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[SirHoneyBadger]

An Immigrant story.

For 12 years now, Mat'tock had felt the presence of the sword. He was just a migrant farmer, was the problem. A poor one, with little remaining in the way of possessions or family.

The son of a charcoal-burner, who had over the course of a century, saved enough money to buy a dozen acres of fertile land and the equipment to farm it. And Mat'tock's mother had farmed it, successfully, with the help of himself and his father and brother.

Mat'tock had picked up the skills, but his older brother had gotten the land with their parents' death. The land was fertile, but his brother had enough sons and daughters to work it, and there only grew enough food to feed so many mouths. There was no better way for the family to survive and so, when the time came, Mat'tock moved on, taking with him the clothes on his back, a sturdy walking stick he'd made from a discarded fencepost, and the sword in the back of his mind.

He'd formed the grip of the walking stick with a series of small stones he'd picked up along the way. He'd kept them all, 47 so far, each different and special and reminiscent of a time and a place.

Three day's constant work helping with a harvest had earned him his meals, two pockets full of ripe apples, a tiny copper coin, and a largeish shard of flint he'd pried from half-beneath the withered root of an ancient apple tree. Chipped at, very carefully, with river stones he'd left far behind him, it had yielded one exceedingly sharp blade. That, and the crude hickory fencepost from his family's farm, had been the start. Other days, other work, had come and gone, and he'd kept the stones he'd found, the ones that spoke to him.

As he walked-the highly carved and polished hickory stick held loosely in the grasp of his right hand-he somehow felt, in the palm of his left hand, the hilt of an intangible sword. Like spider's silk it lay there. Invisible, unbidden, barely a daydream. But real. Patiently and quietly, it seemed to grow more real, more heavy, with every step he took.

The sword had made it's presence known on the very first day he'd left home. Why a sword? He didn't honestly know. The only sword Mat'tock had seen in his entire life was a rusty specimen that hung above the mantel of the fireplace in the nearest tavern inn to his mother's home, three hour's walk away.

Mat'tock had been there three, maybe four times in his entire childhood, on one occasion sharing a pint of rich black bitterbeer with his father and older brother--the old man trading fresh vegetables and stories for coins.

The sword on the mantel was long, slightly curved, and very old. It had a cracked and blackened handle and a darkly pitted iron blade that had been slathered with a sooty grease. It had once belonged to a goblin warrior, according to the elderly innkeeper, who claimed that his grandfather had taken the sword from the goblin's corpse on a battlefield over 30 miles away.

Back then, 30 miles distance had seemed enormous, and the idea of an actual battlefield strewn with dead and dying soldiers-and goblin soldiers, at that-still seemed like such a distant thought, even though he now covered that in 2 days, or sometimes even one, when there was no safe bed to be found along the road. In any case, although Mat'tock had made a pilgrimage to the inn-it was the first stop he'd made on his journey into the world, a stop he'd felt compelled to make-just to see and carefully touch the sword hanging there, the sword of his dreams was nothing like the ugly scavenged trophy.

The Sword that was almost in his hand, but not really there at all, was much shorter. It was straight and broad and it transformed along it's length from a leaflike double-edge to a pyramidal stabbing point. It had a handle of white bone and a twisty, vinelike crossguard of some reddish metal he couldn't identify, that seemed to almost grow around the base of the blade, and into that metal was set several dozen tiny orange stones that flickered, somehow, like fire. In the pommel sat an even greater stone, like an eye, or perhaps the socket where an eye used to be. That stone was darker and redder than his own blood. It was a stone that seemed to drink and swallow all the light around it, like nothing in his experience.

Although the blade itself wasn't much over a third of a meter long, it was clearly not a dagger but a sword, and unlike the sooty goblin-forged thing on the mantel at the inn, Mat'tock's sword shone like the pure polished flint did when he held his tiny chipknife in his palm, letting the rain wash it. His sword would catch and transform any light that struck it like a prismatic water drop, and anything it struck, it would rend.

It was the Sword that had driven him from his home on that particular day, although he couldn't have stayed much longer in good graces. It was the Sword that was calling to him to be born. And-he hoped-it was the Sword that would lead him to a new home.

A month ago, as the passes through the mountains began to open, he'd began hearing about a group of miners in the northern mountains who were building a Fortress on the site of some old, old ruins that locals claimed were cursed, but that had once held great wealth.

Apparently, they'd found signs of copper the year previous, and had identified a vein of it that hadn't been tapped out by the original inhabitants. Some of them, having studied ancient engravings that had been left behind, thought gems had once been mined there. More might still lie underground, even though the ruins themselves-rumours notwithstanding-had likely been picked clean of any transportable wealth a dozen times over.

They'd also suffered some severe losses, when it turned out that the locals were right about the curse. It was said they'd encountered some terrible beasts in the mountains, and when the Dead themselves rose against them, the leaders among the miners, all ex-soldiers, it was said, had lost most of their workforce, who'd either fled or died.

Although the land around the ruins was now more or less secure, with new fortifications in place, the miners lacked the skill and numbers they needed to flourish. And ofcourse the superstitious locals would have nigh'nothing to do with them. If Mat'tock could find a new home, and somehow make the sword a reality, it would be there. It had to be. It was that or insanity.

