Planning on getting all this done before I leave on Wednesday. I finished my initial scan of the fortress. Hopefully I'll get much of the year done today.
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I have successfully gotten the dwarves of this “Bloodrock” to become accustomed to my presence and, sometimes, my leadership. Now, I can use them to build me a deep pit where I can reside without any disturbances. Of course, I’ll have to make sure that the fortress runs smoothly while I’m stealing their labor, otherwise they’ll turn on me. I can’t let them know that I’m doing this. Just like I can’t let them know that it was me who shut in the hated Tholtig Olonadek and allowed him to be parched to death. He deserved it. I also cannot let anyone know how I organized a goblin attack to distract attention away from my obscenely large bedroom when more area was being designated for housing the poor.
In order to make sure that my work does not arouse the suspicions of the other dwarves, I must keep the fortress happily awash in drink, among other things. For the first time in years, I leave my cluster of apartments and look around at this borderlands fortress in which I arrived.
I rush back to my apartment. How? How?! HOW HAVE WE SURVIVED IN THIS PLACE?!
I begin my survey of the place in the graveyard, as I am wont to do sometimes. Call it a respect for the dead… the dead that can rise up to claim the world in my name! *Ahem*. After relieving myself on the tomb of Tholtig Olonadek (by Esrel, I hated him!), I notice that he’s entombed next to an herbalist, dyer, and Kil Kolocun, the elite wrestler. By all accounts, these were excellent dwarves. Of course, then I walk over to the grave of Sodel Keskalbabin, the Champion. Who’s next to him? A bloody Donkey! Behind this Tekkud Edememgash the ass? Reg atastathel the mutt, of course! Who laid these creatures down to rest here anyway? As I stalk from the graveyard, I find myself musing with the idea of exhuming Tholtig and having his bones turned into urinals.
Of course, leaving the graveyard, I find myself in the main apartment complex. I assume this is to remind the people that they can die at any moment, and we’ll just brick up their door and call them entombed. “Hahaha, you sniveling little snots! I have my own burial bower and gigantically-proportioned bedchamber and office!” Some of the people are looking at me strangely. I make a note to put a short wall of bricks in front of their doors as a reminder.
One of the more peculiar aspects of these apartments is the fact that the largest of them is being rented by the child, Datan Shagogdoren. I suspect competition. Perhaps I’ll frame the little runt for something down the line. *Note: A little research has revealed that the young Datan was good friends with that scum Tholtig Olonadek! I will surely imprison the youth and watch him waste away!
Going down to the markets, I’m pleasantly surprised to see things in working order. In the middle of the market area is the home and office of the Freedom of the City, ‘Duke’ Kadolthol. I’m told that the title is more honorary than a sign of actual nobility, but damn, that dwarf really knows how to live! I notice there’s an unclaimed, but very fancy bedroom by the mayor’s office. Checking the mayor’s previous accommodations, I see that he was living in a hovel. I have him moved immediately. Clearly, the functionality of the market is due to the presence of this ‘Duke.’ I thank Esrel that we’ve had some competent leadership and move on.
The dining room and kitchens are as bustling as is usual. Of all the complaints that might be made about this outpost, a lack of food is not one of them.
After passing by the prison, which is obviously directly across from some of the most important nobles’ chambers, I head down some large stairs, expecting the main hallway to continue. I find myself in the workshops. A tangled mess of stockpiles, actual work desks, children, beds, stone, bricks, and both rough and cut gems. There are huge piles of bones, logs, and gears. Wow. Clearly this wasn’t what I wanted. There are stairwells here that go down that never actually reach the floor below! I will need to check the fortress logbooks to see if any dwarven architects have gone insane over the past few years. This is atrocious.
Instead, I head up. More apartments. What seems to be a pile of horse fat on the floor. I ask a nearby peasant why the fat has not been cleaned away. “We received an order not to touch it, m’lord.” I suppose I cannot fault the idiot for his loyalty.
Heading up to the forges, I realize that I’m not entirely lost. I spend a great deal of time here. Of course, there’s a strange monument: “NEWB” written out in lava channels in the floor of a gigantic hall that seems to serve no other purpose. Up on this level, we also have our farms. They’re surprisingly meager for how much food they produce. I suspect that the planters are very hard-working. There’s more horse fat, seemingly leading away in a trail. More orders not to touch it. *Sigh*.
Coming up on the level that contains our southern entrance, I remember that the southern entrance is intricate and wide, guarded by traps and watch towers and leading to a trade post. Good. There was some sensibility in its construction. I move up. It’s a long climb to the level containing the northern entrance. This is also the top of the magma tube, where the high-tech dwarven escape pod was built. Seeing a crowd, I come up to watch what they’re up to.
That’s a mother and her infant, grip failing, falling into a lava moat! Sweet Esrel! “What are you doing?! Why isn’t anyone helping her?” I scream at the crowds.
“Ah, don’tcha worry none ‘bout her, milord,” says one of the well-known gemcutters. “She’s been a bit down since her friend died. Things’ll look up for her.” The woman falls. She doesn’t even scream. The jeweler continues, “Or, maybe they won’t. Shame, really.”
“That you won’t bother trying to help a mother and her baby escape from certain death?! YES! That’s a damn shame!” I’m very angry now.
“Nah, milord. Shame that her socks went too. Nice socks they were. Cave spider silk. Not a drop of blood or vomit on ‘em. Only a few holes. Damn shame…” The jeweler starts kicking stones, going down to the south entrance. I stare at him as he leaves. These dwarves are all mad. Mad! And, some called me mad!
Still recovering from the death I just witnessed, I stare down into the bubbling, gooey lava tube. A face stares back, eyes orange and scowling. I leap backwards. “What in the pits is that?!”
A peasant passing by with tongs answers. “Magma-man, sir. He lives there.”
I’m aghast again. “But, those are dangerous. Isn’t this one of the main thoroughfares of the fortress?”
The peasant looks a little irritated. “Nothing thoroughly fair about it, milord. He gets all those fine clothes since me tongs ain’t long enough to grab ‘em.”
I need to get away from this place. It’s not good for the heart.
I check out the northern entrance. More traps, but fewer guards. It worries me more than a little to see that many of the traps have been sprung, and the old bones of wolves still lie among the rubble tumbled down from above.
The last stage of my journey, I head up to the top of the fort, to the holdings of ‘Umiman’ the Grand Inquisitor. With a name like that, I’m not sure I should spend too much time hanging around up here. No matter, I plan to spend most of my term down in the depths. This inquisitor has some architectural taste, but clearly favors large, echoing chambers. Must have a flair for the dramatic. I’ll keep away from him in case that extends to large, messy displays as examples.
I start my plans for my term in control.
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Topic: A dwarf fortress Succession game (bloodrock) (Read 22848 times)