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[sev]

My dearest Kib,

Words cannot express how distraught I am that I cannot bid you farewell in person.  Alas, you are far to the east, surveying the Contemptible Hills, and I have received my orders from our leaders.   I can only assume they've done this apurpose; Zas has always fancied you, and Besmar Tombbowls himself is on watch for followers of Tamolganad to weed from his vaunted halls.  And thus the combination of lust and religion leads to the tragedy of our separation.  I pray you remain safe from the goblins and the fell beasts they hunt, and return in health to see this note.

They have  sent me westward, to found a new settlement in the Sprayed Plain.   They've also ordered Dishmab Paddleentrance and Kol Sealfights to come with us; thus have I determined that it is our shared religion that at least in part motivates this task.  Dishmab's beloved, Erith, has determined to come along with us, but Kol's wife has turned a cold shoulder to him.  The persecution is too much for her, I suppose.  She's been after Kol for some time to at least pretend to stop his worship but he, like Dishmab and I, know from whence our strength comes.

We will travel south out of Mirrorvirtues and then climb up into the Hills of Severity.  Once we clear the lowest foothills of the Crazed Barbs, avoiding the sasquatches and giant eagles found thereabouts, we'll be able to see the Quick Forest to the west.  I expect no difficulties for that part of our journey, either; the forest has been quiet since we pacified Cereimpe.  Neither hide nor hair of that Slideoaks fellow has been seen for nearly a decade. For an elf who is said to lead the tattered remains of the Deep Tusk elves, he has been remarkably quiet.

Once clear of the forest, we will proceed swiftly to the human town of Othlaosush, for the only night of our journey spent under a roof.  I believe that will be a rare treat.  They are all that's left of the bellicose human civilization that called itself the "Kingdom of Panting," or somesuch.  They waged war for decades with both the Deep Tusk elves as well as the elves of Nourishsea to the south.  Their activities were what kept the elves so distracted that we could annex three forest retreats.  So we are, in a sense, in their debt.    If we're lucky, we'll catch sight of some worshippers of "Donu the Dead Dust of Ashes," their god of suicide, whose worship has been rising in recent years. Their rites are said to be a wonder to behold.

Proceeding northwest through the Cloudy Fields, we will cross a stream called the Pulpy Crab.  This leads us through the Sprayed Plain.  That narrow land lies between the mountains to the north and the Forests of Torturing to the south.  We'll follow this strip of wild shrubs westward until we turn the northernmost tip of the haunted forest.  We'll stop between the streams, the Pulpy Crab and Flingflood.  I'm told there's a hillock just west of the forest's edge, and that's where we're to break ground.

I'm describing our route in such detail not simply to share this with you, my dear.   I hope, I pray, that you'll follow our path when you return.  Join me, my darling. I'm sure your talents will be useful.

Lovingly,
Tosid Mistychannel
22 Granite, Year 60
in the mountain halls of Mirrorvirtues

[sev]

My dearest Kib,

I write this letter with optimism that one day, a trader will pass through and I’ll be able to send a packet to Mirrorvirtues.   At least, they promised that in the autumn, there will be a caravan from home.  And oh, how a few months of exile can make even the oppressive regime of Mirrorvirtues feel like “home”.  But I have become the defacto leader of our motley group, and I cannot abandon them here, no matter how homesick I become.  They look to me for leadership and I must set a good example.  Here, in my office, I can let my guard down and shed a tear for missing you.  Even the furniture reminds me I’m here, and not there; instead of the rich, warm hues of Mirrorvirtues’ stones in the room we shared, here I’m surrounded by drab grey rock.  The walls of my office, my chair, my table, even my door…the same shade of grey.  Kol insists that there's marble down there somewhere, and has promised me a shiny white door, but even that will not be the same.

We broke ground just after the new year.  The hill the surveyors identified was indeed there – a tiny hummock, barely a rise in the ground, a stone’s throw from the edge of the haunted forest with its dead, looming trees.  Obedient to our orders, Dishmab, Domas, and Stukos dug into it as if it were the towering rock to which they were accustomed, rather than a pile of dirt in the western wilds.