As the poor farmer walked, his shabby cloak flapping in the light breeze, he watched the mountains rise above him and wondered at the days ahead. Whether he would be accepted by the miners, and what the oncoming spring would bring. Already, in the foothills, there was a chill in the air. Mat'tock wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself and gripped his walking stick. It would grow colder yet. The entrance to the mine wasn't-quite-in the mountains proper, but it was close enough.

He walked on. On, and up. Cursed or not, it was beautiful here, with tiny blue flowers poking through the crusted snow that crunched under his worn boots, and tall, stately pines growing in clusers up the sides of the mountain.

It was good, it was comforting, to see that, well...something atleast would grow there.

[Haika]

I approve. Very good story telling, and much better than most of the journal entry types we read around here. I look forward to see what else happens, if there is going to be an else...

[SirHoneyBadger]

Thanks  I thought I'd try writing something that wasn't based on any specific game, but is just about a dwarf, and what their world might look like to them. I'm not sure how far I'll take it-I'm not very good at continuing writing projects, even ones I enjoy-but I'll try to keep this up for as long as I can stand to.

[Strife26]

It's great to flesh out the DF world out-of-game.
I'll follow this tale.

[SirHoneyBadger]

He was challenged by the guards at sunset.

He'd found a narrow path up the last rise, and followed it. Mat'tock was glad it was there. He was used to walking, and while the added strain of climbing several increasingly steep hills hadn't taxed his legs overmuch, the dropoff to his left was getting deeper.

At a point where the path led between two great tall boulders, sitting side by side, he could see the tops of a pine grove. It lay nearly a hundred feet below. He hadn't liked that, and kept close to the face of the stone cliff that the path lay against.

The distraction of watching his steps on the increasingly steep path caused him not to notice the carefully laid stones, set without benefit of mortar, that stretched to either side of the boulders ahead, or the edge of the little wooden gate that sat behind them.

He had noticed when the two guards, crossbows in hand, called out to him. They were both dressed in finely worked leather armour, and were wearing what looked like the skulls of bears for helmets, but the first thing Mat'tock noticed about them was that they were old. Older even that his father had been, before he'd been trampled by a mad bull.

His father had been the oldest man that Mat'tock had ever met, or even heard of. He'd seen two centuries come and go, before he'd met Mat'tock's mother. He hadn't ever done a great deal with his life, which perhaps explained his longevity, but he seemed to know a little about everything, and he was kindly and wise. Mat'tock missed him, and his calm advice, often.

He thought his father might have been able to tell him something about the sword, if only Mat'tock had known to ask. His father had also been something of a goat, and Mat'tock knew with certainty that he had a great many half-brothers, and sisters, out there, having met a few over the years, and heard tales of others.

These fellows, however, might have made a stripling of his father. Their skin was as pale, grey, and worn as the stones around them, and their long mustaches, bound at the ends with bits of leather cord, were a mix of silver and gold. They kept their chins neatly trimmed, however, an affectation that Mat'tock found bizarre.

His father's beard had been a massive thing-copper coloured for the most part, but streaked with black, and starting to turn silver and gold in places. It was nothing like these two, though. Hair of silver or gold was a quality found only in the extremely elderly, or the extremely wealthy. 

Even more extraordinarily than their advanced age, Mat'tock thought the two might be twins. That was ofcourse, a near-impossibility. Twin birth was extremely rare, but that both twins might survive so long? Madness.

All these thoughts passed through Mat'tock's mind in an instant, and he quickly pushed them away. He was here on business.

"State fer us yer business, traveler!" The left one said. The voice was reedy, but very clear, almost like a musical instrument.

Whatever the guards were, they still looked plenty sharp, and harder than the rocks they crouched upon. Their bright blue eyes glared at him over their enormous noses-another sign of advanced age-and Mat'tock could feel the bolts aimed at the center of his chest.

"Work. Yes. I'm here for work. To offer my services. As it were. I'm a farmer. I don't have a farm, though. And I thought you might. Or that you might need one. Something." Mat'tock realized he was rambling on, but there wasn't much else he could do. He was frightened.

He'd often been frightened in his travels, and while he'd come out of many bad situations unscathed, or atleast in one piece, he'd not yet fully tamed his fears. He was willing to face them, though, and he considered that an accomplishment.

The two continued to glare at him for what was almost certainly forever, and then the right one nodded. "Aye. We will, an' there's little time, an' few ta do the work. We'll bring 'im to the Monarch, brother." At the words, Mat'tock felt his eyes grow wide. They were twins! Or atleast brothers.

The right one climbed quickly and effortlessly down from the rock, taking up a position behind Mat'tock. He'd moved like a spider.

Mat'tock could now feel two lines of force emanating from the crossbows. One transfixing his heart, the other piercing his back. They certainly were cautious, and very efficient. "And very, very deadly" said a voice in his mind. He thought, for a brief insane moment, that it might have been the sword speaking to him.

The left brother joined them on the ground, climbing also like a spider, down the face of the rock: unpausing, methodical, and sure. As the second guard took position, Mat'tock felt the two invisible lines now go through his back.

