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[Heavy Flak]

The events of the 7^th of Obsidian, 1077





***

"No, no, no!  You're knotting it all wrong."
"I've been a soldier for years, I think I know what I'm doing here."

Cokho blew out his gray mustache with an exasperated sigh.  "What I see is a stupid knot that will slip at the last possible moment.  Believe me, son, I've been trying to do this for fifty years now."

"Wait", Luke said.  His fingers tightened around the rope as he stared at the Master Hauler.  "You're HOW old?"
"Pushing One Thirty, sonny.  And don't you think that just because I'm old doesn't mean I can't, you know, entertain myself because there's a pretty little fisher named Dastot who's in love with me and she's only Ninety Seven and she-"

"No.  No!  Hold on!  Why didn't you just throw yourself in the magma you old coot!"
"Why don't YOU just throw yourself in the magma, youngling?"

Luke starred at the noose in his hands, at the rope worn down to bare splices.  Fingers tightened on the hemp, twisting and working at it, even though his raw strength couldn't seem to snap it. 

"Because Magma is distasteful."
"Ahhh, yes.  it is.  Isn't it?"
"Oh, Lord above," Luke moaned, "I'm destined to keep living through all this, aren't I?"
"As assuredly as I am," Cokho replied, his quavering voice cheerful with camaraderie, "And look at me.  I've been hanging myself, swallowing poison, fighting camels, punching down doors, throwing rocks tied to my legs, I've been doing it all for years.  All this time, I've learned to live longer by trying to end it all.  Just bare with it, sonny.  You'll learn to love your everlasting life yet."

[Knick]

Poor, sweet, cosmic plaything Luke.

But why would Cokho try to kill himeself.  Luke I can understand.

[Heavy Flak]

1^st of Granite, 1078

Great Lord,

We see all now.  We feel their pains.  We see their torment in the bright reds of the land, and of yellows and blues leaking from their emaciated husks.  They have taken in the meat that escaped us.  The fear the meat shows is palpable, Lord, and it does wonders for the crops of Bones within the sands.  It nourishes them.

The bones have killed many this year a alone.  It has been good. 

The army is trickling towards us.  The last of the half breeds have watched the borders.  The master race has taken to the skies.  They have reported to me.  They have shown me their memories.  They have fed me on the memories and the fears and the terrors that float free of this petty little fortress.

Please, Lord, bring yourself to us.  Lead these armies.  Your might will not be needed to crush this petty outpost.  But it will be welcome. 

Your faithful servant,
In service eternal,

~Stozu Zolakslonso
Master Commander

[Mephansteras]

Sounds like things are going to get nasty. Again.

[Heavy Flak]

The events of the 5^th of Hematite, 1078

This time, things were different.  Much different.  There was no crowd of friends, no special stew created after hours by a sleep-deprived Dojango.  No, this time it was a single candle lighting a small rough-stone room in the bowels of the fortress.  A single cot was arranged in the corner, the wood warped from moisture and beaten up through a rough haul across the sands.

Though he tried, Rice couldn't keep his hands from shaking, and little trickles of beer ran down the side of his steel mug.  Though he wasn't the last bit thirsty he took a long pull anyway, just to have something to do.

"I think we should name her Zaneg," Lucy said quietly.  She adjusted the swaddling, her eyes watching the little bundle writhing and twisting within her arms.
"It's a fine name," came Rice's distracted reply.

"We should leave, Rice.  I don't feel safe here anymore.  Heading back to the fortress proper makes me feel... I can't stop shaking when I'm up there."
"We can't leave.  I spoke with one of the elves, and she said it's a death wish to pass the borders."

"A death wish," Lucy scoffed.  "This is a death wish!  For all of us!  Right here in this fortress!  It's just a matter of time before Wallgirders does something else, before Aryn starts shuffling us into the domes.  Oh, no, the domes... we'll be trapped in there, with all of them... oh, no."