After three months of backbreaking, beard-tangling work, I think we’re finally hitting our stride.  We’ve carved out a warren of little clay rooms for food-making and sleeping.  Kol and I dismantled the wagon and I set to trying to figure out how to fashion beds for our brave dwarves.  I had no idea that working with wood was so very different than crafting stone toys!  The manufacture of beds took me half the season.

While I was hammering away, Tholtig Weighthatches, a marksdwarf who signed on with us at the last minute, was patrolling our eastern borders.  He grew weary, but refused to leave his post.  Suddenly, we in the fortress could hear him bellow!  We poked out our heads and there he was, running through the dead forest, blood streaming from his wounds, a skeletal deer hot on his heels.  Three other unnatural beasts scattered at his shout, but the one clacking horror kept pace with him.  He fired his last bolt, which slid harmlessly through the thing’s empty ribcage.   Finally, he’d had enough of running.  As we all watched in amazement, he turned about, swung his useless crossbow in a mighty arc, and bones went flying in all directions.  A second swing, and the deer’s skull bounced off a nearby tree.  Grimly, Tholtig stalked back to the compound to treat his wounds while his dogs pulled down the remaining zombie and skeletal deer.

His back pains him when it rains, now.  He’ll practice his marksdwarfship, but his heart’s not in it, anymore.  He blames me, of all people, for his injuries! I have told him time and again that the creatures don’t like to leave their haunted forest, and if he leaves them alone, they’ll leave us alone.  I’ve hidden his crossbow and set him to hauling.  He grumbles about his bruised tailbone while the miners make jokes.

My biggest news is: while Stukos was digging me a carpenter’s workshop in an ugly mishmash of rock and sandy loam, he struck a vein of copper!  Beloved, we will have metal for you when you arrive.


Lovingly,
Tosid Mistychannel
5 Hematite, Year 61
In the settlement of Shotstockades, in the Sprayed Plain

[sev]

My Sweet, Absent Tosid,

I was so sad to return from my trip and find you gone.   It drained much of the joy from what was an otherwise happy, productive trip.

I don’t know why you think Zas Helmscalded fancies me – I’m not sure he knows who I am!  He’s a mighty warrior and the mayor of the Creative Spears, and I’m sure he’s far too busy governing Mirrorvirtues to notice a dabbling nobody like me.  He asked me today, during my application interview to emigrate, what exactly I did in the mountainhall!   Anyway, of course I’ll come join you.  Mayor Helmscalded gave me leave to emigrate to Shotstockades as soon as my apprentice is ready to take over my duties. She’s nearly mastered steel bucklers, now, so I should be free to go before the spring thaw!   I’m sorry I won’t be there to warm you this winter, but even though I’m leaving, I cannot leave Mirrorvirtues without someone to craft armor.

The survey trip was a success by my measure; we’ve vastly increased our knowledge about the world.  Of course, Tactician Tombbowls was annoyed.  As usual, we found no place to expand our influence.  Not only was the area to the east infested with goblins and kobolds, but the one place that was safe, unsurprisingly, already had a settlement there.  And you wouldn’t believe what we found settled there – humans!  There’s a whole townful of them!  They call the place “Bathrutolmo,” which sounds kind of like a fun way to get clean, but, would you believe?  It’s humanglish for “Shovemule.”  Humans give their towns the strangest names!  Speaking of which, I’m greatly looking forward to seeing Othlaosush next year.  Did you meet any cultists?

Anyway.  Remember my colleague Meng Machinewebbed? She and her husband, Meng Quicknessportal were on this survey.  I’m so thankful we have different names, dear.  Can you imagine, being Meng and Meng?  They’ve begun a collection of historical tales, so they spent the whole time interviewing anybody who’d talk to them.  Mostly they’re still collecting, but M. Machinewebbed told me a quick history of the Deep Tusk elves one night while we were attending a weaving demonstration in Bathrutolmo.   Really, a weaving demonstration!  Meng thought it was all quite silly, she doesn’t care about whether she dyes cloth or thread, or what happens to the thread after she dyes it or what happened to the cloth before she dyed it.  All she cares about is color, color, color.  But I thought the weaving was fascinating, and I coaxed one of the humans into showing me how it worked.  Just wait until you see!

