Part VII:Nasty Affairs
12th of Moonstone, 386It was early winter and the citizens of Waterlures were busy at work. There were still things to do before the Winter Festivities and time was running out. Etur the Mestthosite Monk had recovered swiftly from the accident, to the surprise of everyone. He was going about his daily tasks as good as ever. He was on his way to fetch building materials when the magics permeating the surroundings of the Lakes of Saturninity took hold of him. Or perhaps it was the divine will of Mestthos? None were sure what caused the strange moods, but everyone knew that whoever was possessed by the unknown forces crafted things worthy of legend.
So would be the case with Etur. A new artifact would be created by his paws.
The dwarf Zefon Syrupcurl pushed the weasel man Ònul Tranceceiling aside as she stormed into the Hut of Romancing. “Hey! Watch it!” Ònul snapped angrily at the dwarf, but Zefon just grumbled, wiping the snow off her shoulders as she passed him. A snow storm was raging outside, but it was nothing compared to the foul mood Zefon was in. She had had quite enough and was having another of her tantrums. Two cats on the way had narrowly averted her wrath and it had made her all the more enraged. The people gathered in the tavern were not to be as fortunate as the cats, if she had any say in it.
“Zefon! Came for a drink, eh?” the dwarf Zasit greeted Zefon, raising his mug up high drunkenly. “I myself have already drank a few, and you certainly look like you need a whole keg, har har.”
Zefon stared icily at Zasit as she turned to head for him. Further off, she noticed a group of patrons congregated next to one of the booths. Dimbulb the hippo man, several capybara people, the human newcomer, whose name Zefon didn't quite remember, and the elf sheriff. They looked like they were having a jolly good time and that infuriated Zefon. She was not enjoying herself the least bit and she envied them. The company of friends was something she treasured, but she was in no mood for such pleasant things. As if anybody cared how she felt, she scoffed.
“Bad day, huh?” Zasit asked, raising his brow. “Well, I have just the right thing for you—whoaah!” His words were cut short when Zasit threw a punch at him. It was surprising that he managed to duck the blow, though he lost balance and fell on his haunches with a heavy thud. Zefon followed with a kick, but Zasit rolled aside, shouting at her, “Stop! Calm down! What's the matter with you!?”
As Zefon tried to kick and punch the rolling and scrambling Zasit, the screaming and scuffling inevitably drew the attention of the other patrons. Noticing the commotion, sheriff Fayoba put his mug down on a table, wiped his mouth, excused himself and made haste to break the fight before it turned ugly.
There seemed to be much need for a sheriff these days in Waterlures.
17th of Moonstone, 386“Yes, well, you see, mister mayor,” Sibrek Paperpriced explained to Fecici as he tried to keep pace with the elf's swift stride. “I had quite some expectations when I came to town. I had heard all these stories of the grandeur of Waterlures, its peacefulness and piety—not to forget its wealth—so, you see, you can possibly imagine why it has been a bit of a letdown for Astesh and, of course, for me...”
Mayor Fecici paid little attention to the capybara man's ramblings. This was not yet the meeting they were to have, and besides he was already well aware of all the grievances Sibrek had. This wasn't the first time he came to voice his complaints. Quite frankly, there were other more urgent things to consider, such as the two deaths on the cusp of the Winter Festivities. Yes, Mister Sheriff Brutal Style of Limbs had been actively chastising criminals.
Zefon Syrupcurl had ended up dead after her tantrums turned violent at the Hut of Romancing. Justice delivered when she had calmed down and returned to work, died with chisel still in her grasp. It was a pity, a waste of life. Such were the laws of Ustuth Ïdath, and those laws were upheld in Waterlures, despite the town trying to keep its distance from the dwarf kingdom. And, truth be told, maybe this was for the best. Zefon's mood was only getting worse and worse. She would've eventually withered away, like a tree left without nourishment. Fecici sighed.
“...and then there is the thing that I feel terribly, terribly lonely—not that I don't have friends, mind you—quite often these days, truly, and actually...” Sibrek went on with his tirade as the two climbed up the stairs.
“I see, go on,” Fecici said, feigning interest for a moment, then returned to his thoughts. As if one deadly beating wasn't enough, there had been the case with the visitor, the drunk goblin picking fights for any stupid reason she could think of. Now, what was her name? Ah, yes, Covema Fordcanyon. She had been drinking too much and had tried to brawl with Zon Mineburned, the old capybara man. Instead of a fight she got a personal audience with the sheriff's fists. And that was the end of Covema's life. Battered to death in the middle of the patio outside the Enchanted Bridge, right in front of many a citizen. Understandably it had left the witnesses shocked and shaken—as if there were not enough sour moods in town!
This didn't seem like a good end for the year. Not at all. A little chat with sheriff Fayoba might be in order.
20th of Moonstone, 386Idar walked through the alley and the door at its end, leaning on her crutch and carrying a barrel of sheep's milk under her other arm. It was a pleasant enough winter day, the sun shining in a clear sky, the air crisp, snow crunching beneath shoes. She was heading to make some cheese for the Winter Festivities and to fill the stores, though there was no shortage of cheese. That was the way the dwarf cheese-maker liked it and she would do her best to keep it that way. As long as milk flowed there would be cheese.
Once inside the dairy, Idar poured the milk in a pot and put it on the fire. She began whisking it as she brought it slowly to a boil. This was the life for her: making cheese and spending her spare time at one of the taverns. In fact, she had earlier this day seen a performance—a rehearsal for the festivities—and it had delighted her very much! She could hardly wait to see what kind of a party it would be this year.
Coming to Waterlures was probably one of the best decisions of her life. She hardly missed her life at Hushedfins and the Familial Brim. She rarely thought of how Papos and the rest were doing, and, to be honest, she didn't really care. They had treated her like dirt, made her do all the disgusting work, and worst of all they had insulted her cheese!
There was none of that here. This place was home.
Galel was scaling fish at the fishery below his home. There was still a lot of rainbow trout that needed to be scaled and gutted, but the ostrich man was in no hurry. The winter cold would preserve the fish well enough. He didn't really care for this kind of work—he never had—but he didn't mind doing it. It was work and that was good enough, although he was more of the fisherman than the fish cleaner—back in the north fishing was his life, all there really was.
Well, that wasn't entirely true. There was also the drinking and arguing with others. And that he liked.
Regardless, life in Waterlures seemed to be decent enough. At first, while waiting for citizenship, it felt like this would be a boring place with nothing happening. But that was not the case. There was so much happening here, and many recent events had stirred things up, made tempers flare and emotions go wild!
And there seemed to lie things hidden beneath the surface, too. Sinister secrets to be uncovered if one stuck his beak in the right places.
Only a few days earlier, when Galel had been to the old mill's stores, he had noticed something strange. A faint light had flickered in a dark nook, hidden behind wooden beams and windmill axles. Curiosity had taken hold of the ostrich man and he had investigated the source of the light. How he had been surprised to find a makeshift shrine in the gloom, a sputtering candle casting its last light on a vile bone idol—a secret place of worship!
The figurine depicted a robed human clutching a large, cruel dagger in his raised skeletal hand, ready to strike. In front of the man an elf was on his knees, submissive and weeping. Beneath his hood, the man's skull was twisted into a laughing grin. The skeletal man was clearly one of the Dark Gods, but Galel was unsure which one of them. It wasn't Akkar, of that he was certain, nor any of the dwarven gods. He would have to seek answers in the library when he had time.
What was most interesting and disturbing in the graven image was the elf. He looked suspiciously like the sheriff. The uncanny resemblance to Fayoba was undeniable. The question was then: what was the meaning of it? The shrine itself had to be erected by Rin the goblin—there was no doubt, for he lived in the room next to it. There was something malicious brewing here.
'I knew he was scheming and hiding something,' Galel thought smugly as he finished cleaning the fish.
'Now, what is that devious goblin up to?'
Mid-Winter, 386The Winter Festivities began in the early days of Opal, in mid-winter. Animal person, elf, dwarf, human and goblin alike made their way to the Fruit of Letters as was tradition. It was time for warmth and coziness, for friend and family, for song and drink. Or, at least it should have been like that. The recent deaths marred the moods of all, and the towering hippo man on the verge of a breakdown did nothing to improve spirits.
In a shady corner, Rin the goblin sat, staring blankly at the boisterous crowd from beneath his hood. The normal sounds of making merry were befouled with bickering and arguing, the tension in the acrid air was palpable. It reminded Rin of a time and place several centuries back, when he had still lived among the goblins. His ears warped the sounds of the festivities into the jeering and snickering filling the dark pits. In their halls the goblins feasted and brawled in an orgy of drink and violence, the flames of fire pits casting twisted shadows on the walls. Plots were unveiled when hidden knives were pulled out and thrust between the ribs of rivals. Blood and murder paved the way to higher station.
Rin tried to push such memories aside. What was happening to him? Why was he thinking such foul things? This was not the time or place to meditate on murder and death.
But no matter how much he tried, he couldn't keep the thoughts away.
16th of Obsidian, 386“I am sorry, but what is the meaning of this?” Osod asked the elf, worry in his voice. The festivities had ended a few days ago, and most had returned to their daily routines. Some, however, had decided to
“keep the cheer up” for a few more days. Osod was one of them, as was Ririli, the elf who was currently dragging him by the loose skin of his neck.
The two were visibly drunk and several bypassers shook their heads at the sight, trying not to laugh out loud. To them it was quite obvious what Ririli was about to do, pulling the llama man with one hand, holding shears in the other.
“It's shearing time!” Ririli cheered, raising the shears and snipping them in the air.
“Oh... It is?” Osod said, relaxing a bit. He looked at his wool. It was thick and long. Warm. Maybe even a bit too warm with spring soon to come. Yes, Ririli was correct. It was time to shear. “Hmm, I suppose it is. My wool will make good yarn and warm cloth—let us be off to shearing then!”
6th of Granite, 387Baron Oddom looked at the two green glass statues in niches carved into the throne room wall. The first was a depiction of him striking down the hydra Agwa Mitebreaches the Pulpy. It was an exceptionally made statue, the pose of Oddom heroic and triumphant. The moment when supposedly the very age of the world was changed. It certainly didn't feel like it. Things had changed, yes, but not because of a dead hydra. Oddom scoffed, and shifted his attention to the other statue.
The second statue was a rendition of Baroness Kasat Waxedtiles, his mother and founder of Waterlures. She was depicted like he remembered her: a proud, strong and resolute woman. A true leader. She was the one who made this place safe and thriving. A place that was more than home: a place of hope and a better future. If only people would remember that, and not indulge themselves in selfish pleasures, whining when faced with even the smallest of hardships.
Yes, things had changed, but not in a good way. It was due to the lack of proper leadership and loyalty. First Likot as mayor: a disaster. Then the elf—that obnoxious peacock—who has been re-elected for who knows how many times now. And that was unlikely to change any time soon. Forming the Citizens' Assembly was a terrible mistake, Oddom scowled in his mind.
“Papa, what are you thinking?” Young Uvash, who was playing next to the throne, asked him.
“Loyalty, my son. Loyalty,” Oddom turned to face his firstborn and put his paws on his shoulders. “It is loyalty that keeps society running. Loyalty and faith to your grandmother and her vision is why we have a place to call home. Is it not so?”
“Yes, like you have taught! And when all other bonds wither, friends will always be there,” Uvash said excitedly, eager to impress father. Oddom, however, was not impressed by the answer. His grip tightened and his expression became stern.
“No. That is
not what I have told you, Uvash,” he said, his voice grave as he looked his son in the eyes. Uvash was soon to be twelve, an adult, but he had yet so much to learn. “Friendship is important—that much is true—but friends can change. The friend of today may very well be the enemy of tomorrow. No, faith must be placed elsewhere.”
“Where then, papa?” Uvash asked, his lower lip quivering. He felt ashamed for letting father down with the wrong answer.
“Family. Family is where we find the truest of bonds. It is the founding pillar of society,” Oddom said, releasing his grip and straightening himself into a regal pose, his eyes glistening with zeal. “Your uncles, your aunts. Your brothers, your sisters. Your parents—your mother and I. Your family. That is where to place your faith in. Nothing else in this world can be trusted like it. Remember that, my son, for one day you will be baron.”
9th of Granite, 387The elves from Ula Tefe came to trade early that year. A blizzard was tearing over Waterlures when they arrived, forcing the peddlers to wade slowly through the snow. They looked with interest at the snow-covered mounds of rubble and stonework as they walked across the old temple grounds. Where once had stood signs of civilization, now grew young trees and saplings—a sight that brought warmth into their hearts and minds, despite the harsh weather.
20th of Granite, 387It was not only elf merchants who visited Waterlures that spring, when winter seemed not to loosen its grip. One cold evening a lone elf entered town through the South Gate, wrapped in coarse peasant rags, her hood pulled low to keep the biting chill away. She passed Ana the fox woman who stood guard at the gates, responding to her greeting with a nod. Her destination was the Enchanted Bridge, and the way there was well-known to her. This was not her first time in Waterlures. No, she had been here before, and the last time she visited, she had been forced to make a hasty retreat lest she be persecuted by the law.
For some reason, Fira Flowerelbows—the guise of Fale Eldertwig—had decided to return to town.
21st of Granite, 387Sheriff Fayoba strode quickly across the walkway towards the Enchanted Bridge. Word had reached his ears that 'Fira', or someone who looked like her, had returned to Waterlures.
'It can't be her. She wouldn't be that stupid, would she?' Fayoba thought, feeling cautiously excited. He really didn't know what he should do if it really was Fira. Yes, she had been sentenced in absentia, and she should be punished. But the thought of having to administer another beating terrified Fayoba. He was having recurring nightmares of himself pummelling Covema—the brawling goblin—in the middle of a crowd, the goblin pleading him to stop, only to hear himself laugh wickedly as he continued pounding the goblin's head until it was but pulp. Then waking up to his own screams, covered in cold sweat. Of course, the punishment hadn't gone like that in reality, but he could not deny the exhilaration and zeal he had felt.
That had been real, as well as Covema's death. And it horrified him, what he was capable of and, even worse, could enjoy in the moment.
He walked past Zon's Tailory and looked at the patio pavilion. A swarm of pixies buzzed over its roof and two patrons were sitting at the tables. A goblin and an elf. His steps slowed a bit. Fayoba hesitated. Yes, Fira was there alright.
'Well, perhaps I'll just take her for a talk and see what she's up to,' he thought, took a deep breath and walked straight to the thief who had decided to return.
“Fine, if you don't want to tell more, then don't,” Fayoba said to Fira who leaned on the sheriff's table, flaunting her long silver locks. “There's no need to be all smug about it.”
Fayoba had finished putting Fira through the mill, making intimidating remarks to try and get her talking. It had seemed to work at first, when Fira had slipped out that
“there's definitely something brewing” with her and an unnamed accomplice in town. When questioned further, she had become cagey and shut her mouth. Perhaps Fayoba had made a mistake by promising that he'll revoke her previous sentencing and let her go? He felt a bit stupid for that now, but he wouldn't go back on his word. Truth be told, he thought the punishments according to law were too severe. Back in Múya Loré the theft would have resulted with disapproval by the community. Treason, however, would have had her exiled and declared outlaw—almost the same as a death sentence, but still better than a hammering.
“In any case, I will not push any further,” Fayoba said with a sigh and crossed his arms across his chest. “You are free to go, you have my word, Fira... Or would you prefer I called you Fale?”
“Fira will do just fine,” Fira said as she hopped up and dallied to the door. Before she stepped out, she hollered over her shoulder, “And don't you worry, I won't be causing you any trouble this time, mister sheriff!” She yanked the door shut behind her.
“...you can call me Fayoba,” the sheriff muttered, listening to Fira's jolly laughter fading as she skipped away along the corridor. His head sank down against his chest and he sighed. He had a terrible feeling that letting Fira go would come back to bite him one day. At the very least some citizens were bound to be upset once they heard that the sheriff had been lax in his duties.
11th of Slate, 387The dwarf Endok Touracts was coming from the Orange of Buds, the farmers' guild, enjoying the spring sun. For once, it did not rain and the sky was clear with no clouds in sight. He was in a fairly good mood and his mind untroubled. Or mostly untroubled. Daily life was as dull as it always was, what with all the farm work and such. It was toil without end. No matter how much you worked, there was always more to do. Quite unlike crafting, Endok pondered. Once you complete a piece of art, it is done.
Endok grumbled to himself, stopping at the animal pens. What was he complaining about? He wasn't one to work hard to be as skilled as a master craftsdwarf. The whole notion of practicing a craft for years on end to reach such skill as required to be a master made him sick. Fortunately he was quite content with admiring what others had created.
All of a sudden, as his thoughts began to race to all the wonderful art found in Waterlures, his eyes went wide, his mouth agape—a strange vision struck him and mysterious forces possessed him.
“Megidlek,” Endok proclaimed as his legs began to guide him towards the leather works in the old derelict house where Ova once lived.
It seemed Endok would create something beautiful, after all.
15th of Slate, 387The crow man Meng Manywalled was perched on a wooden post, looking at the unicorn parading all alone in the trampled grass and weeds. Meng scratched the downs of his fat throat, his corvid thoughts meandering all over the place, but mostly he thought of that stupid argument with that dumb weasel man!
'So rude, so crude! Such insulting Ònul did!' Meng griped in his mind. He couldn't really remember what the argument was about, or how Ònul insulted him, but clearly it had happened, because he was so furious about it!
'One must always return a favor,' Meng thought, grinning deviously. Yes, yes. He would have his revenge one day and then it would be the weasel man who was insulted! How would he feel about that, hah! It would be Meng who would have the last laugh. Now, he only had to formulate a plan... But the rumbling in his belly interrupted his schemes for vengeance. Meng was feeling hungry. He flapped down from the post and headed to the Enchanted Bridge to get some food.
Revenge could wait a little bit longer.
11th of Felsite, 387'Hmm, the shelves are empty here. A layer of dust on everything,' Galel contemplated the bookcases of the odd room he had found high above the House of Knowledge. It had been a rather uneventful spring with nothing much happening. Unless you count that goat leather bag, Slidbristle, Endok created as something noteworthy. Sure, it was grand, a dwarven masterpiece, but in the end it was just a bag, pfft! Nothing really to fuss about.
Yes, it had been a boring spring, so Galel had decided to wander around town, to see if there was something he hadn't yet discovered. It was a few days short of four years since he arrived, and it was a pleasant surprise that there was still much he was unaware of. Given time, he was bound to uncover all manner of secrets. Like what lay beyond those steep wooden stairs leading up at the room's end. Perhaps he should first ask what where the stairs led before he stuck his beak up there? It wouldn't look good if someone caught him snooping around.
'Another day then,' Galel squinted his eyes and rubbed his beak as he deliberated. He left the room, descending the spiral stairs, keeping his back against the wall. A single misstep could send him plummeting down the wide open space next to the stairs—something he dearly wanted to avoid. Death by splattering all over the place was not a good way to die.
Once he reached the main hall of the library, he saw Dimbulb reading a book. A book! He had thought the hippo man couldn't read. Well, in any case, it was good to see the silly brute studying. Maybe he would learn something useful?
“Hello Dimbulb, pick up anything new?” Galel asked the hippo man, waving around his luxurious midnight blue silken cloak.
“Yah, I learned about the phases of the moon,” Dimbulb said, looking up from the book that seemed small in his big hippo man hands. “It's interesting. And there's funny drawings of angry animals in it.”
“Hah! Phases of the moon! What's the deal with that?” Galel snorted and flapped his hand demeaningly. “As if there's anything more to learn about the moon! There's waxing, there's waning. There's the new moon, then there's the full moon—” He paused and stiffened. The full moon. Galel shuddered. It reminded him of the horrifying moment when the braying beast came and almost got him. “...say, what kind of drawings did you say there was?”
“Look, funny isn't it?” Dimbulb showed the stone-bound codex to Galel. It was an illuminated manuscript, though not a very good one. There were plenty of flourishes and miniature illustrations, but the style wasn't impressive. Still, the decorative initial in the beginning of the page and paragraph caught Galel's attention. He looked closer at it. It was the letter 'O', with a starry night and two figures in it. There was a dwarf—or was it an elf?—who was holding his hands up to shield himself, facing a... No, it couldn't be! Galel felt a chill creep up his spine. It was an image of a horrible mockery of a man with the head of a donkey—a weredonkey!
“Haha, t-that's very funny, ha, ha,” Galel faked laughter nervously, tapping his finger on the picture and gulped loudly. He felt beads of cold sweat form on his brow and a sudden urge to run away took hold of him. He turned on his heels and without a word made a hasty retreat out of the library.
“Uh... Huh? Did I do something wrong?” Dimbulb wondered aloud, looking at the ostrich man speeding away. The hippo man was left quite confused, but soon turned back to the book and chuckled at the picture of the weredonkey. “Haha, funny angry donkey-thing.”
17th of Felsite, 387Tanzul looked back over his shoulder as he made his way to Edu's Fishery and the crafts workshop above it. Dimbulb was meandering slowly behind him, a blank stare in his eyes, his shoulders drooping. Tanzul had tried to talk to the hippo man, make some contact, but he was unresponsive. For some time now Tanzul had been worried about his friend, as were the rest of his companions—even Galel was, at least somewhat. Yet no amount of cheering and comforting helped the hippo man or eased his pain. In fact, Dimbulb's state only got worse and worse by the day. Now things were at the point that he stumbled around obliviously, completely unaware of his surroundings.
It was quite discouraging and heart-wrenching. But at least it made Tanzul's own “problems” seem quite insignificant and petty. Yes, he had been bored lately, his senses felt dulled and he often was unmoved by songs and poetry at the taverns. Hardly problems, really.
'Everything's alright,' he thought. Boredom could be solved. Like doing something creative, carving something out of wood, which he was about to do.
But how to help Dimbulb? Tanzul had no answers to that.
21st of Felsite, 387Melbil Staffdives, the sixteen year old son of Fikod and Kogan, put down his wood cup with a trembling hand. He had come to the wine cellar under the brewery to fetch a drink, but now he was shaking, trying to hold back his tears. Atìr the broker, who had just finished his drink and was tipsy, noticed that something was troubling the young capybara man and walked to him.
“Hullo Melbil, is something wrong?” Atìr asked his nephew, sounding more cheerful than he intended to. “You look like you've seen a ghost!”
“Huh? No. Uh, I'm alright, uncle,” Melbil snapped out of his thoughts. “I-I just thought of... remembered... Covema came into my mind.”
“The goblin, was it? You knew him?” Atìr inquired, scratching his cheek fur and looking at the ceiling thoughtfully.
“Her, uncle. Covema was a her,” Melbil corrected and rolled his eyes.
“Ah, yes. Quite. A horrible thing, really, the whole nasty affair,” Atìr said with a sigh, his shoulders sinking down, but within a moment he staightened up and continued, “The sheriff does get carried away quite easily, it seems. Few escape his
Brutal Style of Limbs, eh? Get it?”
“Gah. You're drunk,” Melbil moaned at the reference to the dubious moniker Fayoba had earned. He really hated it when his uncle behaved like this, trying to be all witty and funny, acting like Melbil was still a little child. Especially in a situation where he wanted to be left alone.
“Well, I guess that I am!” Atìr chirped in a cheerful singsong voice, inching past Melbil towards the door. “But there is much work to do, so now I must go-ooo!” He finished his “song” with a raising pitch, out of key, and danced out of the wine cellar.
Melbil waited in silence, listening to Atìr's singing grow faint. When he was sure his uncle was far enough not to hear, he burst into tears, grieving the death of Covema. He had hardly known the goblin, but still it felt bad. It hurt. The suddenness of it all, the unfairness. It wasn't supposed to go like that, the punishment. Even sheriff Fayoba had been shocked by it.
'Ôsed, if you are listening, I beg you, let Covema's soul into your heavenly herd,' Melbil prayed to the Rabbit in the Sky, hoping that the goblin's spirit was now among the stars of the night.
25th of Felsite, 387Galel chuckled by himself as he walked up the slope, heading to the barracks to fetch his old trusty whip. He had managed to convince the Militia Warden Kumil to allow him into the town militia. And not only that, Galel was free to form his own band and act as its captain.
'That's Captain Muterealms to you, peasant,' the ostrich man gloated in his mind, imagining how he could annoy his friends and acquaintances with his new title. Not that he had any respect for those who thought of themselves as better due to their heritage or station. Galel had no interest in being one of the higher-ups, except in the sense that it could make it easier to sow discord among the nobility. Now
that he would like to do. But it was better to take it one thing at a time. There was no need to be hasty.
'The Fenced Twigs'. That's what Galel decided to call his group, which for the moment consisted only of him. The name, well, it obviously was meant to mock 'the Fenced Princes', the elite group of warriors of Waterlures led by Kumil and baron Oddom. Galel chortled, thinking it a rather clever quip. Oh, how much fun he was yet to have, what kind of chaos he would cause! A glorious mess was what he preferred.
As he stepped from under the boughs of the old oak, passing the shrine dedicated to Icemì Apedives, the hiss of a heavy downpour swept over him and torrents of rain fell from the sky. Within moments Galel was soaking wet, his mood soured and bitterness taking hold of him.
“You just couldn't wait until I got inside, you sheep-fondling scut!” Galel squawked angrily, shaking his fist at the clouds.
At that moment the black bear woman Urdim Planrocks came rushing out of the barracks, protecting herself from the rain with her shield. She tilted her head quizzically, wondering what was wrong with the ostrich man cursing and yelling obscenities all by himself in the rain.
4th of Hematite, 387It was a beautiful and sunny day, summer had arrived and the spring rain ended. Momuz Speartours leaned his elbows on the banister of the Bell Tower, cupping his chin in his paws. He took a deep breath of the fresh air blowing from the lake. He was quite delighted, reminiscing on the wonderful stories and poems he had heard during the Winter Festivities, the bliss brought by his own home and bed, the good meals, and the satisfaction preparing fish brought him. It was a good and meaningful life he lived, the service he did to Waterlures when he was posted at this tower serving as lookout.
Yes, despite all the bitterness and the storm raging inside him, he was quite content. He had learned much in the past year, his skill with the sword had improved considerably. Yet, he was still far from what it would require to be a true swordscapybara and worthy of Mestthos's respect.
'The quest for skill is never ending,' he thought, turning his head to look into the woodlands beyond the town walls.
What was that? Something caught his eyes under the trees beyond the old temple grounds. There was movement and was that glimmering? It looked as if the rays of the sun were reflected from something. He rushed to the northern side of the tower to get a better look. He stretched over the railing, and what he saw made his heart leap and pound wildly.
Up the grassy slopes snuck a band of ten or so crouched figures, covered in a patchwork of fur, hide and crude iron. Red eyes gleamed from under rusty kettle hats and bascinets—some with iron masks shaped into demonic faces—green and grey skin flashing from uncovered places.
Goblins! A goblin raiding party had arrived!
It was time to sound the alarm.
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So, a cliffhanger, sorry for that.
Decided that it's a good place to stop so that the writeup doesn't end up being too long. I was already wondering why we haven't been seeing any goblins. Well, now they came back. I doubt that this one will be a big problem since it looks like there's only a squad of them (9 recruits and 1 crossbowman).
I'm actually quite satisfied that I've been removing the combat hardness from citizens. There's more reaction from them after deaths (note: the stressed citizens were over-stressed already). We'll see how the aftermath of the siege goes.
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Topic: Waterlures - A Capybara Man Fortress & Adventure [DF 0.47.05] (Read 83408 times)