Over three decades ago...Tracing the outer edges of reality, below the Crucible of Worlds where legions of deities issued forth new worlds by the forces of math and language and energy, the spawning pool of innumerable souls, sidelong the endless row of moons and worlds affixed to stars bequoth existence by sheer will of force, atop a parabolic arc of light and shadow and shifting hues was shored a low-lying building that looked to mortal eyes like stone and mortar swathed in living paint, a structure stretching past the edge of vision to a fine and distant point.
Where no living mortal had ever stood, an ancient spirit quite familiar with the afterlives held a wispy palm to the wall in silent reverence.
I cannot believe it, he thought.
At long last. Here lay the sum of all the knowledge in the cosmos, and though it would take longer than eternity to read every text, he had a specific volume in mind.
He walked until he found what seemed to be a pair of tall iron doors set into the polished stone that yet sparkled musically across a spectrum of yellows and purples. He grasped the handle and a heavy bolting sound thundered through the door as it swung open.
Drawing empty breath to ghostly lungs, the wizard stepped inside. There, miles of ornate wooden bookshelves spiraled around an impossibly tall ceiling illuminated by self-suspended chandeliers all blazing with torches. Numbers lined the end of each enormous shelf that framed a circular desk with a small silver bell set upon it.
Uncertainly, the wizard approached the desk. The Library was too vast for even the Gods to be constantly watching every bit of it, but any minute now he could be discovered and kicked back to mortality. With a few sideways glances, he tapped the bell, and in the air behind the desk appeared a plume of gray and purple smoke. "Index number?" inquired a soothing basso from the midst of the cloud.
"One-hundred ten point twenty-three."
"Access to this file is restricted," said the voice. "Please submit the password."
"
Koganusān."
"Password accepted," responded the voice, and the book appeared in the air before him as the smoke faded away. Phantom heart pounding away in his ectoplasmic chest, his trembling hands reached out for the book. He needed to know if the secret lay within. The lowest of screams, barely enough to be heard, rolled through the air in a hazy static. As the book was plucked from the air, an absolute silence unfolded and the pages flipped themselves open, ancient words in crimson ink casting out an eerie glow.
The Rebirth of Mortals was a secret created by the goddess Ura in a time before time. Whosoever learns the secret shall be empowered to raise the living from the dead. Beware the curse of undeath!
In a time before time, the goddess Ura inscribed The Rebirth of Mortals to Dawntumors, a chameleon fiend leather tome.
In the year 500, the ghostly wizard Andreus learned The Rebirth of Mortals in the Lost Library.* * *
A talented dwarf named Aik was killed during a construction accident along the outer wall. She will be missed by her five surviving cats. Rest in peace, Aik. Poor Little McArthur was caught in the falling rubble and sustained two broken legs, but I think we have enough splints to patch up our youngest legend.
Winter has seen the continuing visitation of the caravan from Graspedseduce, who continue to barter with us despite witnessing the unfortunate accident involving Rith several days ago. They tell us the dwarves of Graspedseduce have sprouted an open rebellion against the Queen's rule, and we're assisting the cause by sending the caravan home with the finest wooden arms Failcacnnon had ever stolen from dead elves. Conversely, we managed to purchase an entire fort's worth of fine armor and weapons by selling a few barrels of Elderont's Famous Roasted Seeds, worth about six steel breastplates a pop. Elderont's got a real racket going here. He cooks the seeds of drinks he brews and everyone loves his stuff so I fear an outbreak of rioting inevitably looms should he ever die.
Time seems to be moving faster and faster as we continue to clean up the place, store unsorted goods, and cull the furry menace from our halls. The days are blurring together. Construction projects continue and fortress morale is at an all time high but for a few malcontents who will surely come 'round eventually.
Tupu has not only survived his incredible injuries, but continues to serve as our Fortress Champion. Missing his right hand and without fine control over his left, he remains unable to perform any civilian duties (including, sadly, his bone carving), but this has not prevented him from wielding a shield and a shiny new silver hammer and keeping a constant vigil over our gates.
I wish everyone were more like Tupu.
Grath has produced another adorable, drooling drain on our resources. May she live long enough to start helping our sunberry harvest.
Gods damn it, I keep assigning walls to be built next to bridges without support. You'd think the workers would've learned by now. Two dwarves fell from the scaffolding and drowned in the one section of water they couldn't escape from. We have since dug ramps on the shore and placed their memorials there on the stone. Rest in peace, boozedwarf and Draconik.
Elderont's complained about the new meat we're giving him. