No, there's nothing to worry about with my laptop. It's got a vent on the side and hangs off the edge of the pillow. It's on a desk most of the time anyhow. I love the little guy to bits; it's nearly seven years old now. Good to see everyone's opinion, though :P
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The two watched Quinn run franctically across the yard.
“High strung bugger, that one,” muttered Goraillion.
“The boss?”
“That’s the one.”
Jyrvus gave Quinn a long look as the manager frantically ran to and from the cabin and the tower. “I would suppose that you’re right.”
Goraillion snorted. “Suppose, nothin’. That dwarf ain’t like no other dwarf I known. All he does is yell in that shaky little voice of his. He just gotta accept it.”
“What’s this he got to accept?”
“Death. It just comes for you, you know, when you least expect it.” The weaponsmith took the bismuth sword off the anvil and spit on it. The saliva quickly boiled away on the red-hot blade. The weapon was to be for ceremonial purposes; Lord Percival had made a big scene earlier about not having enough bismuth around. “You gotta take these things in stride. Don’t get all uppity. When it happens, it happens.”
Jyrvus grabbed a dirty rag and started polishing a shield. “I suppose.”
“Don’t start with them suppositions again.”
“I reckon, then.”
Goraillion grunted, then spit into the open magma. “Have it your way.”
The two stood at their workshops a little longer, staring idly down on the yard below. Quinn was still running around, frantically. Nobody down there seemed to be paying much attention to him, but that wasn’t especially unusual. Had either of them glanced up at the northern walls, they might have seen a figure in black flash past. For a moment it stopped and seemed to look right at them, and then disappeared. The smiths remained oblivious.
“Names, please,” a dry voice called out from behind them. They turned lazily to see a short man draped with official robes and wearing some sort of clear glass jewelry over his nose, making his eyes appear somewhat larger. He had a snivelling behaviour about him that made the two smiths immediately take a disliking of him.
Shebi was standing behind him, looking somewhat embarrased. She mouthed the word ‘sorry’ to them over the short official’s shoulder, as if it was her fault he was there. Presumably she wwas showing this newcomer around.
“If you’re looking for work, this ain’t the place for you. Newcomers start on construction duty. Go talk to Ducim, he’s the head mason around here. Guy with the limp. Probably at the cabin.” Goraillion tossed his hammer in the air idly as he spoke, not giving the man much regard.
The short dwarf sneered. “So quick to jump to conclusions. No, I am not your inferior. I am the honourable James Gleehalls, chamberlain of the barony, and I am here on official business.” He was locked in a dead stare with the grumpy weaponsmith, who made no visible reaction. “On to the matter at hand, then. Names, and professions.” Shebi was glancing nervously around, moving towards the stairs very slowly. “Don’t be sneaking off now, Ms. Weakenarrow. I am not done being shown around yet.” She whimpered slightly.
Goraillion spit again, this time not into the magma but at the chamberlain’s feet. “Some dwarfs around here call me Gor,” he said with a specifically neutral voice. “And this here is Jyrvus, the best damn miner and armoursmith we got in this place.”
Jyrvus raised up his pick and tipped his hat a bit with it, neither smiling nor frowning. “Pleased.”
“And your own profession, Mister ‘Gor’…?”
With a flash, the smith had appeared mere inches away from James’ face, the near-molten bismuth sword at his throat. “I make sure when our boys go out there and stick these here toys into orcs, they don’t need to take a second swing to finish the job. I’m a weaponsmith, Mr. Chamberlain, and I do a damn good job.”
James appeared unfazed, though a bead of sweat had fallen from his purple hat onto the glass over his nose, betraying him. “Very good. I’ll make note of that. And do be careful with those things. You could kill someone, waving a weapon around like that.”
“S’ the point, ain’t it?”
They stood there for a few moments more, and then the official turned back towards the stairs. “Ms. Weakenarrow. Do direct me to the stables. I wish to talk to the stablemaster next.” He departed, with Shebi following him. She made a final apologetic shrug, then disappeared after him.
The two smiths stared casually for a while. “I do believe you just made a new friend, Gor,” said Jyvrus finally.
“I believe I just might’ve.” The weaponsmith turned back to the anvil, holding the sword up to the red light of the magma. “All done here. Hit the still?”
“Aye.”
Goraillion placed the sword into a bin behind the forge. “I’ll have to get that sheath done tomorrow.” He scratched his black beard a bit. “Funny fella, that little guy.”
“I suppose he is.”
“Don’t start with that again.”
“Sorry, Gor. I reckon he is.”
The weaponsmith grunted. “Good enough. Let’s go get smashed.”
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I have come to claim a Dorf. :D
I don't mind who i get.. Male if possible. but i don't mind (If none, don't bother to DC it)
Name: Fred (Or freeda >:( or anything you desire to torture me with)
Profession: I request architecture and mechanic added on my dorf(Profession: Genius(Custom))
Here you are. There was an unclaimed male mechanic already running around. And his last name is Orderpulleys, which is amusingly appropriate. As for the trap design, I appreciate it, but it's more typical DF than medieval-esque. I've yet to implement The Mad Engineer's slow floodgate locks still, anyhow.
Author
Topic: The Castle Mightygrips: Cancelled. [community] (Read 48005 times)