Well, finished autumn and my big narrative write up. This one took a while - I tried to liven things up when I triggered another artifact and remembered there's some secrets still waiting for us in our supposedly cursed fortress. Hope I didn't hoke it up too much.
Luckily, I dodged a bullet by jumping into one. The economy hasn't activated - I only got nine new guys in the fall immigration wave, and thanks to my ineptitude and that goblin thief killing two dwarves, the population was right at 78. Then a baby was born - if another plops out in the next three months I'm screwed. Otherwise, the economy will be Cave King's mess to deal with. Should be done tomorrow night - wish me more luck.
Eternal Halls Record, 27th Sandstone 104
Some more pathetic migrants arrived. Seems those merchants spread tales of danger and goblin raids, and no respectable citizens want to come live in the ordained, and incomplete, capital. Just scruffers and young push-outs. Total population now seventy eight.
The victims of that damned thief have finally been interred. A few more were found skulking the area. Scoping us out. We'll need better protection. One immigrant claimed to be hunter, if a shoddy one, but she brought her own crossbow. I'll put together a marksdwarf squad for her to lead.
Need to tell the Dungeon Master to stay away from the forges. I know she loves to work metal, but her skills are just not up to the task. Can't afford to have her practice smithing on the needed equipment. I'll get to it sometime.
Done-
-Proper peasant's tomb. With pet tomb off the side.
-More bedroom drudging.
Doing-
-Arm archers.
-Make goblin bones into bolts. Show them what for.
“Now, your basic greenskin stands 'bout yey high,” Aqizzar barked, knocking the wooden dummy for emphasis, “weighs half a dwarf or so, and's usually skinny enough to wrap over in a strong gust. The scrawny neck here is the weak point o'course...”
The six other dwarves stared in varying levels of disinterest as the Guard Captain prattled on. Any dwarf could recognize a goblin by just their odor, let alone by sight, and the captain's sodden admonishments only slowed their archery practice.
“...on hand for when you can catch'em. Blighters know they're no match for any armed dwarf, and will try to pick you off with their flimsy bows. A good suit of dwarven plate is more than enough protection-”
“-along with a good cloud of wine spirits, eh?” The hunter Obok feared no brigand or sergeant, and was fast growing tired of the lessons.
Aqizzar missed it completely. “Damn right lass. Knocked those assassins cold with it. Now, who can tell me the best place on a pauldron to take an arrow?”
“Shells.”
Captain and squad alike looked to the peasant who'd answered. “Aye, the shell, but what part lad?”
“Silk!” he shouted past Aqizzar.
“Lad? What're y- Hey, get back here!” The recruit spun and tore off into the forum, babbling about glass and bowling through the crowd. Aqizzar was about to have the dumbfounded squad get some target practice on him, but recognized the ancient language of the dwarves in the screams...
“When did he stop yelling?” Dadam asked.
Antlias reasoned what counted as screaming. “About an hour or so.”
“Did you catch anything in it? What was he yelling about?”
“A lot of old words, and all of it mad. The only part I could understand was 'Neshastkab'. He kept saying that over and over.”
“Has anyone gone to check on him?”
“After a ruckus like that? No one's seen him since he started.”
“Time to fix that then,” Aqizzar grunted. With his axe hefted, he ambled down the halls to where the crazed immigrant Zan had holed up days earlier. And there he still sat, a pile of felsite mugs at his feat growing larger by the moment.
Dadam was the first to walk up, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you... alright, friend? What happened in here?”
Zan didn't look up from his work. “I had an idea for a little piece of work. Or maybe it had me.” The dust settled as his hands finally stopped. “It was... The... Its over there.”
As one, the other dwarves looked to the spiny lump in the far corner of the workshop. Aqizzar hefted it, picking his way though the gauntlet of stone spikes and twisted goblin bone. It lacked any iconography, but Dadam recognized the hide of a giant toad stretched over the flat top.
“You made a drum?”
Zan didn't turn. “Yes, its... Its a drum.”
Antlias held in a snort, and Aqizzar could hardly contain himself. “What lad, your mouth weren't loud enough, so you had to go and make a daft tambourine?” He dropped the stone drum and rapped on it. Whatever sound he had expected didn't come out. The row instead filled the chamber with the a deafening crash of rock. After a long moment, Aqizzar could only mutter, “By Armok's bloody beard...”
With that, Dadam snapped to. “Zan, what in the Eternal Lands did you make?”
Zan said nothing.
Aqizzar stroked his jaw. “Never heard a kettle do that before. How'd you pull that?” Frustrated with no answer, he smacked the drum. The single note this time registered as the unmistakable crack of molten rock splitting.
Dadam knew trouble when he heard it. “Aq, stop touching that thing already!” Whether bold or stubborn, the captain hit the skin again. A tinny chord rang out, like fists pounding on metal. Now incensed, Dadam grabbed for the drum. Aqizzar tried to pry him away as Antlias did his best to separate them both. In the struggle, fingers were pricked and the drum escaped them all, hit the floor with an unearthly crash, and continued to vibrate as it rolled. The thrumming slowly softened, down and down to a stony whisper. And in the echo, the founders heard a voice they hadn't known in two years. Rith's.
Record of the Eternal Halls for the 20th of Timber of the year 104
And here I thought things were getting quiet. One the new recruits, worthless peasant by the name of Zan, slipped off his cracker and went storming through the halls, grabbing whatever he fancied. Scared everyone out of the workshops right proper. When we didn't hear him shouting anymore, went in and found him grinding stone into goblets with his bare hands. And he made a drum. Calls it Neshastkab. Risknamed in the old tongue. Appropriate, in a mad way. Never thought I'd say I was afraid of a noisemaker, but I hear the curse of these mines calling again.
For what it's worth – the lower levels dried, another kid was born, and I had Calvin and the lads dig out a record vault. The record being of goblins slain.
Done-
-Show off goblin skulls.
-Grow things.
Doing-
-Train soldiers more.
-Make furniture.
-Get more plants growing.
-Stow drum somewhere.
Author
Topic: The Eternal Halls - An Endless Succession Game (Read 214236 times)