Where was I?  Oh, yes, the elven history.  I know how fascinated you are by the western wars, so I tried to remember this history as best as I could.  Meng is the accomplished storyteller, of course. I guess she gets a lot of practice, swishing stuff around in her dyepots like she does.  Armoring is so much louder!  No way to practice any talking when I’m using the anvil.   Anyway.  The history went something like:

In 26, the Crimson Bridge, hungry for wood, eyed the nearby Quick Forest.  The forest was inhabited by a group of savage Elves known as "Deep Tusk," who were fighting with the nearby humans.  Taking  advantage of the elves' distraction, one of our war parties led by Kol Mortalship swarmed the six-year-old elven  retreat of Eslomesila and claimed it for the dwarves of Crimson Bridge.   We clearly won that battle but Kol was killed in what was apparently an epic duel with a savage elf named Omo Riddlesky.  And then – get this!  That Omo-elf, she was promptly shot by our very own Besmar Tombbowls!  She was his second kill.

Anyway.  “Thus began,” as Meng puts it, twenty years of sparring between the Crimson Bridge dwarves and the Deep Tusk elves.  In the end, the  Crimson Bridge defeated nearby Etheraqueca and then the elven refugee camp Cereimpe.  Now Cereimpe is a fifteen-year-old dwarven settlement called "Relievewaxed."  But I guess you know that part.   You never told me, though, that the elves that remained in the settlement live in harmony with their dwarven neighbors – and that they’ve even elected an elven governor!

Meng’s promised me a copy of her “Chronicles of Cog Dyefed, a Dwarven Babysnatcher.”  I’m so excited!  I know you think her story is overblown, but Meng says she has Documented Proof of abductions of nearly one kid a year for the last decade!  I think it sounds like a lovely tale, a one-eyed dwarf stealing babies for the goblins but dedicating them to Lek Saviorspecial. And don’t you try to tell me she wouldn’t!  You’re the worshipper of that god of strength.  Would you give him up just because you’d gone off and joined the goblins?  See! No volcano-god would inspire that kind of devotion.

Affectionately Yours,
Kib Strapsprings
21 Felsite, Year 61
in the mountain halls of Mirrorvirtues

[sev]

To: Mosus Girdercrypts,  Boltlungs
From: Stukos Fordlanters, Shotstockades
18 Hematite, Year 61

I’ve done it, Mosus.  Like I always said I would, I’ve done it.  I’ve gone and joined a brand-spanking new expedition and we’ve founded our own mountainhome.  It’s called Shotstockades, and actually, it’s just down the hill from you.

I know, I know, you’ve always told me that if I really wanted to work my butt off, all I needed to do was climb the cold mountains and settle in Worklures.  And you’re right, they could use the help.  But I’m still not convinced that they *deserve* my help, y’know?  Thirty-five years after founding, and they’re still only half the size of Mirrorvirtues.  And I’m not comparing them to Mirrorvirtues in its prime, mind you.  This is compared to Mirrorvirtues today, decimated by repeated wars with the elves, and then again by repeated exodus to those forest retreats we captured.  Mirrorvirtues is but a shadow of what it was in its days of glory, and it’s *still* twice the size of Worklures.

And before you say it – yes, I know that Boltlungs is a large, thriving mountain hall.  And the surrounding plains, with their rich loam and marshy fields, are legendary among dwarves.  And that you’ll always have a place for me there if I want it  - I know!  You‘ve told me a thousand times and I know.  And I’m thoroughly grateful for that welcome.

But honestly, I do love the Crimson Bridge.   They’re my *people*.  I share their warlike nature, their particular opinions regarding elves, their unending hatred of bears.  Were I to come join you in Boltlures and become a citizen of the Chamber of Frenzies, I would have to put down my pick when I wasn’t mining, or else I’d have to learn to hunt cougars and wolves.   Nay, say I!  I’m here to plant a flag for the Crimson Bridge!

I say, let's follow the humans' example, and stake out some territory outside our comfortable peaks.  Flingflood runs through The Sprayed Plain.  The influence of your  Chamber of Frenzies is thin at best because of the proximity  of the Forests of Torturing.  It's here that our future is to be found. 