Despite their constant vigilance that bordered on paranoia, and the strangeness of the two, Mat'tock admitted they were friendly enough.

The one on the right (or was it the left?) was named Bardolom E'mud, and the one on the left (right?) was Morion Arolethi. Their family name was 'Hunter', their clan 'GraniteCopper', and they'd been born in the fortress 'TurningShadows'.

They walked together slowly, for maybe half an hour. The brothers didn't seem to be in any rush, and Mat'tock was just happy to be on flatter ground. The wind was picking up, and it was starting to flurry snow. Winter hadn't been driven from the mountains yet, it seemed.

They passed several broad fields that looked like they may once have been farmed, but so long ago he couldn't be certain. They were covered in shrubs and tall weeds.

He was told by Bardolom that the outer wall the brothers had been guarding encircled approximately 600 acres, although he didn't know how fertile they were. The two professional farmers they'd brought with them thought they'd feed atleast 50 families, but the one farmer had been killed by the undead bear who's skull Morion was wearing, and the other-along with the first farmer's wife and daughter-had fled.

Mat'tock commented that although he might die, there was nowhere for him to run to, and Bardolom smiled at that and said they both understood that very well.

There were two underground farms, for mushrooms, one of which had been successfully planted with rocknuts. They'd harvested a few of the plants already, and were drying the leaves in a surface outbuilding that was pointed out to Mat'tock. They'd left the rest to hopefully seed.

There was also a paddock where the soldiers were keeping a few goats they'd caught, and one of the soldiers had bought three pigeons, and was raising them in yet another outbuilding.

Between that, hunting, and the rations they'd buy with copper ore, they were getting by. Hunting was dangerous in these benighted lands, though, and the rations were priced at extortion rates by the locals, who, along with their understandable greed, seemed to think that even the act of trading food might bring the "curse" down on their heads.

It just wasn't a good situation, or one that could last for very long.

Morion offered Mat'tock drinks from a small silver flask he carried. It was like swallowing liquid fire, but it drove a chill from Mat'tock's bones that he hadn't realized was there.

They talked as they drank. They were, indeed, twins.

Mat'tock learned that 'TurningShadows' had fallen to a dragon nearly three hundred years ago, when the two brothers were but ten years old.

They'd been smuggled out of the burning Fortress by their mother, and had lived as hunters, mercenaries, and soldiers, ever since. The brothers were as surprised as Mat'tock and everyone else was, that they'd lived as long as they had.

Bardolom was missing two fingers and one of the thumbs on his left hand, as well as several toes, and Morion was missing an ear that had been burned off by a firesnake, and a few teeth that had been knocked out recently, when he'd been thrown by one of the undead bears, but other than that, and uncountable scars, they were whole.

As he sipped the powerful liquor, Mat'tock didn't think he'd ever held any single object in his entire life that was as valuable as the little flask.

It was rich silver, heavy and finely made, with a stopper of cut rock crystal. Braided around the neck, and holding the stopper in place, was a broad strap of tough leather, reinforced with bits of translucent yellow bone that had been carved into little snakes. A second flap of leather hung down over the neck of the flask and was cut into a fringe of triangles. The triangles had hardened over the years until they felt like little spikes on Mat'tock's palm. They helped him keep his grip on the cold metal.

Into the silver of the flask, stretching around to cover both sides, was chased a scene of an enormous fire-breathing dragon. The dragon was surrounded by what seemed to be two separate rings of soldiers, but the soldiers were fleeing from the dragon.

The eyes of the dragon were two tiny chips of stone. They were pale yellow instead of orange, but they seemed to flicker in the light like the smaller stones set into his sword. He asked Morion about them and was told they were topaz.

It seemed that Morion himself had made the flask, many years ago, as a boy, and still carried it with him everywhere, ever since. Mat'tock was about to ask more, when they reached the entrance to the Fortress.

"We calls it 'RingingDeep, tha EverVaulting of Copper', an' to it we welcomes you." announced Bardolom, proudly.

"An' hopefully gems..." Added Morion, helpfully, with a gap-toothed grin.

"Aye, we welcomes you ta 'RingingDeep, tha EverVaulting of Copper (an', hopefully, Gems!')" said a smiling Bardolom, even more proudly, and a little whistfully, at the end.

[ricemastah]

More tasty goodness please!

Seriously, though this is awesome! A reader can definitely tell that you care about the story when they're reading it.

[Heron TSG]

This is pretty intense! woo!

[Glacies]

Kick arse. Keep it up. This is probably the best bit of fiction on the boards.

[SirHoneyBadger]

Thanks for all the compliments, everyone!

I wanted to let you know that I'm going to try to keep this up as best I can, but I'm into my workweek, and I doubt I'll be able to post every day. I'll aim for every other day (including my days off) and see if/how that works. I work 4 days and 3 off, so that'll be the pattern, and I'll start on the next installment when I'm done with work, tonight.

[SirHoneyBadger]

The path Mat'tock and the brothers walked along had broadened into the fields that stretched away and down past vast pine forests, and below that to where he couldn't see. It shot off in several different directions, before rising to a low ridge on which scrubby blades of grass and more of the blue flowers had begun to break their way through the crusted snow.

