! Death magic! Morul runs to his aid only to face the same fate. The dwarves are thrown by unseen hands, landing in crumpled heaps.
Not only is the human zombie a blighted thrall, who can infect a dwarf with a single bite, but they are clearly possessed of Fell magic. Bizarrely the Fell One does not press the attack, and retreats eastward as quickly as it appeared.
Rith is shaken. He is a swordmaster, a proud warrior, but against death magic he was rendered weaker than a purring maggot. The two chastened dwarves are lucky when the paralysis spell wears off, both gasping for air in burning lungs. They gather their weapons and shields. Rith mouths a prayer to Idrath, thankful that the wight did not see fit to finish them off.
5th Granite 1160Dawn breaks and with it a reprieve of sorts. This is the town of Padcalls, much larger than the villages the dwarves have visited the last few days. We speak with a dwarf priest, Vabok Criedroofs, High Guise of The Bewildering Creed, a religion worshipping the human deity Imi, God of Trickery. A suspicious religion indeed.
In the outskirts we find a goblin in a tent, Usbu Presentplagues, who claims to be Lady of The Lone Soldier of Fortune. She is missing a finger. For some reason, Rith is reminded of a story he once heard, about a goblin losing a fourth finger... could this be a coincidence? Usbu is not impressed by Rith's oratory, but would appear indeed to be a vampire.
Morul stabs the lady in the neck with his artifact adamantine spear, a great gout of foul hot goblin blood arcs into the air. The panicked goblin takes off at speed, despite Rith's best efforts to slash her lower body. The pair follow the screams and the crimson trail in the snow. They chase the goblin vampire into a nearby monastery, before Morul embeds his spear in her skull.
The dwarves arrive at Clenchportent, the erstwhile capital of the High Confederacies at night fall. Within the mead hall several polititians are asleep, but some are suspiciously awake, and finger the same coins found on the vampire in Divedact.
Rith disposes of the vampires with ruthless efficiency. In the lower levels we find a huge number of corpses - humans, gnomes, gremlins, and many stone blocks. We spend a few hours cleaning up this mess, looking for treasure or answers. In the corner of the meadhall is a very interesting scroll...
Do We Understand Immortality? Rith and Morul know exactly what that entails. The dwarves agree that they are not willing to sacrifice their mortality just yet. To the north lies Incenseorder, ruled for centuries by am eccentric werefox wolf man. The companions agree they will spend the rest of the night here and visit this place at daybreak.
Author
Topic: Museum III, adventure succession game (DF 0.47.05) (Read 479289 times)