Speechmaking aside, though.  We’re just down the Flingflood from y’all, not far past the first bend after you get down from your big mountain, what do you call it?  Oh, yes, the Humorous Spike.  You recall, don’t you, that you promised to tell me how that name came about?  Our expedition leader, a chap named Tosid Mistychannel, is a big collector of stories, and as soon as I mentioned that I thought there might be some story there, he encouraged me to remind you.  Come visit.  This Erith Workescort that’s set us up our farms brews a mean shot of rum, and Tosid swears he’ll have us eating roasted horsemeat come autumn.  Come feast by the hearth of Shotstockades and tell your stories.  You’ll leave with a full belly and I’ll have earned some credit with my leader.

Fondly,
Stukos

[sev]

Early summer, year 61

Stukos and Dishmab, two of the fortress’s miners, come racing up the stairs.  “THE WALLS ARE LEAKING!  THE WALLS ARE LEAKING!”  Dishmab’s normally-pallid complexion is alarmingly red, and Stukos is panting so badly he can barely be understood.   “The corridor is ankle-deep in water,” Dishmab wails.  Stukos waved his arms.  “Couldn’t … make … it … stop!  Just kept … coming!”

Domas sets aside his barrel of dwarven beer and puts his hands on his hips, glaring, until his fellow miners calm down.  Stukos catches his breath, and Dishmab begins to cower under his boss’s fierce gaze.

Domas speaks very slowly, biting off each word.  “Wall. It. Off.  Just wall it off.  It’s ONE mining shaft.  Take Kol with you.  He’ll show you how to build the walls so the water stays put.”  As the three dwarves stumble off, Domas shakes his head and mutters, “You think they’d never seen an aquifer before.”

“They probably haven’t,” speaks a voice from a shadowy corner. 

Domas jumps, startled.   “I thought I was … well.  Hello, Tholtig.  I didn’t see you there.”  Tholtig emerges from the clutter of stored furniture at the back of the booze-room, and Domas presses his lips together, frowning slightly.

“They probably haven’t ever seen an aquifer,” repeats Tholtig.  His voice slowly cools.  “There aren’t any, up in Mirrorvirtues.  I’m surprised you know what it is.”  His gaze sharpens and he stares straight at Domas, who raises one eyebrow.

“I did some prospecting in the Accidental Desert in my younger years.”  His gaze grows distant. “Have you been there?  Rockiest wasteland I’ve ever seen.  The desert itself, of course, is dry.  But we camped just upwards of there, where it was warmer and wetter.  First week, we tried to dig into the side of the mountain for some shelter, and, well … we didn’t try that again.”

Domas returns to the present with a start. “And what *are* you doing back there, you?  There’s nothing back there but empty barrels and a chipped table.”

Tholtig’s lips form a smile, but his eyes remain hard.  “Just putting away my barrel.”  He dries his lips with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of rum.  Domas feels the marksdwarf’s eyes on his back as he leaves the room.

[sev]

[TheMirth]

Awesome. I think the map really helps provide a context for the world your dwarves are existing and makes things more accessible for the reader.

[sev]

Awesome. I think the map really helps provide a context for the world your dwarves are existing and makes things more accessible for the reader.

The map makes me happy. :)

I realized I was checking it multiple times per post so I figured it would help to share it.

It does, however, highlight just how far away Shotstockades is from its parent civ (which owns Mirrorvirtues and the three forest retreats).   They didn't look so far off, on the embark screen -- I had no idea that the "world" section on the embark map was the *whole* world.  If I'd been paying attention, I guess I might have noticed that it doesn't scroll.

Anyway, the big regional map you can export after worldgen, or in legends mode?  Utterly fascinates me.  The whole map is here.  I love that the southern lowlands are virtually empty, while in the northern part, the elves and humans nearly wiped each other out.

I never was so fascinated by worldgen, until I started documenting so finely what happened in fortress mode.

[TheMirth]

I know what you mean. Quite often you can track the rise of some civilisation to a particular leader. That leader will go on a long series of conquests but once they die the next leader can frequently let the civilization decay failing to expand or build up in any significant way until the next leader comes along.

I like the idea of letters between forts though. The concept will probably handle a lot of things the new army arc will bring with it.