"No... no, here's safe," Rice said.  He gestured around the room with his mug, thankful that the single candle hid the mounting worry on his face.  "Just... here's what we'll do.  You stay down here in the depths, and I'll begin stockpiling food, and drink.  I can secret it down on my breaks.  When I come in the night, I can... begin carving out a workshop.  We can make this place safe.  We're survivors, right?   We can survive this.  We can continue on."

[Heavy Flak]

The events of the 1^st of Moonstone, 1079

Cokho, straining under the weight of the bins lashed to his back, trundled down the dusty road.  Dwarves, less proud than he, drug belongs however they could: in baskets, in small wagons, carrying a single barrel between the pair.  Their faces were impassive, the blank looks of creatures long used to suffering and change.  All but the Duke, and his Wife, and their children, talking and laughing as they ambled towards the Domes. 

"It's going very smoothly," Administer Tun noted.  "Your orders were heeded without complaint.  Color me shocked, sir."

Aryn grunted in acknowledgement.  Arms folded over his emaciated chest, he watched the recently relocated Dwarves from his perch atop the parapet. 

"If this was ten years ago, Tun, I'd be shocked.  If this was two years ago, I'd be surprised.  Now?  Today?  Looking at the bleak landscape surrounding us?" He laughed, the sound hollow and rusty, as if his throat could not remember what muscles to contract to make the sound.  "They see safety and prosperity.  No camels!  No Jaguar!  No food shortages!  No lack of work!  It will be paradise... and... I feel as if I'm taking advantage of you."

Tun turned his eyes to Aryn, meeting his gaze steadily.  "How so, sir?"
"I know you requested the post, but leaving you top side, until everything is fully shuttered and dismantled feels a punishment.  Something I should wish on those slackards at the forges."
"Don't fret for me, sir.  By all means.  You need to take charge below, to build up the industry once more.  Myself?  It would be an honor to manage Dwarves, not just books."

For the briefest of moments, Aryn stood speechless.  He held out his hands, and grasped Tun's, giving it a firm squeeze.  "You've served me faithfully for years.  You've never skimmed the books, you've come demanding a raise.  You've bent your back to the books, and toiled by candle for years... take charge of this heap and run it as well as everything else.  You're in charge up top - and there'll be a place in high regard for you down below."

Aryn's cloak swirled as he took the steps down, boots beating a dusty trail towards his new home.  Administer Tun - Mayor Tun - smiled, his hands clasped before him.  He whispered into the wind.

"I'll run it splendidly, sir.  I will do what needs to be done."

[Stravitch]

I hope they blast dubstep throughout the domes to calm and motivate the dwarves below water level.

WUB WUB WUB WUB WUB WUB WUB WUB WUB

[Heavy Flak]

From the files of Aryn Estetar
1^st of Granite, 1079

Passed down by the Story Men of the Mountainhomes, those grizzled greybeards who lorded their age over a society of mush-headed peasants waiting to be struck down, came only a single story of any meager note.  The story of Melbil Graspinched the Miner of Legend.  He began digging as a child, his muscles weak from the upbringing of a planter, and he was spurred on by the jeers of his fellow Dwarves. 

Days turned to years as he toiled under the ground, learning to love the composition of the minerals, their softness, how they flaked, how the sparkled in the faint light of torches.  But in each swing of his pick he he heard the mocking laughter of the others - those situated in the halls above him, those lounging in their thrones of leisure while someone with drive, and grit, and determination, and a purpose dug ever deeper into the depths below. 

Until one day, decades after he began, sustaining himself only on the plump helmets and bugs and other strange, glowing, subterranean lichen he stumbled upon, Melbil Graspinched found himself arrived.  He wept with joy, small lines of white skin showing in small trails as his tears cut through inches of caked grime.  Raising his pick on high, he struck the small door in front of him, and fell back, and laughed, as the horrors held within were released.  Those held within washed over him in a wave, leaving him untouched as they traveled upwards to their freedom - straight through the sallow skin and paunchy frames of those who feasted on the work of others.