The ridge lay against a formidable wall of wet black rock. On the almost verticle face of the rock, five or more different colors of lichen competed to grow in-between little dribbles of melting ice. The runoff from the ice had formed a ditch which carried an arc of water down the side of the hilltop.

The three paused to drink, and Mat'tock found the water pure, crisp, and minerally.

"It seems almost as though these hills contain more life than the valleys below them." said Mat'tock, flicking water from his beard.

"Ayah...more life an' more death." answered back Bardolom. Morion nodded in agreement with that, and they continued on their way.

From there the path curved and narrowed, rising into a broad ramp. As Mat'tock stood at the top of the ramp, which revealed a bright, white view of the mountains directly north, the cold wind blasted his face. For a moment, that didn't matter.

The view seemed to take in the whole wide world.

A second blast of wind rocked him back on his heels, and he turned away from the chill. 

Bardolom stood a step behind him, copper-studded crossbow still in hand, though now aimed only at the ground. Mat'tock hadn't even noticed when the brothers had finally dropped their guard, although he suspected that, even if he had been something for them to fear-and he couldn't imagine what that would be-it wouldn't have mattered much. Morion was slightly ahead and above, and he laid a hand on Mat'tock's shoulder, then pointed.

Mat'tock didn't understand what it was at first.

Part of that was his eyes, following where Morion's finger led them. In the rock there was an immense split. Just a crack that the mountain winds and mountain weather had worn at, over centuries. Smooth-sided, it was only a finger's breadth thick at the top, but easily sixty feet in total length.

Gradually, his eyes followed it down. It was remarkable how straight it was, how uniformly deep it penetrated. It slowly settled in on Mat'tock that the break in the rock wasn't natural. The rock had never actually split. It had been carved.

Chiseled out by ancient hands to form a daggerslash the height of twenty men, that only broadened into a low dome a few feet from the very bottom. And, there were six others, just like it. They'd have almost been invisible-just random lines in a rock-except when presented as a set.

"Like a sunburst. ...Half a sunburst." he blurted. He wondered how the carvers had managed to avoid splitting the rock.

"Not tha sun. No." said Morion "Have you ever seen a rocknut grow?" Mat'tock then nodded in agreement, understanding. It was how rocknuts looked, when first they put out shoots, well before the broad leaves began to form on the hard spindly thorns.

"It's a carving of a seed." He paused and looked back at Bardolom, "Planted in the earth?" Both brothers nodded.

"We've seen such afore, in other places. Older places." "Very older places," added Morion, "An' one like it, in the deeps of tha Mountain Home." Bardolom nodded his head down at the entrance. "Tis meaning is 'Home', so far as anyone alive knows it ta be...Here comes tha others ta join, some a thems."

Four more figures climbed out of the darkness at the center of the great carving. They were all far younger than the twins, but by no means young.

On the leftmost, the tallest of the four was the only one dressed in metal armour. She also was the only woman in the group, although it took Mat'tock a moment to realize this.

Mat'tock's mother had ruled their tiny farm, and her husband and son, with an iron will. It wasn't uncommon, but Mat'tock had never seen her hold a weapon more dangerous than the thin bronze knife with the horn handle that she'd used to butcher the wild pigs his father very occasionally caught. It had been a valuable heirloom, handed down from her mother, and from her grandmother before her.

This woman, however, held a greystone mace which head was the size of a ripe melon, with a shaft of thorn that was nearly as tall as she. Yet she was the tallest of them all, including Mat'tock and the twins.

The stone, which had been chipped into a near-perfect sphere, was attached to the shaft with a thin copper strap that twisted under and over itself for dozens of times. Several thorns had been left near the head of the stone, giving a more menacing look to the mace.

The armour she wore was made of heavy copper rings that overlapped each other. Although clearly new, it looked like it had already served it's purpose more than once, as several of the rings had been repaired in different places.

A broad band of braided copper held her curly red hair away from her eyes. She had enormous green eyes, that shone strangely in the cold air.

Most of the women Mat'tock had even known or seen-which admittedly, was only a small handful-hadn't bothered to grow hair on their heads, and all of them had kept their beards neatly trimmed, close to their faces. It was the modern fashion.

This woman wore her's long and wild, a cascade of crimson curls flowing around clever-looking lips, and plummeting over broad shoulders and down a very generous chest.

Mat'tock thought she was incredibly beautiful. Magnificent, too. And, extremely terrifying.

The fellow standing next to her had only one eye. The left one, which was blue. Four broad, freshly healed scars crossed that side of his face. He was dressed as the other men were, in thick leather of goodish quality. A copper axe head that had been polished to a dull brown glow sat on his left shoulder, close to where his eye had been. In his hands, restlessly it seemed, he carried a leather-faced buckler that was also studded with copper.

One of the scars pulled his lip down into a frown, but Mat'tock thought the expression would have been there, anyway. His beard was coppery, but much duller and straighter than the woman's, and it had been cropped neatly off, less than a foot from his chin. The eye that was left to him studied Mat'tock warily.

