Dear Axedolts:
Do you hear that sound? That horrible highpitched season-long scream? That is the sound of Vabok the Lye Maker fighting an ettin. You know, the ettin I told you to kill a couple of months ago? Two heads, halitosis, taste for dwarven blood? That one.
Understand that Vabok did everything right. She even ran towards the fortress, which in my experience is a sure sign of extraordinary intelligence - genius, even - the kind of brilliance you meatheads can only have booze-fueled reveries about. Unfortunately she was tackled and crippled before reaching the gates, and now she is incapable of standing up. She did not, however, surrender, and as of today she has been hitting the monster with her shoe for two months straight. Did I mention she's dehydrated, starving, has several infected wounds, and is still very happy? Did I mention you guys have been standing around the well, chortling and drinking, for I don't know how long? Look, I realize that socializing is important, but come on. The ettin must have gone insane by now, since Vabok just won't die. I'm sure you can just saunter up to it and chop its heads off without it even noticing you.
What's that? Oh thank Armok, two of you are finally moving! Now to pick up your weapons, and...
Oh, I see. You want to drink in the stockpile instead. How original. I bet you think you're slumming or something, and that this makes you cool. No, go on, show your axe to Urist McHauler, I'm sure he'll be impressed. "Shiny, eh? I call her Brunhilde. Yeah, I've chopped up hundred, hundred and fifty training spears with this worthless piece of scrap metal... haw haw haw, just joshing ya Brunhilde, you know I love you. Seriously though, Urist... down to earth types like you might call me crazy, but I would never sully her with blood, not in a million years..." *trails off, staring into space* "...why are you still here, Urist? Surely YOU have WORK to do..."
Yeah, I'm going to go ahead and call you crazy. That's because you are. And to think I drafted you guys to slaughter, among other things, elves. What a joke. YOU were the elves. You were the elves all along.
The Overseer
Dear Vabok (High Master Lye Maker, Adequate Woodcutter, Dabbling Conversationalist, Legendary Meatshield):
Your tomb is ready. It has a statue of your god, engraved walls, and a small stockpile of specially commissioned lye to honor the trade you dedicated your life to and never got to pursue in our fort. Just die already. Really, it's OK. You have already done more than anyone expected. You are a true dwarf and everyone owes you.
That said: if you survive, you are so getting promoted. Militia commander or captain of the guard, depending on how much the doctors can fix you. Either way, you're getting a lovely apartment of your own and no more hauling for the rest of your days. So, you know, keep swinging that shoe.
The Overseer