This tale has given me hope - this tale has kept me going.  This tale has brought to Fruition the greatest monument that our world has seen - a marvel of engineering and tenacity!  The beds are filling, the shops belching their smokes upwards to the drying rooms for the meat.  The depot is almost constructed.  It's glorious.  If the Gods were real, they would smile upon me as their equal in righteousness and ingenuity.  But there are no Gods, and no Kings, only Dwarves.  Only us - left to rule this land. 

Tun will continue excavating the fortress as he sees fit, preparing it's last days on this earth until the remaining Dwarves can seek the sanctuary of the ocean's bloody bosom.  I don't envy his task, but I respect him for doing it.  He will have a seat at my right hand when he succeeds.

~ Aryn Estetar

[Mephansteras]

As if Aryn could get any crazier...

[Heavy Flak]

The 23^rd of Felsite, 1079

"Send the next one in, Eita."

Dojango looked apprehensive as Eita gestured at him with the handle of her warhammer.  Her face was stony, dark circles under her eyes giving her a cagey, dangerous look.  But she had been chipped in the mess lately, and Dojango had even seen her at a party at one of the statue gardens.  Surely, she couldn't have snapped?  She wouldn't help nobility that meant harm to the fortress...

Holding his cap in his hand, Dojango slunk into the opened door.  It swing shut silently behind him, only the faint breeze, an almost unnoticeable change in pressure as the latch locked home.  Mayor Tun sat behind his large desk, slouched, fingers steepled in front of him.  The room grew heavy in the silence, and nervously, Dojango shifted from foot to foot.

After what felt an eternity, Tun spoke.  "You're the head chef, yes?  And chief medic.  An asset to this fortress.  A dwarf respected among the community.  Tell me why you haven't moved down to the domes."

A trickle of cold sweat started at the back of Dojango's neck.  "Be...cause... I need to feed the Dwarves who are closing things down in this fortress.  My apprentices are in the Domes.  They should hold it steady..."

Tun's gaze never wavered.  Slowly he reached under the desk and brought into view a small pouch, tied with a red string.  He gingerly placed this on the desk, and gestured at it. 

"An interesting excuse.  Please.  Come look inside this.  Tell me what you see."

Dojango inched closer to the desk.  He untied the string and lifted the surprisingly heavy pouch, peering inside.  His brows knit together in confusion.  "Gold nuggets... it's filled with nuggets, and shavings.  I don't understand."

"There are some Dwarves that feel the Domes might not be right for them, for... for us.  And to that, I can only say one thing.  Perhaps I've become the owner of a vein of gold, and a vein of platinum.  And perhaps I'd suggest for a Dwarf who's interests lie outside the Domes that they investigate the lowest level of our mines, and once there, head South.  Do you understand?"
"I... think so, Mayor.  Are you..."

"Excellent.  Most excellent." Tun cut him off, gesturing towards the pouch.  "Take that with you, and please investigate.  Speak of this to no one top side.  Unless I've interviewed them myself, these kind of details would just be... distressing to some.  By the way, I've found your roasts exquisite.  I look forward to more in the future."

Confused, elated, nervous, Dojango left the Mayor's office, his mind preoccupied.  He ignored completely the small line formed against the wall.

"Send the next one in, Eita."

[Heavy Flak]

The Events of the 19^th of Galena, 1079

"Hoy!  Stop!  Everyone, stop, stop, stop, stop!"

Maggarg, unconcerned for his well being, strode to the center of the training room.  Blunted training weapons clanged off his armor, though a hammer made of bamboo and lead shots nicked him in the knee, bringing him periliously close to toppling.  Cursing, limping, he struck out at Eita, who dodged back nimbly, with a grin. 

"Now listen, just hold steady, I've got a game you'll be interested in playing.  It's called-"
"Don't do this," Adol warned.  He was leaning on the shaft of his hammer, bushy eyebrows half covering his tired eyes.  "You don't want to do this."
"Shut up, ya' ponce.  This'll be grand fun.  Now look, it's called 'cause of celebration'.  You guess right, I'll pay your tab at the mess tonight."