The second man, standing slightly apart from the two, was unarmed, although by the looks of his enormous scarred hands, his arms-which were as round and as corded as Mat'tock's legs-and his hulking, densely muscled shoulders, he'd have made short work of Mat'tock, anyway.

He wore a broad, easy smile, though, which seemed to contain mostly copper teeth. These looked to be brand new. The smile reached his eyes, as well, which were large, liver-colored, and full of humor.

The man's ugly, friendly face was dominated by a wide nose that had been broken many times, and set badly.
One of his ears had been torn off at some point, and the other looked like it had had a large chunk bitten out of it, and not by an animal.
His long, stringy beard was a flat, leaden grey, denoting a life of severe poverty. Every inch of exposed skin seemed criss-crossed with scars and marrs, and the marks of long-healed bruises.

He'd clearly led a very rough life, but didn't seem-atleast from first appearances-to have let it get him down at all. He waggled two gigantic eyebrows that could almost have served as beards, at Mat'tock, cheerfully.

The last of their party seemed the polar opposite.

He was a grim, smallish man who carried himself rigidly. There was something akin to a bird of prey about him. His black eyes stared at Mat'tock, seeming to miss nothing, to dissect everything they saw. There was little of kindness in them, and no softness, but a lot of intelligence. This man's beard was a rich, oily black, with streaks of gold and silver running through it.

Unlike the others, the man had braided his beard tightly, and then thrown it back over his shoulder.
It was a peculiar style. Mat'tock didn't know what to make of it. 

He might not have been of Noble birth, Mat'tock judged, but then again, he might. If not, by the look of his beard, he'd come from a family who'd associated with them, and he'd missed few meals in his life, unintentionally.

The strangest thing about that, besides that he was here in this wilderness with them at all, was that this man didn't have an inch of fat on him. If anything, he looked underfed. That didn't make him look weak, though. If anything, it only made him look meaner.

He held a weapon that Mat'tock had never encountered before. Mat'tock didn't know a great deal about the use of any weapon, save for his walking stick, but he'd met many soldiers in his years of wandering, and slept in more than a few Fortresses, for a night or two.

And with the sword never too far from his thoughts and dreams, he'd made a special point of studying all the weapons he came across. 

It looked a little like a spear. Familiar enough even on their farm. His dad had had one of those to fend off wolves, and to hunt the wild pigs they occasionally ate.

This one, however, had not one but three triangular points, which had been formed from a single piece of dark bronze. Each point was separated from the others by half a hand's distance.
They were laid side by side, with the middle prong slightly longer than the other two. The outer prongs each curved down on their outward side, making for short, sharp barbs, or sharpened hooks. The shaft was made of some lacquered black wood, and ended in another spike of bronze.

He carried a round shield that would have covered him easily from chin to ankles. It looked to be fashioned from a single piece of solid bronze, with a deep groove formed on the inner side, so that it looked-a little, Mat'tock though-like a crescent harvest moon. On the face of it, there was a dashing picture of a rampant unicorn punched into the metal. 

On his head, the man wore a plain, square-topped helmet with a noseguard, again made from bronze, and two bronze plated leather flaps that hung down over his ears. There was a scar in the metal of the noseguard, and a thin, matching scar across the bridge of the man's acquiline nose. It shone against the man's skin, which was much darker than the others.

He was even darker than Mat'tock, and by that he judged the man must have spent most of a lifetime outdoors.

Mat'tock had never seen anyone quite like this man. He didn't look particularly nice.

The twins introduced him to the four as a professional farmer, looking for work, room, and board.

He clasped hands with the unarmed man, wincing at the powerful man's vice-grip. The big man gave his name as 'Tol'brek', Fortress 'RingingDeep', though he gave no family or clan.

This then was the Fortress the man called home.

Mat'tock thought it likely that he'd been an orphan or possibly a slave. Judging by his build and scars, he might have been an arena-fighter from the far, far south.

Like Mat'tock, Tolbrek had nowhere else to go, and they both felt a connection.

The woman shook hands as well, briefly and curtly, and named herself 'Shal'e'ish So'pah', Merchant Traveler family, of Clan 'IronBeam', and late of Fortress 'GraniteShear, the Deep Sunrise'.

Mat'tock had heard of GraniteShear, which lay, he though, even further north, well beyond these mountains. Her hand was both soft, and strong.

The one-eyed dwarf gave his name as 'Baromek "Bear-Break" Niluns', of family Fisher, and clan 'BronzeBattle', Fortress 'IronStar of Fishes, The Salt from the Sea'.

Baromek didn't shake hands, but nodded politely. It meant only that he'd be wary of him until he knew Mat'tock better. A common social stance, and nothing Mat'tock hadn't expected from atleast some of them. It was justifiable.

Mat'tock nodded in return, secretly glad that Shal'e'ish and Baromek hadn't linked names in any way. He'd wondered if they were a couple, but that didn't seem the case. Officially, at any rate.

The fourth man introduced himself only as 'Carbuncle', of family 'Militant' and Fortress 'RingingDeep'. A soldier, then, from a soldier's family. That made some sense of things.

Instead of shaking hands or nodding, Carbuncle bowed, stiffly, and then turned away, heading back inside the Fortress. Mat'tock shrugged. The man was strange and unfriendly, but they could try to avoid each other.

"Now, as you have met ever'ones there is ta know," said Bardolom.

"That's aparting from tha Monarch an' him's fam'ly," added Morion.

"Aye, aparting from him, he's still one ta meet you, true," said Bardolom, scratching his chin.

"Let's get you fed and feasted, properly-like." said Morion, and nodded after Carbuncle, before the twins both headed inside. Mat'tock followed after, hurrying to keep up.

"Careful now. Never too fast." Morion called back. "Tha builders, whoever they were being, were leaving surprises in dark corners. Gifts, the like. For visitors unexpected, and unexpectin'."

Bardolom paused while Mat'tock caught up. "Nought fer you ta fears in this part of tha Fortress, but deeper downs, we losted four of our fellows too a corridor of clan-den-stined cutterlerys."

Bardolom made a 'cut-throat' motion across the clean-shaven skin that lay below his prickley chin, pushing his dwarf apple up slightly as he did so.

"Messy-Ayah-that was being. Like ta going ta a blind butcherer."

They were walking a low hallway, having passed through a recently built wooden gate. Morion had shown Mat'tock the Fortress's original gatehinges, when they'd passed through, mentioning that they'd been designed to hold massive plugs, probably of metal.

The floors and ceiling inside had been smoothed long ago, and Mat'tock could still make out ages-old pictograms that had been chiseled into the rock. It was dim inside, the hall leading back into inpenetrable shadow, but he'd have liked to have had a lantern, or even a candle, to examine the faded pictures by.

Turning away from what looked like a picture of an elk, Mat'tock asked: "Morion, who's this "Monarch"? You and your brother have mentioned that name, or title, twice".

Bardolom chuckled, deeply. Morion smiled too, "Well, he's not bein' tha King!" he answered.

Bardolom replied, "But, brother, he's not bein's anyone else,"

Morion starting chuckling as well. "Ayah. Truth is in that, an' else-a-wheres."

"Specially else-a-wheres. An' mostly else-a-wheres. An' most a-specialty indeed. Ayah." Said Bardolom with a laugh, to a very confused Mat'tock.

Morion drew Mat'tock to the side of the hall and began to explain, quietly, "Carbuncle, him's as bein' tha one what carries an iron bar in's him's arse. He's a-serving a king."

"Him's what once was a king, an' properly." added Bardolom, with a nod.

"Ayah. A properly king an' all, but not from these parts, an' not our properly King, blesset-be, but tha-or a-king acrossed tha seas.

Seas a-many an' a-deep--or so's he telled him's tale. An' no longer a king in truth, if you'd knows.

U-serpented, he was, an' by hims own brother, sad as the sound of it is to us. He's tha leader of our mickel band. One o'tha finest men you'll ever meet. Ayah."

Bardolom added to this, "An' one o'tha braverest men you'll ever meet. Ayah."

"Ayah." agreed Morion, "An' one o'tha greaterest."

"An' one o'tha craftiest? Like unto a spider, betimes." offered Bardolom.

"Ayah. Like a very deviltry spider." Agreed Morion, "An' fer all or'that, one of tha saddest..."

"Ayah, brother. One of the very sadderest of us all, betimes." said Bardolom, suddenly morose. "Far more is tha pity."

"Far more is the pity..." repeated Mat'tock, not realizing that he was saying it, outloud. He'd been touched by their impromptu performance, feeling a sudden kinship with this "Monarch" he'd never met, who wasn't a king at all, anymore, except to all of them.

[SirHoneyBadger]

The pavers under Mat'tock's feet were formed into a diamond-patterned mosaic. The outer tiles were pale, like sandstone, maybe travertine. The tiles forming the diamonds looked black, but they could have been any dark color.

The hall was square-cut, broad and low, with the ceiling forming a gentle arch. There were holes in the stone where torch or lantern brackets might once have hung. Time had destroyed them, which Mat'tock regretted. His eyes weren't as a good as most in total darkness, and he followed the brothers more by sound than anything.

Fortunately, they stayed close. Noise echoed strangely in these dark catacombs, and there were other sounds in the far distance that he couldn't identify.

Even stumbling half-blind through the unknown, Mat'tock wasn't uncomfortable. Not really, which surprised him. It was cool in here, but without the biting wind--and with the provenance of liquor from the seemingly never-ending flask, he was feeling remarkably good about the situation.

Under other circumstances, disregarding of their friendly attitudes and kindnesses, Mat'tock might have worried that a sudden dagger in the dark would be the end of him. It had been known to happen, on occasion.

But the bare fact was, he had nothing valuable enough to steal. Bits of rock, an old wooden stick--richly but inexpertly carved, the tattered clothes on his back, and the stale and crumbly remains of his last meal.

All the coin he'd had on hand-which wasn't much-had gone for room and board at the inns along his way, in times and places, and moods, where the winter nights were just too cold to contemplate spending outdoors, without more gear than he carried.

Besides, they could have killed him and tossed his corpse over the mountainside, and who-who in a hundred years-would have noticed, save the eagles and the ants? 

Yes. He felt ok here. Not completely at ease, but ok. It was unfamiliar. The people were strange, if not downright bizarre, but for the first time since he was a young child, he felt like this might be where he was supposed to be, instead of another place he was just passing through.