[sev]

To: Olon Roomglow, c/o Beardedstaves Farmer’s Guild
From: Erith Workescort
Page 1

9 Limestone, Year 61

As I promised, a letter from far-off Shotstockades.  We’re expecting the caravan from Mirrorvirtue some time this season, so, I guess I should start writing!  I want to have this letter written and ready for them when they arrive.

Well, firstly, as you expected, I’m Head of Farming here.  You were absolutely right; I needed to get away from the calcified hierarchy of the Mirrorvirtue kitchens if I was to gain any authority of my own.  I even convinced the local leadership to consolidate all food-related tasks in my hands.  The kitchens, the stills, the butchery, the mills – all belong to me.  I will not, however, allow anyone to call me “head of food,” as it makes it sound like my ears have been stuffed with cheese.  I’m still puzzling over what, exactly, I do want them to call me.

I admit, it’s a hollow kingdom at the moment, as I’m doing all the cooking and every one of my workers has other tasks as well.  But, oh, the thrill of power I get when I tell the very leader of our expedition to go gather herbs!  Even if he does have an overly manicured moustache (I think he’s trying to hide the fact that his beard doesn’t grow in evenly.)

More later.  Right now I have to chase the puppies out of my farm plot, and plant some cave wheat so we can have beer!

18 Limestone

It’s truly dangerous here, my dear friend.  I had thought when they called this forest haunted, that they were talking about the dead trees and the scary hush.  But it’s inhabited – by skeletal deer!  I used my authority as Head of Kitchenry to send out our sole marksdwarf hunting.  And then that rockhead of a leader Tosid flaps his insipid little moustache at me and goes on about “wise husbandry of our wilderness” and the accidental deaths of groundhogs.  What do I care about groundhogs, really!  It seems that bolthappy marksdwarf scared off the undead wildlife and then started going after the live stuff.

When Tosid Mistybeard, er, Mistychannel finished lecturing me, he went off to argue with the marksdwarf.  While he was busy I enlisted the help of the leader of our Miners, Domas.  He’s all big and muscled from mining, and I know he’s got a hefty appetite. All I had to say was “groundhog pie” and he was off building me a real butchery and de-boning those dead groundhogs.

So we had a feast, but all anybody talked about was copper, copper, copper.  Seems they found a vein of malachite.  Not that we have anyone who works metal here!  But I suppose Tosid’s wife is supposed to come join him.  It’ll be quite a step down for her, from head of the entire Mirrorvirtues steelworks to banging out copper armor in the middle of nowhere.  Maybe when she gets here she can do something about her husband’s patchy beard.  I rub wet clay into Dishmab’s beard once a week, and that keeps it smooth and bushy.  It’s nearly to his knees, now.

(continued)

[TheMirth]

Oh the bar has been raised. Now I have to look up beard care.

[sev]

Oh the bar has been raised. Now I have to look up beard care.

And WOE betide ye if you embarked on a map full of sand!  For no caravan brings clay, I'm afraid.

[sev]

To: Olon Roomglow, c/o Beardedstaves Farmer’s Guild
From: Erith Workescort
Page 2


3 Sandstone

Ah, the caravan from Mirrorvirtue has finally arrived!  These are the same brave tradesdwarves who passed our letters between Mirrorvirtue and Beardedstaves.  I recognize the merchants, though I have only ever seen them with one armed guard, and now they have four.  I suppose they must pick up more swordsdwarves as they head west – it sounds like at least one of them is from the forests, given his elven accent and general laziness.  They’ve emerged perilously close to the haunted forest.  When I  expressed my concern at the risk, they scoffed at us.  “Oh, it’s all WEST to us,” they said, and laughed.  I guess that as far as they’re concerned, anything west of Scaldedstones is equally dangerous.

The laziness, I might add, became quite apparent when, as we were all ferrying bins of stone carvings to the trading depot, and the merchants were unloading their goods, MONKEYS arrived.  They stole right onto our little hill and STOLE OUR AMMO!  The very ammo we need to protect ourselves from the undead wildlife.  They scooped up pile after pile of sharp steel bolts.  Well, as you might expect, we all dropped what we were doing and ran them down.  We strangled three of them with our bare hands, and my Dishmab buried a pick in the head of a fourth.  But four more monkeys got away.  And, would you believe – those lazy merchant guards, they just sat there and laughed.