Suddenly, interest had been peaked.  The suggestions came in quickly:
"We've become the owners of a herd of waste-weary donkeys?" from an eager Jools.
"The domes have collapsed, and we're free of the ass that runs them?" came Likot's rasp. 
"Sulari has given up the way of the weed to come and come back to join us?" asked Merkil.
"Oh, I have it," Wilber said, his eyes alight with understanding.  "Stravitch collapsed the domes" at that, they all laughed

"Wrong, the lot of you!"
"Maggarg, you can-" Adol tried, but he was cut off.
"Stuff it, pork pie, I'll pay yours too if you don't ruin this fun."
"I don't need mine paid for-"

Before the pair could continue their bickering, the suggestions started, a flood of them.  Eventually, as the room died down, Luke could be heard from near the back. 

"Well, if we can find my better half, she'll know for certain.  She has a way about this.  Where is she?"

The silence was palpable.  Slowly, in ones and twos, the dwarves in the barracks turned to stare at Luke, their eyes growing wide.  Only swordsdwarf could see Maggarg's spreading grin.  He blanched.

"No.  No, no, you're pulling my leg."
"Am I?" Maggarg asked in a much-too-chipper tone.
"She's... oh, no, no, that's twelve!"

He bolted from the room, his clanking boots vanishing as he rounded the corner to the sleeping quarters.   

[Argonnek]

The poor man is cursed. Cursed with virility.

[Mephansteras]

That's just insane.

[Heavy Flak]

The poor man is cursed. Cursed with virility.

If we're being fair about it, it's REALLY fourteen, but two of them met unfortunate events. 

[Heavy Flak]

The Events of the 14^th of Limestone, 1079

Hammerers, it seemed, were all cut from the same stone. 

Standing lank in the center of the glass-blocked jails, he watched as the Dwarves filed in slowly, in twos and threes.  Piercing blue eyes surveyed them all, the cords in his neck standing out as his jaw worked furiously around a wad of ratweed.  Occasionally he would flash purple-stained teeth, the inky color of the weeds staining them deeper at the gums, giving him the look of something crawled fresh from a shallow grave.  Behind him, chained inside one of the cells, strained Zulban Bravedpainted, one of the foundations of the foundries.  He tried to talk, but the acoustics were against him, all that could be heard was the chatter of the Dwarves filing in. 

"It's with the greatest sorrow I ask you here," Aryn called from the doors leading to the atrium.  He looked resplendent in robes of the deepest red, the fabric accented with tendrils of green.  However, his face was still drawn, blonde hair still slicked back with scented lards to hide the thinning up top. 

"I want you to understand that, each of you; I want it explained to even the newest born of babes.  Whisper it in their ears as they sleep.  This is the dawn of a new day - this is our salvation, you understand that?  Of course you do.  If you didn't trust in my judgement you wouldn't have followed me under the waves.  I respect this... this-"

He was cut off by an impatient Duchess Consort Tomeslords impatient fidgeting.  His face darkened, a cloud of rage threatening to roil over them all, but passed.  He waved a hand, a flourish of his robes. 

"This is her decision, but it was signed by my hand.  We will have order here.  Please accept this, as you work towards a betterment of our society."

"Eight strikes!" she shrieked at the hammerer.  "Eight of them for this travesty!"
"Eight of them," Aryn repeated, softer.  He didn't seem pleased, but he eventually waved it off.  Before turning, he added hastily, "Make it end quickly.  This is counting towards their breaks, and I want to see them rested before work resumes."

Nodding in ascent, the hammer raised his steel law bringer.  Two strides took him to the cell.  A single swing of the hammer smashed the Metalsmith against the wall, a sickening snapping sounding over the sudden silence.  A second swing splattered the Metalsmithes head against the green glass.  Shrieks followed from the Duchess Consort as the Hammerer sauntered off, trailing droplets of brain and blood upon the green glass floors. 

A new age has assuredly begun.