C.M.D. LogThis will be my final entry. So hungry. No food or drink for ages.
I haven't got long. Perhaps it's better this way.
I checked. My legs are gone. They're probably still where they fell.
Whoever finds this, know: Urist killed me. Perhaps one day I will forgive him, if I ever find the reason for this deed. I hope the next world has the answer.
I s~
(The journal ends abruptly.)* * *
A lonesome kobold thief scuttled greedily down the mountainside. With higher math beyond his faculties, Sreeramblis was nonetheless quite able to put two and two together. Here was a dwarf fortress empty of dwarves, and that could mean only one thing.
* * *
In his sequestered mansion, TauQuebb the Manager squinted, not certain his ears were being honest. Was that truly a dying troll down there?
There was a silence, broken by a voice. A dwarven voice. "Come out, TauQuebb," it said. "For the moment, we are safe."
TauQuebb looked at his cat. It blinked and lifted its head up.
"What would you do?" TauQuebb asked.
The cat sat down and began scratching behind its ear.
TauQuebb pulled the lever. The mechanics engaged and unsealed the mansion. He emerged.
"Urist?" TauQuebb said hesitantly. "What happened? Are the goblins defeated?"
But Urist was already walking away. TauQuebb hurried over to him. "Hey! Urist! What happened?"
"Look for yourself," Urist said as he walked up the stair, where the outside beckoned.
* * *
News can travel surprisingly fast in a society with no established centralized language. Within a couple weeks of the great success of Sreeramblis the master thief, every kobold tribe within a hundred miles had sent their best in one crowded attempt to plunder the vast dwarven riches that awaited them in Ardentdikes.
A common language would have certainly been of use to the various tribes of kobolds here, who were presently engaged in their respective attempts to stop one other from walking away with all the treasure. If, for instance, the creatures had been capable of a formalized trade agreement, they might have agreed to work together on transporting materials out of the place, and they certainly might have avoided the great deal of dying that was soon to occur.
The first kobold to attack his own ilk was interestingly the first one to die, as an arrow landed squarely in his forehead, proving that luck is a tangible fluid quality that smoothly flows from victim to victor.
By the next morning, most of the kobolds were dead. The ones who survived the brawl made out well.
All except for one Thrilmis. He had not yet found a treasure worth stealing, not for a master thief of such respect and grace as he. He sought a truly marvelous artifact, a thing worthy of legend. Something that would make the nose tingle and the eyeballs weep with pleasure.
He did not find the artifact, but he did find TauQuebb, who greeted him as any hospitable dwarf would greet such a visitor.
* * *
Journal of Ilral Boltgrips, Outpost LiaisonWe've arrived. The old trade station is destroyed. The walls of Ardentdikes smolder. There's little sign of life.
The flow of magma into the fortress has indeed stopped, but...
...well, journal, you know what they say. It ain't a carp without gills.
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Topic: Ardentdikes - Absolute disaster - (31.25) (Succession)(Need Players!) (Read 222827 times)