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[Time Kitten]

There, in the Future Domains, back in the Age of Heroes, comes a tale.  A tale that be3gins with abandonment, and ends with abandonment.  North of the First Ocean lies the Parched Land, and within this continent, lies the sea known as the Blueness of Extrication, from who's shores civilization arouse from the ashes.  In the east, the elves have their many nations.  In the south, the goblins perch their dark towers upon the mountains, and wage war to the elves.  From the west come humans, numerous in their hordes, unmatched in their tenacity, cutting south of the waring dwarvern nations to strike at the elves.

But our story begins with the north, where angered by the goblin outpost in their lands, the dwarvern nation, The Labours of Mirroring, sends a great caravan to establish two symetrical bases from which to strike at the goblin forces with.  The human roads are fast indeed, but on the west coast of the inland see, there is much untamed, and indeed terrifying wilderness.

Our story begins along this trail, as the caravan passes through the Forest of Scum, near the stream they dare to call hairybreaks, the heaviest of their wagons sinks it's wheels in the muck, never to move again, it's beasts lame and floundering from having drug it so far, the anvils it carries risking stoping yet more wagons, and the entirety of it all seeming heavier by far... as though seven sleeping dwarves, useless and fat, without skill, were sleeping abourd it.

Save thee Kol, she of words.
Save thee Oddom, he of rage and art.
Save thee Cerol, he of the emo.
Save thee Rovod, she who sulks.
Save thee Dobar, she who is slow. [founder]
Save thee Rovad, he who naps. [reserved]
Save thee Kumil, she who was dragged in a sack.

Save thee Kirarzuntîr The Anvil of the Right.
Save thee Rarkizuntîr The Anvil of the Left.

Save ye the sticks of the forests, and strike the earth, lest the grizzlies get hungery, those of The Foggy Pillar of Rags

Alright... plenty of pools, plenty of gloom, trees as thick as grandpaws beard, as would never have been combed, , two anvils, 20 sticks, male muskox and two humped cammel a wagon, the clothes on our backs, stream on the north... two pages of zombie carp plus assorted sturgeon and lamprey... *GULP*

[abculatter_2]

This, is going to be good.

*makes popcorn*

[ousire]

this will be interesting

[TheNewerMartianEmperor]

This cannot end well. But, then again, what fortress does?

[Time Kitten]

A few extra notes.  4x4 map, with the stream along the entire north edge.  The trees are particularly thick, dirt roads may be necessary. Two level aquifer, with two layers of soil above.  No hills on the map.  Has two equally terrifying biomes to draw beasties from.  Glumprongs, birch, and willow abound for that extra, extra gloomy look, interspersed with many white outcroppings of rock salt.  And a counted total of 38 zombie fish, and one live fox in the area.

I went over a scenario without picking up logs several times, but determined it to be infeasable, do to the need for at least a couple barrels, and the need to use three logs just to make one space of shade for a bed if needed.  That does not mean I will be hoarding the 23 logs, however, as a monument to survival and symmetry is needed.

[Time Kitten]

Save thee Kol, she of words.
Save thee Oddom, he of rage and art.
Save thee Cerol, he of the emo.
Save thee Rovod, she who sulks.
Save thee Dobar, she who is slow. [founder]
Save thee Rovad, he who naps. [reserved]
Save thee Kumil, she who was dragged in a sack.

Save thee Kirarzuntîr The Anvil of the Right.
Save thee Rarkizuntîr The Anvil of the Left.


As such did the sack burst into fibers, the seven did awake.  Kumil did flail about, and cracked her funnybone on Rarkizuntîr and there was much laughter.  But th laughter did not last, as they began to stare into the gloom.  Salt crunched underfoot as Oddom and Cerol stepped out into the forrest first.  There was little, barely even tracks, only logs strewn about from a failed attempt to nudge the wagon from the rut, and the still tethered draft animals seeming to be in a panic.  Else than that, the forest was quiet, 'cept for one sound, or many sounds, depending on how one hears.

To the north, the water crashed about, fog forming to obscure any sight of it, but the scent of rot and flecks of motion within left n doubt.

