(I like to ask my friends for writing prompts when I've need for practice and have no ideas of my own. Someone suggested something they thought would be very hard -- "write a Dwarf Fortress fanfiction." I sat down with an imposed time-limit of 30 minutes, and this is what I came up with. If it's well-received, I might think to write some more stories in the same vein.
THE STORY OF WULH THE MIGHTY
"Footing in Irif'talsum is slipshod; the gravel peels away any-which-way, and the plains are unforgiving. There are no contours -- there are no places where the gravel is less than uniform or where the horizon is less than itself. Irif'talsum, Ringpoint, the black and gritty sea ... today, it is Wulh's duty to come here, to collect sand from the heart of the crucible."
Wulh, narrating as he plods, finds himself unable to connect interest to Irif'talsum.
"It's just gravel, though," he grunts. Truly, that is all that it is -- Ringpoint tapers gently to a rocky outcropping, between the crags of which lie dunes of the pulverized obsidian. Wulh is wearing the molerat leather anyone else would be wearing; he is carrying the molerat leather bags that anyone else would carry. Today, it is his turn to traverse Irif'talsum, but try as he might -- and Wulh is certainly the sort to try -- he cannot help but be bored.
"Just a lotta gravel, then," Wulh grunts. Travel is uneventful. Wulh makes his way down the banking slope with the help of his cane, and Wulh makes his way through the jagged spires that would have been the subject of oh-so-many stories! were they found beneath the earth. Their loss, Wulh figures -- born from the earthmother with their heads on backwards. He bends over; there is sand everywhere. He drags a bag through it, and cinches the bag up, and ties it to the end of his cane. He drags a bag through it, and cinches the bag up -- he ties it to the opposite end of his cane.
Wulh sloughs the weight onto his shoulders. Wulh heaves a sigh, and heaves with the weight, and heaves with boredom. Today, Wulh could have been watching moss grow!
Wulh, though, is not alone.
About fifty-odd paces away, there's a bit of dust rising on the gravel plain and a sound that Wuhl would later describe as "calamitous!" The plume rises against the sun -- "like bats alighting afore the torches all at once!" -- though honestly not nearly enough to obscure it in the least. Standing then, about thirty-odd paces away -- "so near I could smell the stink of sunfern on its breath!" -- is a goblin.
"Ahh-h-h! So whatcha want then, topsie-halfsies?" Wulh grunts!, smiling. The goblin smiles. Wulh repeats his gesture, a perfect pantomime of perfectly practiced drama -- "Ahh-h-h! So whatcha want then, topsie-halfsies?" Wulh grunts!, smiling and shifting the weight of his cane across his shoulders. The goblin stares queerly. A gust of wind kicks up some dust -- "a tempestuous and macabre omen!" -- but settles back down.
"Sand!" the goblin squawks back. The wind blows. Wulh wipes sand from his beard. The goblin smiles and squawks, "Sand! I want your sand." It motions to the bags.
"W-what? This is my ... sand! Irif'talsum's glittering nectar! It belongs to the dwarves!"
"Sand!" The goblin squawks ("insistent, he was, like a sultan pressed!"). Wulh seems at a loss. The goblin is most definitely at an impass. The two approach one another, in diagonals and strange ambling gaits on the sand -- in a flash, Wulh is upon the goblin, and with a great swing of his cane bludgeons the halfsie clear across the pit. With seer-like prescience, Wulh admires his handiwork: a mangled eye, throat, and right lung; a broken torso, right arm, right hand, and left foot; and a brain and liver damaged, the rest notwithstanding. The goblin is certainly stunned, but Wuhl ascertains it is also unconscious ("the fight of a thousand lifetimes! I had naught but a grip full of sand with which to topple goliath!"). Another blow with his cane dismantles it utterly. There are gibs -- rather distinct, too -- peppering the gritty caldera.
Wuhl rushes back across Irif'talsum, hefting the precious, precious sand along. His story is immortalized. The sand becomes glass, and in her finest hour the glassdwarf adorns it with further glass, illustrating Wuhl's triumph over the goblin. The masterpiece -- too dear to her heart to ever leave the pocket of her breastcoat -- remains forever in her hands: while she sleeps; while she births; while she works.
Wuhl is elated. He enjoys melodrama and the sensations of combat. He is not bothered overly much by sunlight. Wuhl needs a copious amount of alcohol to get through the working day.
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Topic: [Adapted fiction] The Story of Wulh the Mighty (Read 840 times)