Abandoned fortress with only ~30 dwarves, but recurring lag spikes due to the forgotten beast buffeting itself around with blasts of its own extract. I could've escaped that if I managed to one-shot him; after hitting him once I sprinted down the hall and successfully outran the blast range. But it came at me with that advantage gone, and we bounced off the walls together until I finally picked his brains. Until I could get to the cavern to bathe, I kept randomly falling unconscious and coming to stunned. I would've been fucked if that took effect while I was still fighting it.
After a full moon romp across glaciers and permafrost peat, I came to the Spire, nestled in evil tundra that snowed foul sludge along with the usual blinding snow. Just the thing to decay my brand new divine clothing. The Dark Fortress should have hosted a great library, but I didn't expect to find it, and it met my expectations. The site offloaded and regenned when I mistakenly passed it in the dark, so I had to carve my own stairway to hell.
Grey Devils and Soot Fiends, made of ash. Banshee of Snow, made of snow. Pumpkin Fiend, not made of pumpkin. It has a nasty habit of belching frozen extract, mostly disorienting itself with it. I decided not to hazard it this time, and fortunately they have such poor vision that I could converse with them while hiding outside their immediate cone of view. I preached the value of harmony, truth and fairness (not my values), and the Fiend was surprisingly acquiescent. The Ladybug Devils were a challenge I could handle; massive six-legged moderately quick chargers with hard carapaces. Fighting two at once gave my Dodge a good workout.
While plotting a future course I couldn't help notice that my current location had become a ruin. Shit, all I did was go to hell! "Nice job breaking it, hero." Actually it wasn't my fault; a vampire killed all the goblins who freaked out at my presence including, I was surprised to learn, the administrator. The vampire vanished without a trace; the only footprints were of the victim's. The master is nowhere to be found, either (could they be the same goblin?) No one was left except an elvish poet, which is two kinds of rare breed in these parts. She seemed to be the only surviving member of the troupe that created most of my performance forms. I asked her to dance and join me in braving this disgusting weather until I can reach the river beyond, with the hope that it has thawed.
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Topic: What's going on in your adventure? (Read 2141056 times)