1st Granite
I came to this position from despair. The decisions I made, I dread to think of their implications. Why must this be so? Why must we do that? But we must. It is the only way.
So it is always said.
And yet, as I actively work to undermine Apiks, for it must be so, I see the fortress. For all the terror, for all the blood staining the sacred floors of Lemonpie’s Temple, the fortress thrives. There is food for all. No enemies besiege our walls, as they all too often have in the past. The military is strong, and training with them shows me their rigorous standards.
And I wish to bring down this stable fortress, and cast us once more into despair? It is the only way, for freedom, but it still hurts. The King must fall.
To that end, I quickly send secret missives to the craftforumites of this fortress. They are to stop producing this crowns, made of stone and cold to the touch. Instead, they should make crafts of other types. If Apiks asks, they are to say that production of his crowns continues at a good pace. Show him bins with a thin layer of crowns at the top, and that should keep him fooled.
As I do this, I check on the animals. The fortress runs on its belly, and so food stocks need to be confirmed. We have meat in store, but what about meat in the field? I am pleasantly surprised. The pastures stretch far and wide, deep underground and yet crowded with subterranean life. The contented sounds of animals fills the air.
And yet….to the side, a stench assaults my nose. I go closer, and look into…watery hell. I shudder to see the bodies, twisted in thin channels of mud and creeping tendris of water. Afer, I remember, controls the deeps. And then I see the sky above peeking through, smell the harsh reality of blood.
Afer and Armok, entwined. I shiver, and move away. There is nothing to be done.
WHY is there nothing to be done? I shake my head sadly at the thought. Forumites pass me in the halls, but I spare them no time. How can a leader lead when he does not know what to do?
It used to be so easy. Th4DwArfY1 remembered coming to this place, being in charge. Then, no doubt had been present. Then, he had been whole and certain. But something changed. Death, the whip of Armok, had scoured him and put Sprin in his very skin.
He had contended with madness itself, the desire to burn everything. And he had seen a thin line tethering this evil doctor to sanity. Jenny.
And as they had been one, he had become…aware. Sprin had lived in Necrothreat, and his memories of Jenny led him there to great halls filled with booming laughter and the songs of NAV. True, there were also fields of blood, with burning horizons and a lone surgeon wandering the wastes, face to the sky and tears drying in the sun.
It was like a vision without end. It had been a different place. But through Sprin’s eyes, he knew it.
And there he had seen Apiks, standing always against Ur and Armok. Strong, capable. Valiant and noble, beside other heroes. One with a drink in hand, another with a sword of blue. He had even seen his own face there, only…altered. Different. Not quite the same.
It must be the same with King Apiks. It must. This expedition was sent to find old Necrothreat, but perhaps that was just the turning of a wheel…perhaps the very action attracted the heroes of old to this place. Different faces, sometimes. Even different names. But the same beneath. Apiks could become good, he was sure. The Apiks Sprin feared was the same as this one.
28th Felsite
A scholar appeared, to spread knowledge. Apiks welcomed him with open arms, laughing at the small man’s frailty. I begin to think my estimation was wrong, and that this Apiks is naturally different. I have not seen the Crown of Bone in many months, so its effects must be gone. Still, he rails and roars and rants.
And in the depths, a lone soul wanders, flitting from room to room. Does it search, or is it just lonely, feeling the icy breath of the grave ever on its back? We may never know, for it sits silent and morose, gazing at an old abandoned still. Does this ghost, whose name is Carefulrogue, have a thirst unable to be quenched? Does he, in his dead heart, remember a time when that still had pumped booze through the fort like rain to the river, and weep for times of life long gone? We may never know, but the spirit has stopped its search, and sits there. Ever silent, ever vigilant.
7th hematite
I stand on the ramparts as the horns of war blow. Across the horizon, the flags are gathered. A strange fellow with a brilliant blue sword steps up beside me, and looks across the waste as well. His eyes are determined as he surveys the scene.
