The end of the month of Sandstone brought with it a smattering of migrants -- refugees from nearby dwarven hamlets elsewhere in the mountains razed by the goblins -- carefully shuttled to the hidden outpost. The lot of them were soon assembled in the barracks, Commander Marmot-Shafter eager to add new soldiers to the ranks.
"Right! Cilob the... Woodworker. Know how to use a weapon?"
"Yes, sir! Good with a pike, sir!"
"Do ye own a pike?"
"No, sir!"
"Any of these other blokes know how to make a pike?"
"No, sir!"
"Well... right. But you're a woodcutter?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Bring an axe with ye?"
"No, sir!"
"Right. You keep your job. Who's next... Ingish Lancehoods! Profession?"
"Cheese ma-"
"Swordsdwarf! Right, talk to one of the woodworkers. They'll get you a sword. The rest of you lot, you're off the hook."
Wall-Log of Tulon the Miner
Mid-Timber 51
Traders arrived today. The Doc was bringing some crap to the depot and a kobold thief jumped out from behind a bush and tried to grab it. Doc tried to wallop him but the kobold ducked and ran off into the mountains. Bunch of commotion. Commander ran outside shouting silly things but the little guy was too far already to chase so he got all frustrated and started muttering to himself. Then Doc and the Commander and some escort that came with the traders started arguing about goblins and kobolds and scouts and spies and things. The Doc came into the tunnel I was digging and told me to dig faster because it was very very important that we got better metals than silver in the near future. Then he yelled at me for scratching graffiti on "his" tunnel walls. Prick.
There's a rock-wind coming from cracks in the shaft. It smells old. And deep. Very deep. I don't like these mountains. Not the smell in the air. The air smells like what chewing on flattened tin feels like. But the critters are harmless so far. It's the smell in the rock. The rocks smell thick. Not in a good way. I don't like it.