PrologueThese are entries of Ber Lovodlokum, Mace Lord, Member of the Hollow Bodices, 2nd Rank. My day and night I have protected the mountain home of Tombschanneled, a mighty fortress on the southern continent. I have stood guard duty many moons, protecting the fortress from anything lurking in the deep. A great many enemies have fallen under my mace.
Tombschanneled was a rich fortress, with veins of silver running through its granite bedding. Our stockpiles were full with the finest wares, even our floors were made out shining medals. But our proudest work stood above us. A granite tower, looming over the forested plains. A temple, sprung between pillars, a great many levels above ground, clad entirely in silver. Clear windows reflected the glint of sun and stars, and the view of from above... The fiery waves of trees in full autumn dressing... We must have been mad, like elves, but what a sight!
Our temple must seem like hubris. Dwarfs, labouring to build up, not down! Yet the way up was our downfall, or so I learned. It must have been at late winter time, a beast of the night came. My fellow dwarfs, proud marksdwarves, ventured out in the snowy night to stop the beast. A few silver bolts quickly stopped it, but it must have come to close, for the next month undwarvenly screams echoed in our corridors. From what I learned, two of our marksdwarves transformed into apes, beasts of unnatural strength, and leapt at their fellows. They had to fight, and while winning, might have been infected as well. Or so it seems, as the following month, four dwarves suddenly ripped their clothes... My squad had been down in the chambers, attending our guard, protecting our fortress from outside enemies. At first we gained little about the evil upstairs, just that our meal deliveries were interrupted. After a third month of silence, we climbed the staircase to find destruction. The beasts had ravaged in our midst. Corpses threwn about, a retching odor of rotting bodies, the walls drenched in blood. A good forty dwarves were left, huddled together in fear. In their eyes was the realization that any of them could be infected and transform soon, to doom them all. Our bookkeeper handed me a silver-bound codex, the chronicle of our home. I understood his intend. To voyage out to our homes and tell the tale of our fortress and to warn them never to come here.
As we left the fortress, blinded by the sun, our noses unaccustomed to the breeze, I looked back to the my once proud home. The granite tower, the silver ladle that should have held a magnificent temple, now seemed to embody the danger that had finally caught our peaceful home. At the entrance I saw the last of silver bars put into place, to wall in the danger and never let it out. The last sacrifice, entombed in our produce. I set to engrave a warning in the wall, only to hear guttural howling and ghastly screams inside. For the first time in my life, I ran away.
Thus the story of my previous and first fortress of 150 dwarfs, diminished to ruins by a single wereape. I had tried to collect all possible infected after the second moon (4 wereapes), but one of them transformed in the tavern, one in the library, with way too many possible ones leaving by the time I had paused to collect names. Should have ordered that first squad away on first notice
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Topic: Ber Lovodlokum's story - A sad dwarves's tale (Read 1855 times)