“Politicians,” he spits the word. The sword in his hand seems to shiver, and I look at it in askance. “War is here.”
And he was right. I call for the citizens to move back in as King Apiks shoulders his great chainsaw of power, and moves to the fore of the warriors. I am one of them, but scores of volunteers now jump to my command. A revolution in the making, perhaps. Only time will tell, and with Apiks so blinded by bloodlust, perhaps sooner rather than later.
First come the trolls, howling for blood, determined to pull down all we had worked for. Then the politicians, their voices raised in anger. They shout names which hold no meaning to me, yet which they seem to believe have all the importance in the world. Death is most certainly here.
And yet I smile as they come through the gates, forming in deadly ranks before the front doors. I have a plan.
Deep below, a young Forumite hurries into a plain room, with levers bunched against one wall. He pulls one then waits for further instructions.
Above ground, the mighty, bloodstained gates of Necrothreat grind closed, splitting the attacking army into three parts. Apiks seems surprised, and glares at me with a considering gleam to his eye. But then the fight begins, and I feel the blood boiling in my veins.
By all the gods, THIS, this is what life is. Defending one’s home against invasion, standing with friend and ally and, yes, even enemy. Before us, a red haze rose as we beat back the enemy. By the end, they were clawing at our wooden wall even as our weapons tore them to shreds. Some fled to the barracks, and I followed after, a chainsaw somehow in my hands. Two trolls died, pools of blue blood gathering around them with all the promise of a sky in each.
But the politicians were not to be beaten so easily, for they were a wily foe. Shouting ring leaders and flag-bearers urged on the lesser troops, and suddenly arrows, like their pointless arguments, were raining within the very walls of our fortress. We dodged them with ease, and when the gates thumped down once more we were ready. As it fell, Apiks was once more looking at me. Perhaps he saw me giving orders? I did not like the angry look in his eyes.
The gates closed, and once more glorious, glorious battle. The depression I had been feeling quickly fled, fed anew by the feel of weapon in hand and foe on ground. The enemy flinched before our assault, the Red Hammer dancing blood through their shattering ranks, Apiks hacking with unsurpassed bloodthirst, and that strange blade seeming to twist in its owner’s hands, finding throat and pulse and
blood. And then me, beard streaming behind me and joy in my heart. We were going to win, and none had died.
Before us, the enemy broke, and those beyond the walls heard the screams of their fallen. These were no slogans, no meaningless chants. These were the screams of dying men in absolute, true terror.
Their fellows heard, and understood as no slogan could make them.
They had met their match, and so they fled, gibbering among themselves.
And as it passes, I stand, soaked in blood, panting. Apiks growls a curse and tramps over, grabbing me by the neck and raising me up, his muscles bunching at the strain.
“What was that, exactly, slime?” The voice was calm, calculating; a cold look was in his eye. But beneath, there was a promise of violence, a promise that would be sealed in blood. “I did not order the gate raised, nor lowered. That was not the plan. You are my bodyguard, not a commander. Do not forget that, worm.” With a snarl, Apiks threw me away, red welts on my throat in the shape of his fingers.
“I will forgive it this time,” he said as I gasped for breath. “Mainly because it worked so well. But do not forget who is in charge.” He gave me a queer look, then shook his head, looking away. “I would almost think you remember…well, no matter. I saw to that.” With that, he turned to leave. But before he did, he looked back, a grin twisting his lips. “By the way, soldier, the Chainsaw suits you.” Everyone left with him.
The box of wood which was our protection, which I myself had made, felt cloyingly constricting. He did not think I remembered, and indeed my thoughts from before were jumbled. This could be an advantage to me….
Then the import of his words struck home, and I looked at the chainsaw in my hands. Then at the bodies, mutilated and twisted around me. My vision flickered, showing me scalpels twirling like an Archimedes screw, and mad laughter cackling in dark rooms. Then I was back, cradling my weapon. Tears were in my eyes as I fled back through the halls, seeing the dead, seeing their pain.