"Dispair, we are left with nothing," Cerol did cry, falling to his knees.

Oddom did drag him back to his feet by his beard, "Clearly the Reasus menace is responsable, strealing the entire caravan while we slept."

Kol did look terrified,  "We have no walls, and our only food still walks!"

Rovod did agree, stairing at the chocked bushes upon the ground, "May as well butcher them now, save them the pain."

Dobar did not agree, "What a lovely place for camp... oh, are those berries?" and charged forth to gather plants.

Rovad did yawn, "Best set up a shelter, perhaps raise the anvils high so the shining metal can be seen."

Kumil screamed, ever did she scream.

[Time Kitten]

Save thee Kol, she of words.
Save thee Rovod, she who sulks.
Save thee Dobar, she who is slow. [founder]
Save thee Rovad, he who naps. [reserved]
Save thee Kumil, she who was dragged in a sack.

Save thee Kirarzuntîr The Anvil of the Right.
Save thee Rarkizuntîr The Anvil of the Left.

Rest thee Oddom, he of rage and art.
Rest thee Cerol, he of the emo.

And so were workshops buildt, and a depot, in case anyone came to this forsaken place, with the anvils Rarkizuntîr and Kirarzuntîr atop pillars to the left and to the right.  Berries were picked, and brewed, but there were not enough to go around, so the foolish travelers ventured north, to the stream.

So with this, Oddom and Cerol raced north, carrying wooden crossbows and makeshift bolts from the bones of the draft animals.  90 twangs of bowstring did sound and echo through the forest, along with the cracking of bone, as any zombie who dared this side soon died.  22 crunchings of rotten flesh and brittle bone later Cerol is seen to approach.  "But where is Oddom," they ask.  "Right behind..." and screams are heard as Cerol rushes back to save Oddem, then silence, and they do not return.


Apparently zone only drinking does NOTHING.  However, 3 barrels for 5 dwarves may be enough. Though some workshops will have to go on rotation now that I need to spend four logs on burial (roof and coffin for each... maybe i can take away trhe roof later).  But really, i thought they could take that one last carp... Oddom was only missing one eye and they had just taken out a swarm of 7, but Oddom tried to fight them alone, and Cerol was too depressed to fight back after losing his only friend)

[Time Kitten]

Save thee Rovod, she who sulks.
Save thee Dobar, she who is slow. [founder]
Save thee Rovad, he who naps. [reserved]
Save thee Kumil, she who was dragged in a sack.

Save thee Kirarzuntîr The Anvil of the Right.
Save thee Rarkizuntîr The Anvil of the Left.

Rest thee Kol, she of words.
Rest thee Oddom, he of rage and art.
Rest thee Cerol, he of the emo.

Kol was just not one of words, and she with the vigorous Kumil did trade blows and sharpen their skills. Dobar did fashion for them bows of scrimshaw, and Rovad bolts of the same.  Then they did walk to capture the only two quiers from the terrible sturgeon guarding the corpses. Lertethiner, Tandleddeclines, they called the reed covered menace.  But they hunted elsewhere, and defeated the other sturgeon, so perhaps there is hope... when there is more bolts, at least.

Kumil returns sullenly, she did slay the beast, but Kol is lost, her only satisfaction being to live to see the beast struck down.

(Apparently "harass dangerous animals" needs to be on or they will just stand there waiting for the zombies to close range, and not help their comrades.  Zombie survival horror indeed.  I've also started to use the draft to generate good thought... because really, there is nothing else, and they all sleep in the mud under the rain. There's plenty of food, so a lot of sitting around to be done till I can get more bones or the old crossbows. Two sturgeons down, two to go, but zombie deer and foxes are starting to show up, and I'm sure they're more of a fight than carp, but at least those can wander off)

Oh, and summer, halfway to the first sign of hope!

[Time Kitten]

Praise thee Rovod, she who is strong.
Praise thee Dobar, she who is fast. [founder]
Praise thee Rovad, he who knows the bones [reserved]
Praise thee Kumil, she who sees the dead.

Save thee Kirarzuntîr The Anvil of the Right.
Save thee Rarkizuntîr The Anvil of the Left.