10 Sandstone

Oh, for crying out loud.  These miners, can’t they watch where they swing their picks?  There’s MORE water leaking into the mining shafts.  Worse, it’s the shaft that runs just southwest of the main hall.  This is the second time in the last three months they’ve gone and dug into wet stone.  And that good-for-nothing mason, Kol, threw up his hands and shouted about miners and went off and cut down some trees, so the marksdwarf, of all people, followed the miners down into the shaft to wall off the leaky parts.  He said that he finds the marble just *fascinating*.  Just what we need, more dwarves fascinated with rocks.

2 Timber

The merchants have said they’re leaving tomorrow, so I’m going to wrap this letter up. We got the farmsdwarves you sent along with Mirrorrvirtues’ migrants – thank you!  I’m so glad I don’t have to do the threshing anymore, and I can’t believe you sent me an actual trained dwarf for the task!  That marksdwarf is very impressed with me, now.  I’d promised him that I’d find somebody else to do the threshing just yesterday, and then look who walks in the door! 

And the herbalist -- Tosid, ungrateful wretch, seems disappointed that I don’t need him to gather herbs anymore, but that Momuz girl you sent, she’s better at it than he is!  And between the two of them, I can offload all the messy, boring, and time-consuming jobs and concentrate on my core competencies.  Like telling dwarves what to do.  The booze-room is well-stocked and the dining room is full of yummy meals.  Everybody loves me.

Except Tosid, that fool.  He resents that I pointed out to him that the horse he traded for?  A mare.  Just like the horse that pulled our wagon six months ago.  So, it seems he’s embarrassed I had to point out to Mister Wise Husbandry that he’d better hurry and put those mares to stud with the merchant’s stallion before they went away.  He snuck out last night and if one of those mares wasn’t in season, well, I’ll be the first in line to laugh.  He’s been promising us roast horseflesh.  That door he traded for the mare? That was supposed to be the nice shiny marble kitchen door I was promised.  I EARNED that door.  Everybody says so.

I expect to hear from you when the caravan returns next year, my dear. 

Until then,

Yours fondly,
Erith Workescort
Chief of the Mess Hall, Shotstockades

[sev]

5 Sandstone, Year 61

Tosid eyed the three bins of rock crafts he’d laboriously whittled during the long summer nights.  As he haggled inexpertly with the merchant dwarves, he began to understand that if he wanted an anvil, they were going to want every single thing he made.  They probably knew how desperate he was for that anvil, that Kib was coming and that without an anvil she couldn’t ply her trade.

Setting his jaw, Tosid marched back into the fortress.  He was going to get Kib’s anvil AND the supplies he needs for the winter, and he knew how he was going to do it.

“EVERYBODY GRAB A DOOR!” he bellowed, hauling Kol’s finest marble door.  Kol began sputtering protests, and Tosid shouted right over him.  “DOORS!  DOORS FOR BOOZE!”  The remaining five dwarves stampeded to haul doors to the trade depot.

Once Kol had left to sulk in the booze-room and everyone else was dragging doors up the stairs, Tosid took the Outpost Liaison by the hand and led him into the office.  “Let me make you an offer, kind sir…”

Ast hovered in front of the sturdy desk.  He was a patient dwarf, patient as the rock itself.  In the nearly-sixty-years he’d been Outpost Liaison for the Crimson Bridge, he’d seen it all.  Two prosperous, relatively peaceful decades. Then, in the space of four years, wars with elves and goblins had claimed his ten children and his wife. After his youngest daughter was shot by an elf during the conquest of Scaldedstones, he’d lost his taste for acquisition by war.   He had grandchildren serving in the Mirrorvirtues guard, and he’d even done his share of defense against a skeletal cyclops that threatened the mountainhome.  But this, this was what he lived for.  Hardworking dwarves, expanding their empire with sweat, not blood.  Creating a home, not waging war and then stealing land from the dead.

Not that he had anything against arranging for the merchants under his care to make a profit from them.
He leaned forward to catch the Expedition Leader’s breathy whine.

