Three things, two from one fortress, one from my current one.
I had a dwarf champion wrestler. He found a kobold. The kobold attacked him. The wrestling champion did not like this. The wrestling champion started with his legs, and somehow greyed them both, first half second of me pressing "v+w" over that kobold. The kobold's going nowhere. The wrestler takes his time, yellow organ wounds, a yellow upper spine wound. Things start moving from there, and There's changes from V-check to V-check. Both eyes put out. A yellow head wound. All the fingers broken. A hand missing. A lower arm missing. The move that assures death arrives. The Wrestler RIPS OFF THE KOBOLDS LEFT SHOULDER, TAKING THE ENTIRE ARM WITH IT. And right after that, the dwarf rips the kobold in half at the waist, taking the hip and discarding it from the kobold like a candy wrapper. The champion went off to have a snack then.
I named him Beowulf. I later checked his inventory, and found he was carrying an axe for some reason. Maybe he used to be a woodcutter, but I'd still like to believe he did it all with his hands...
Second scenario: The fortress was doing bad, and soon it would succumb to starvation and asphyxiation in cats, so there was rather a lot of stress going 'round. A vile force of darkness arrives! Oh, that's just fucking swell. I call for one of the damned fool civilians to drop the godsdammned floodgates, and change all my champions posts. The floodgates close... And one champion wrestler is left outside, returning from a drink of murky water. Oh, that's just dandy. forty goblins, three gobbo civilization leaders, axelord, axelord, and macelord all arriving, and this boys out in the cold, nothing in his hands but his pecker and a hammer he's been assigned to train with. He's going to get slaughtered.
And he did. Right after reducing forty two goblins to quivering heaps of bloody gelatinous masses, to be picked clean whilst still living by the gnats and the rats, unable to scream because their throats have been crushed, unable to run because their legs are mangled, and unable to hope because everyone who would help them is in the same state or DEAD. the walled off area they've been fighting in is littered with corpses, body parts, fired bolts, and the belongings of the damned and ruined. I've watched in awe as this dwarf exploded heads, turned goblins into pink mists, destroyed throats, ripped out hearts, and made himself a legend amongst dwarves yet again. He knew he was going to die, but he was going to that heaven under the earth covered in gore and with the laments of his foes ringing in his ears. An axelord steps up. He loses a foot, and turns the goblin away without eyes or a chest. The second axelord arrives, with another wave of goblins, perhaps twenty. He takes them all on, at the same time, and loses an eye and a hand. Ten more goblins show up, and all the soldiers are wholly dispatched, save for one goblin with a leg missing and a leg mangled. The macelord now. An epic duel begins. The world rings with the sound of their blows! A hammer to a plated torso, a mace to a chainmail helm! Dwarves awaken underground because of the battle four z-levels above them! A decisive blow, and the dwarf loses an arm. Hope is lost, for a leg follows, crushed into nothingness. The dwarf gets one final swing in, tired, stunned, knowing unconsciousness is upon him, but pleased, overjoyed for the tales that shall be sung of him and the slaughter of gods he hath wrought upon those who thought they could defile BreachedGrave, the Dwelling of Ghouls with their presence. From the ground, the dwarf rises for one last assault, the hammer swinging slowly yet unstoppably, like the drifting of a planet, into the goblins abdomen- It is a fatal blow, the body mangled, and the goblin falls onto the smiling dwarf, the mace colliding with the dying fiends keening deathwail into the dwarf, and the champion, having lost a hand, an arm, a foot, a leg, explodes into a pink mist of gore. The goblin dies upon him, having lapsed into unconsciousness and bled out, cold, alone, with no comfort, his last moments upon the earth drowning in the guts and bits of his killer.
I named the Hero of Time Jules Winnfield. And in the empty casket where he would have rested placed all the artifacts yet created, and yet lamented that there was no crafted artifact bag yet, spiked in gold, obsidian, platinum, goblin bone, ogre bone, and words of goblin sinew stitched into dragon skin "Bad Motherfucker".
Ending this on a less than epic note and one blow for the bad guys- this is more utter horror than total gore-fest, but try and put yourself in the place of this dwarf:
I've embarked upon a terrifying map, of grassland, savanna, volcano, and rocky wasteland. One dark night, through a skylight I've punched over the main stairwell, when all were sleeping, save the expedition leader- a miner, dutiful, competent, and hardworking, carving stairs for the betterment of his people, his eyes shining with the fire of a dwarf with a dream- is being watched. Watched, and hunted. The beast cares not for the fortress, nor the workers, nor his dream. He cares only for the blood pulsing through this humble worker.
And for it's ravenous hunger.
A thing swoops down, down, down, and latches onto the dwarf. Before it's terrible demise, as the dwarf wildly swings her pick, her minds sees things straight out of hell itself.
Leathern wings.
A jackal head, holding fangs as long as her arm.
A grey tail.
Needle-like horns, stained with blood.
A mane of gore covered dreadlocks.
tightly stretched skin over an alien skeleton.
Eyes burning without a soul, showing no fear, no pain, no tiring, and no emotion.
And a jaw full of rows and rows of needle-point teeth, those ivory swords inside it's mouth with holes in the end, and a hole that could never be filled, a black at the back of it's throat that showed not black, which is merely an absence of light, but true darkness inside that cavernous mouth, opening wider and wider to swallow her head, the kind of darkness you find under rocks and inside a buried casket or at the bottom of a mine when all the light's gone away, an inky, solid thing that has mass and feeling to it, a malevolence that wishes to consume all the light in the world.
Scared yet?
I savescummed to get back my leader with all her bits in one place. on her body, not in the nightwings gullet. And before you go to bed, worried of things that could be landing on the roof of your house, on the walls outside your home, staring into your window with passionless eyes, turning the doorknob to where you sleep, think of one word:
Nightwong.
Reread that word again, carefully, just in case you missed it. You'll feel better. A bit.
Author
Topic: Horrible and Outright Painful Death (Read 5854 times)