Rest thee Kol, she of words.
Rest thee Oddom, he of rage and art.
Rest thee Cerol, he of the emo.

For the summer, Kumil nurses her head wound, and Dobar spars with Rovod til they are both adept in the art. Rovad did get to work, taking the bones of the dead into his care.

So it came that a sturgeon entered the camp, and Kumil led Dobar and Rovod to riddle it with new bone bolts, which Rovad kept flowing, it was a success, with Dobar's torn shoulder healing fast.

Yet when night came, the raccoons attacked, but Dobar took them both bare handed, til Kumil came with bolts to help, neither receiving wounds.  But they came to know that this menace must be ended before it closes on them again, so laying down their clothes as bedding around the armour stand, the symbol of protection they trained themselves around, they decided that they must take action.  They would not run out of bolts now, and Rovad would keep bolts and brew ready for them.

So they did set off to clear the last sturgeon, and to sweep away the final school of zombie carp.  Now wall there was to worry for were the deer, and they did little to threaten as they went to sit around in their camp, and relax in the rain as the summer came to the end, hauling the clothes of their fallen companions in, and Rovad using his new skill to care scrimshaw trophies of all their kills.

[Time Kitten]

Save thee Kadol, he who trades.
Save thee Monom, she who trades.
Save thee Cilob, he who slices.
Save thee Nish, she who beats.
Save thee Mafol, she who serves the king.

Save thee one humped camel.
Save thee two humped camel.

The journey through the murk was harrowing, and the wagons had to be abandoned before a single log laying across the steam was crossed.  The first of the dead was met by Mafol, as he passed bones and skull of supposedly the same.  She did claim to be Dobar, leader of those who have died there, and lamented for the need of axes and picks, and that she could not leave this place til the dead were buried.  What horrors these spirits must have suffered!

But they fallowed her directions to the ghostly lights over the treeline.  As they drew near, seaming structures in mockery of dwarvern workshops seemed to have formed of falling logs.  A man shuffled by, dust flowing from his robes as he hauls an armful of bones.  "Bolts, bolts, if only they had left us with more bolts!" he cries, shaking as he shambles on to add their chips and dust to his robes.

The traders are met by a blood spattered specter, claiming to serve Sazir, our god of trade.  She slurred her speech, and the scar upon her brow was plain for all to see. She led the brave traders and their guard to a shoddy lean-to lined with blood splattered clothes that gaped with the wounds that had killed them, and a rather appetizing berry roast, which they could not deny, even if it was not of this world.

They could not bring themselves to deny the wishes of the dead, and took some of the spent scrimshaw in exchange for a bin of cloth, our last pair of grieves, and some meat.  Then the dead wailed, and catterwalled, and raised the two blocks we had over their heads, clearly thinking the stone the best thing they could ever find, and began pushing more stuff into the crude depot.

To the trader's horror, it was skulls and bones, the bones of the pack animals they had brought, skeletons of the rotten fish that were lying about.  Terrible, terrible, horrific things.

They took some more of the cloths, and abandoned our gems, food, even our menacing spike and bags to the spirits, and fled.

[Time Kitten]

Hmm... it's turned into the king of the hill opening, where everyone is just standing there behind the trade depot, drinking... drinking... saying "yep" occasionally... being completely ecstatic.  I dunno, maybe those elves have something going for them.

[Time Kitten]

Save thee Listast,he who trades.
Save thee Momuz, she who trades.
Save thee Mafol, she who serves the king.
Save thee Kubok, she who stabs.
Save thee Moral, he who smashes

Save thee one humped camel, she who hauls.
Save thee two humped camel, he who hauls.

This time Mafol did see but one gleaming anvil over the trees... and smoke!  Perplexed he ran... only to be amazed, as the spike and greaves that had been taken last year had been made into a crude axe, and a palisade wall was quickly being erected by Dobar.

He did sputtered in amazement... for these dwarves had been alive all along!

They had waited for almost a year for rescue, much to his shame as he finally had returned with those who could bury the dead.

They left pick and axe, and headed home with the good news, and promises of hunting trophies.

Then more survivors arrived.