“I’ll send you off with five fine marble doors,” Tosid began.  “Three bins of carved rock crafts – just LOOK at the craftsdwarfship on this rhyolite mug!  And we can even spare you one of Stukos’s fine mechanisms.  And in return, I want the anvil, the meat, the rum, and the horse.  Come back next year, and you’ll have your pick of our work!”  Tosid put his hands flat on his desk and leaned forward, his voice quieting and deepening.  “All I ask is that you bring us a donkey, and some iron.  Because Stukos won’t part with this mechanism unless we promise him a donkey.  A donkey, and some iron.  Do we have a deal?”

The liaison stroked his beard and smiled.  Underneath his hard-bargaining act, this dwarf was clearly frantic.  The girl in the human village who tipped him off to the importance of the anvil, well, he’ll buy her a beer when they head back through.  Not gonna get too greedy, though. This looks to be a spectacular profit, and so it’s time to give the nervous expedition leader a break.

“I have a, uh, customer in mind for some of that fine rock jewelry.  This batch seems a little sparse on the amulets and earrings – next year, perhaps there will be more?  In the meantime, these three bins, yes, I can absolutely make a deal with you, Mister Mistychannel.  You’ll have your anvil and your horse, and the drink, too.”

Tosid and the liaison both smile.

[sev]

To: Mosus Girdercrypts,  Boltlungs
From: Stukos Fordlanters, Shotstockades
12 Malachite, Year 62

ELVES!  We’re trading with ELVES!

Forget everything I said about getting in good with our leader.  We’re voting him OUT next chance we get.  That namby-pamby craftsdwarf who’s been making all the decisions around here is a secret elf-lover.  I had no idea!   He says that the dwarven/elven war is between the elves and Mirrorvirtues, and that the elves have no quarrel with dwarves who live outside the mountainhome.  Well, the ELVES may be that kind of hypocrite.  We saw the conquered forest retreats on our way here.  Elves and dwarves living in harmony, that sort of rot.  Stinking trees everywhere. But me, I’m a dwarf of stout and steady humors.  Elves were the enemy when I plied my pick for the mountainhome, and they’re the enemy now.  We rejected a peace offer from them just two years ago, for crying out loud! 

Tosid Mistychannel the elf-lover may have forbidden me from burying my pick in these elfy merchants’ foreheads, but he can’t make me drink with them.  We’ve got some herby dwarf migrated in from one of the conquered forest retreats and Tosid’s got her helping with trading so I don’t have to.

You remember Domas Glazedprices?  He’s gotten it into his head that he’s some kind of mining-leader.  Like miners need a leader!  But Miss Erith has been feeding his ego along with his belly and now he thinks he’s some kind of decision-maker.  Well, I’ll mine where I like.  But he does have an eye for personality.  That marksdwarf Tholtig, say.  He signed on at the last minute and Domas just doesn’t trust him.  He’s asked me to keep an eye on the guy.   For one thing, for a marksdwarf he’s awfully fond of stone.  I mean, he’s a dwarf, so he’d better like stone.  But he keeps petting it.  Nobody pets rock unless he’s a miner.  Okay, those famous masons of your Boltlungs probably rub rocks for fun, too.  But a marksdwarf?  Please. 

And lately he’s been trying to pet one of our new immigrants, too.  We got a whole batch of ‘em from the conquered retreats, and one of them’s this stubborn, artistic glassmaking type, name’s Olive Paperweave.  We got no sand here!  So Mistychannel’s sent her off to the marksdwarf for training.  She’s really pissed off,  I guess she expected she’d be coming to a settlement in the middle of nowhere and make complicated crafts, or something.   Tholtig goaded her into making her own crossbow, would you believe? He put down the glassmaking craft and waved his arms about what an exacting task it is to carve a crossbow.  She showed him, alright!  Got it right on the first try.  I can see him looking at her out of the corner of his eye, though.  And he leaves his hands on her arms just a little longer than necessary while he’s showing her how to shoot that crossbow she made.  And I think she’s encouraging it!   She came in with her cute little kitty, but what does she and Tholtig talk about?  Dogs, dogs, dogs.  She’s a good shot, though.  Took down one of those spooky deer skeletons that’s been wandering around.   Nobody told her that Tholtig got chased by one of ‘em when he first got here, har har.

Erith still makes some fine rum, my friend.  Come visit and I’ll pour you a barrel.

Fondly,
Stukos