Note - The following is all in character; I didn't really forget anythingSpring
I actually forgot about this thing. I'm in kind of a good mood, though, so I'll continue. Forget about keeping dates - Springtime is already over. And I mean that in more than one manner. Some two dozen or so dwarves met their end, leaving a bloody field of goblin gore, dwarf chunks and discarded weaponry.
But did they get inside the fortress? You bet your crusty beard they didn't! We wouldn't have had losses at all this spring if it weren't for the suicidal waves of immigrants that keep trying to get here. The only reasonable explanation for this phenomenon is that word must be spreading about the Adamantine. But I'll get to that later.
First, the story of the goblin ambushes. The local population seems to be either suicidal or fatally stupid, as they kept insisting on leaving the safety of the fortress to retrieve 'booty' from the goblin corpses littering the surrounding hillsides (and, I suspect, from the even more copious dwarf bodies accompanying them). A caravan of elves showed their pale, scrawny, beardless asses shortly after my arrival as well. I knew this was bad news, and not just because they were elves; the goblins had already smelled blood, and I suspected they would be following the hapless traders like a harpy after a wounded cat. I declared a 'holiday' from all labors for all dwarves. Once the citizenry was inside for the 'holiday' (and unfortunately, the elves with them) I promptly ordered the drawbridges raised.
The drawbridges were a clever bit of engineering. It turns out that was what those levers I found earlier were for. They're the only thing about this place that exhibits any kind of competence, forethought or indications of a desire to remain alive. Well, the massive food stores indicate a will to survive, but given that said stores are composed entirely of evaporated wine 'minced' and turned into 'biscuits', survival might prove to be the less preferable alternative.
Yes, I said evaporated. Yes, that means the carp-loving bastards took perfectly good alcohol and
evaporated the carping alcohol out of it! When I came across this stockpile of misery in semi-solid form I broke down and wept.
I mentioned in my last entry that the so-called founders of this encampment weren't from around here? Well, I finally cornered the last surviving member of that bunch and had a talk with him. He brought me aside (me with a hand surreptitously on my dagger, in case he tried anything funny) and leaned over toward me, with a hand to one side of his mouth, and whispered conspiratorially to me. He told me that he and the other six 'founders' were from another world. I nodded sagely, as if this made perfect sense. And indeed it did, in a way - it definitely explains some of the insanity in this place. I promptly took the tasks of brokering with traders and keeping a tally of the fort's resources and gave them to someone who didn't seem like his vein had been
all mined out, if you catch my drift. The elves provided a convenient opportunity to train this new clerk in a bit of brokering, although Mas knows the lass still can't find her way about the trade depot.
But the ambush! Of course, the ambush! You see, here we were, all safely isolated in our mountain fortress, with months of supplies on hand and fertile caverns for increasing our booze stockpile, when who should show up along with those previously mentioned two dozen or so dwarves, but the Queen Dumatnin herself!
That's right, our beloved Queen has proven herself both incompetent and completely mad by having shown up here, no doubt after my Adamantine. Well, I tell you I'm not too keen even now on giving her any of that. The Metal is far too precious to be wasted on ought but weapons, and armor!
I decided if she wanted my bloody Metal she could damned well earn it by acting as an ambush detector. I kept the the fortress locked down for a few days. I would have kept it that way for a good while longer, but the citizens were getting restless. They demanded I let the Queen in, and treat her with proper respect. I can't imagine why they think anyone who would want to be in this blasted place deserves their respect, but I suppose it works to my advantage, given that I'm here too.
With great trepidation I ordered the drawbridges back in place, to allow our revered leader to claim her rightful place in our glorious fortress. She and a few of the other immigrants had barely managed to reach the safety of the fortress before the cry went up that there had been a goblin ambush spotted. I was not surprised. I was, however, ready. I promptly ordered the drawbridges raised again, and told the majority of the immigrants that were still trapped outside that if they wanted in they could prove their worth in battle. Most of them failed to do so, instead dying horrific, honorless deaths by goblin crossbow. It was a pathetic sight, but desperation can do wonders for a dwarf's courage and determination. They eventually drove the goblins off over a sea of bearded corpses.
Sometime during the ambush a preoccupied-looking dwarf ran up and informed me gravely that a local cave swallowman had been given the name Urdim Asmelshem.
I asked him why in the carp-infested Depths I should care about what someone decided to call a bleeding cave swallowman, and he became incensed, telling me with a righteous air that no fewer than seven of the local swallowmen were now so named, and that I could expect more to be named in the future.
Sure enough, over the next weeks several more swallowmen were given names by the locals, and I was kept fully up to date. It is events such as these that make me wonder if even the Metal is worth putting up with these lunatics.
You might be wondering at this point what could possibly have me in a good mood. Well, what else? The Metal! Adamantine! It is here, and I have seen it with my own eyes; felt it with my own hands! These dwarves have seen fit to do as I say so far, now we'll just see if I can't get them to forge me a full set of plate and a weapon to match.