As an aspiring author, I treat this as just a way to practice, but felt that I ought to share it with the rest of the world. Because you might like to see it. ^^
This story is about one of my current forts in 40d. (I still use 40d mainly because 31.03's a bit buggy for my liking. Things like the vermin bug annoys me beyond belief, but also the fact Visual Fortress is only available on 40d... what? I LIKE VF!)
Anyway, here goes. I've kept this as narrative as possible, seen through the viewpoint of my hunter. I've used each dwarf's individuality as a template for their characters, as well as added a fitting back story to match their personalities.
* * *
'Fikod Erithuvel, I have found your son guilty of murder and mutilation, and I charge you with assisted murder. How do you plead?'
Fikod stared up at the captain of the guard with a grim horror reflecting off his eyes. 'For the last freaking time, I had no idea my so-'
'SILENCE! Guilty or innocent!' The Captain of the Guard screamed, blasting the hushed whispers of the assorted crowd into a stunned silence. Mestthos sighed.
His son, a sickly and depressive child, had recently been struck with a maddening rage, by memories of when his mother was slaughtered by a kobold in front of him just a few seasons back. He had claimed the butcher's workshop by night, and sat in there brooding with malicious intent. Fikod had no idea what his son was planning, truely enough. Instead, his son had acted entirely off his own independance, and it was the first time he had gotten up after narrowly escaping the same kobold with his life.
In the recesses of his mind, Fikod knew this was all his fault... he had stolen the key to the butchery late one night, intending to talk to his son again over his irrational act. Instead, as the lock in the door had clicked open, the young boy had burst off and was hobbling quickly down the corridor. Before Fikod had the chance to pick up his thoughts, he saw his son dragging the general's wife from her quarters, kicking and screaming, into the workshop. The guards who had followed this child so far caught Fikod red-handed, stood bewildered in the middle of the corridor, key lying in his open palm.
'Well?' The Guard Captain asked.
Stood in the middle of the arena, with most of the rest of the population of the fortress above him, Fikod made his pleas.
'Guilty,' He stated.
* * *
That was six months ago. Fikod Erithuvel, Zon Gerig's widely known hunter and disgraced father, was sentenced to exile, after being forced to watch his son being torn apart by the resident cave spider that had been trapped, wild, in the recesses of the pit.
He hadn't left alone. He and 6 other dwarves, also convicted of numerous crimes across the city, had been shunted out of the mountains and into the forbidding wastes beyond. Each had thier own stories to tell, but all of them were not truely the villians at heart the world had made them out to be, instead either framed of their 'crimes', or like Mestthos, who had been closely associated with a crime they truely had nothing to do with.
First of these dwarves was Eshtan, a real gentle giant in his twilight years. He had been involved in a mining accident that was caused by poor planning, sending a huge clod of soil through the entire noble's quarters. The Guard Captain had accused him of sabotage, and the onlookers knew better than to stand against such an accusation. They tethered him to a post outside the entrance as a warning to all who may enter as to what lawbreakers were treated like. He was later exiled for treason and witchcraft, as he had carved a small figurine into the archways with the likeness of the baron himself, and driven a chisel clean through the figurine's chest. He had left alongside Mestthos, taking pity on the hunter after seeing part of the display in the pit a few days prior.
Logem Keldumat was a woodcutter and a skilled carpenter, having spent years training under her father. She was exiled for her complete disrespect of authority and numerous infringements on mandate orders. She and Domas had wandered the forests outside of Zon Gerig for a few months, before their camp was discovered by Mestthos after he too had been exiled.
Domas Morulistbar was always a natrual leader, once an aspiring member of the fortress guard, and was quick to take up on the idea of leading a small party of exiles to their new home. He had put himself into exile after saving Logem from her fate at the fangs of the spider, to avoid any repercussions on his place or life. He had also managed to barter a few trinkets, including the ring that Fikod was given by his son before he slaughtered, in return for a wagon, and a year's worth of supplies. When asked about why he saved Logem's life, he quickly changes the subject, usually with a weary glance to see if she's listening.
Mestthis Allasshorast, old friend of Eshtan, had been outraged by the shame his friend went through, being chained up half-naked at the entryway into the fort, and failed an attempt to rescue the old man. Fikod escaped into the wilderness, where he drove himself mad with starvation until he was finally discovered by Domas and his band of exiles, where he slowly began his return to civilisation.
Shorast Athelod had a unique mind. She was an artist, an extremely talented craftswoman. She was also known as a 'devil in the kitchen', for her skill in culinary abilities. She had wandered away from the fortress early one morning in search of inspiration, and never returned - instead she had walked straight into the growing group of exiles, and had decided to leave her poverty-striken past in Zon Gerig behind.
Finally, Zaneg Dodoksarek, who had always been a selfish, yet dutiful dwarf, he had entered Zon Gerig as a lowly peasant and had filled in as many odd jobs as he could, in hopes to endear himself to the nobility. When he had become the cheif butcher of the fortress and a skilled brewer to boot, he became wrapped up in the case of Fikod's son's murder - Zaneg had also been scrutinised, for allowing the child to claim his butchery in the first place. He had stormed out in rage, and soon found himself travelling alongside the other exiles.
Deep in the opposite side of thier home mountain range, The Problematic Spikes, the seven exiles had finally found a place to settle, at the dawning of history. But would their little band, Ulengdomas, 'The lost guild', hope to survive long in the savage wastes that were to become Atridthortith, 'Blossomspell'?
* * *
'Domas?'
'Yes?'
'...Are we there yet?'
'Oh, do stop bothering me with that Fikod, dammit! We won't be on the wagon much longer now. Atridthotith is only a few leagues away.'
Fikod sighed with relief. 'Good,' He muttered, dangling a pair of cramped legs over the edge of the stuffed wagon. He respected the archietect and his amazing charisma, but couldn't help being so frustrated at the way he took complete authority over a situation. Like the way he had bartered away Fikod's only real material possesion besides his clothes and crossbow, in return for supplies. A neccesary sacrifice, but Fikod had only remained on speaking terms with the supposed leader because he had gotten a shiny new set of slick leather armor from the deal, mostly crafted from the tanned hides of giant rats, creatures known for their thick hides. An odd gift, but Fikod was an odd person.
Besides, the shock of losing his son was so distant now. They had been on the road for six months, and Fikod had grown distant from his past in that time. Besides, Shorast was right. The best cure he could have for the past was to cast off his memories and begin anew, and she had even offered to take him through the entire ritual neccesary to pledge himself to the god Doren, which he had found unneccesary. Not that that had ever stopped him from feeling melancholic from time to time, his mind scarred by the last images of his son clawing at the sides of the pit, huge fangs digging into the heart of his back.
Fikod blinked the images from his eyes. He didn't want to think about that now, no matter how unavoidable it was.
Remember what Shorast has said, he told himself.
'Remember what I said,' Shorast's voice echoed Fikod's exact thoughts. An uncanny habit of hers was to know exactly what you were thinking from the slightest signs - so much of a look could tell her everything.
With a sigh, Fikod turned to the front of the wagon again.
'Domas...'
'Not yet!'
A picture of the embark locale.
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Topic: Atridthortith - 'Blossomspell' (Read 3151 times)