He did fight against the feeling. It was stupid. It was crazy and wrong, and probably just the liquor going to his head. He hadn't even been here a whole day, or met everyone there was to meet.

Somehow-strange as it was-he felt that this place, these stones, had been calling to him. This was the end of his wandering. He'd reached is destination. The stones under his tattered boots felt like his stones.

His left hand twitched, and he clenched it to drive the itch away. In that sudden grasp, he could feel the pommel of the sword, and-slick against his sweaty fingers-the gem. The red gem.

"Monarch?" Bardolom called out a little ahead, tapping a boney finger against a makeshift wooden door that Mat'tock had been too lost in concentration to take notice of.

Mat'tock noticed that the foreign man, Carbuncle, was standing directly to the left of the door, pole weapon and shield held stiffly at attention, but Bardolom didn't bother to greet him, and Carbuncle made no overt registration of the miss.

Bardolom was answered almost immediately by a giant of a man.

It wasn't that he was broad--Tol'brek was considerably broader, if not quite as thick through the middle. Or that he was overly tall.

Although he was slightly taller than Shal'e'ish, the woman outside, it wasn't the fact of his tallness that made the man seem gigantic.

It was that he radiated an awesome bigness, like a crackling fire would radiate heat, filling and warming the room it was in.

The second thing Mat'tock noticed about him was his beard:

Where Tol'brek had the beard of a pauper, and Carbuncle had a black beard with streaks of gold and silver-exhibiting strong signs of aristocratic birth-and where the two brothers' facial hair had simply aged into a soft electrum, the Monarch-for he couldn't really have been anyone else-had an immense, billowy orange-yellow beard of pure and gleaming gold.

He was by far the youngest person Mat'tock had met at this Fortress so far--by the look of his face and hands, he was younger than Mat'tock himself by atleast twenty years. He was dressed in a comfortable-looking cloth robe, dyed indigo, and leather slippers. His finely chiseled face was the dark pink of river clay, and within it were set two black eyes that seemed to reflect light in the manner of the still surface of deep wells.

"Monarch, my brother an' I brings ta you on this day, tha honorably-intended Master Mat'tock. Professional farmer, day-labourer, night-sleeper, 'nother mouth ta feed, an' gen'ral runabouts, for your services--from life, undo death, an' tha blesset rest beyond it." announced Morion to the Monarch, adding a wink for Mat'tock's benefit.

"Ayah." added Bardolom, "He's a good boy, Monarch, an' we got him lover-drunk, so's as to draws out any mischief, an' none made it known, even in tha presence or'that fine pewter soldier you've got guarding your emminent arse, respectively."

The Monarch nodded slowly at that, and then offered his hand to clasp, speaking as they shook: "My real name's Chrysoberyl, actually...although my friends here all insist on the honorific." When he spoke, his voice was dry and quite deep, with barely a touch of irony. "Personally, I've had my glut of honours, I've vomited them up and shat them out, and I would much prefer it if you'd kindly call me Chrys-- though noone else has asked my opinion on the subject for quite some time... Welcome you to RingingDeep, Mat'tock."

He paused, folding his bare arms over a substantial gut, and frowning.

"We'll find you rooms to your liking, I suspect. We've plenty of room, and little of else. As far as board is concerned, you'll eat the same as their thrice-damned 'Monarch' does. I regret, but I suspect, that it will have to do. Atleast until we've seen the fruits of your good work, eh? Very unfortunate, that one cannot live on, but only in, the shelter of a Fortress, is it not?" Mat'tock smiled at that and said he supposed it was. The Monarch-Chrys-might have grinned a little too, although it was gone in an instant.

While they were speaking, a tiny little girl had crept up behind the Monarch, and slipped herself under his arm. Clearly they were related. She gazed up at Mat'tock shyly through big black eyes.

The Monarch-Chrys-did smile at this, though briefly and ruthfully. In the voice of a weary but indulgent father, he said "Allow me to present my curious daughter, Amethyst. She hardly ever speaks to others, and only rarely speaks to me, or her brother. My son, Claro, I'm afraid can't be drawn so easily from his toy hammers by the lure of a stranger. Before your arrival, I admit to finding a certain attraction in them, myself. My son, he'll talk your ear off when left without other distractions--in that, he takes after me. My son has an elaborate imagination, and is genuinely friendly, but this is one of the rare opportunities we've had to spend time together as a family, since, well..." He shrugged. 

He turned to the twins, "Bardolom, Morion, would you mind?" The twin seemed to take this in stride, and both answered in unison, "At yer service, Monarch!" The Monarch-Chrys-rolled his eyes at that, and then continued addressing Mat'tock:

"Please do allow my good friend Bardolom, in his endless kindness, to help you select your living arrangements. This Fortress is quite extensive, and has suffered almost nothing under the heavy burden of it's age. This includes trespasses--and more than a few fools, I'm afraid, more's the pity. While there are plenty of berths to choose from, I must warn that certain areas are dangerous and have already claimed lives, so while you may enjoy the freedom of this Fortress, you're well-advised to travel with a companion, until you know your way around. In the meantime-as I am, primarily, our company's Cook-I'll make arrangements with good master Morion, and together find how well we may dress up our hospitality." As Bardolom led Mat'tock off to find a room, the Monarch waved a little, and then shepherded his daughter back into their quarters.

"Dressering up our hospitaliky-Hah!" said Bardolom after they'd gone some distance down the main hall, clapping Mat'tock lightly on the shoulder. "Our hospitaliky's a tatty young hoor, for truth. Ayah. One's what's fit on'y for burlap--an' a tumble wheres tha more respeckable hoors deign nay er'ta tread nor turn they's face-kers to." The old dwarf smiled, "Still, we'll do our mickel best for tha honour o'tha Monarch an's him's house."

He led Mat'tock down a short flight of stairs, only a little way off the main hallway, explaining that he suspected Mat'tock would be safer and more comfortable-atleast until he knew his way around-with a room that lay along a more or less straight shot to the fortress entrance they'd come through.

Mat'tock agreed with that. 

It was a big room Mat'tock was led into, easily 30 feet by 30 feet wide, with walls that curved slightly up and in, until they came to a point five times his height, on the ceiling. Entirely unfurnished, ofcourse, but there were a rather elaborate series of stone shelves cut into the four corners of the room.

On one wall, to the left of the door, he had his own fireplace, big enough to roast one of his dad's wild hogs, if he ever caught one up here. Under a round stone that had once contained a metal ring, there was a deep drain provided for releaving bodily wastes. He could feel the air being drawn down into the drain, and wondered how deep it might go.

He'd want atleast a screen for privacy-not to mention a grate for the drain-and some kind of door for the room, itself.

He told Bardolom that it was better than any room he'd ever slept in-even without any furnishings-and it was.

Bardolom showed him a smaller hole, covered with a little stone plug, that was set into the wall furthest from the fireplace.

"Yell yer arse off in ta that hole, there, an' you can be hearded even in-too tha kitchen, an' then you can hear tha dinner bell, when 'tis rung. I'd nay ta miss it, were I ta be you's--tha Monarch sets him's a beaukeeful table, fer what likkle he's got ta set it wif."

Together, they fetched several armfulls of wood that had been cut and neatly stacked in a nearby room, and Bardolom helped him get a fire started, with some dried bark for kindling, and a bit of flint and iron he carried.

Claiming that dinner would be served in about an hour or two, and that he was needed to mind the path below, he left Mat'tock to his devices. Mat'tock called his thanks after the elder dwarf, and then set to unpacking.

He set his walking stick against the fireplace mantle, and carefully arranged all 47 stones on the many shelves provided. The mushroom shaped stone wall-plug went on the floor. His travel cloak went on another shelf, though he noted several holes had been drilled into the stone, probably for that purpose. His boots went in a corner and his wineskin and leather ruck went next to the cloak.

It had taken five minutes to unpack everything he owned in the whole wide world.

Setting his sliver of flint down on his cloak where it wouldn't get lost, he took a long look around.

Home Sweet Home.

[Heron TSG]

woo! That fort sounds pretty huge, can't wait to see what kinds of things Mat'tock will find in it for the sword.

[SirHoneyBadger]

Thanks for taking an interest 

Pretty soon (not yet, though), I'm going to start asking for people to submit their own characters to add into the story, and you'll be welcome to do that. Hopefully, I'll get some responses.

I'd like to get some community involvement, even though it's an entirely imaginary Fortress-(I haven't even played DF for the past month or so, my computer's down)-I think that'll add a lot to it.

It's subtitled: "An Immigrant Story", although I should probably make that more clear...fixed...anyway: Mat'tock won't be the only immigrant coming in to the Fortress. The other immigrants coming in will be other peoples' characters.

Like you mentioned, it's quite large, although right now there's at most around 25'000 square feet of useable floor space, indoors. That's only about a tenth, or less, of the entire Fortress-proper. The rest is either known to be dangerous (traps, mainly), or hasn't been explored. Considering that there's at this point only 10 named characters living at 'RingingDeep', it's plenty of room, but if enough people start submitting useable characters (and I'm afraid that I'm going to have to be slightly picky), it'll start filling up, and you'll progressively see more and more of the deeper areas.

Right now, I'm just setting things up, so that it's clear what's going on, who everybody is, what things look like, etc. But--and it's a big "but", there'll be quite a bit of setting up. At some point, I may draw a map, if I can find the time.

The dwarfs themselves will follow fairly closely to another project I'm working on (and will try to add to, sometime), which defines my own take/opinion on things like Dwarf physiology, etc.

I'll put a link here, later.

As it stands, I'm really burned out from my work-week. I haven't been sleeping much or well, and I think I caught a bug, so I'm gonna try to get another installment out this weekend, if I can find the mental energy to actually concentrate.

I can't promise, though, but I'll really try. 

[Ancient Whale]

Excellent writing. I'm looking forward to the next part.

[SirHoneyBadger]

Thanks!

I'm afraid the next installment is taking a little long, due to just basic weekly grind stuff. I'm really far behind on my writing, and there should be quite a little bit going on in the next part, so I want to give myself a chance to do it right, and also a little break.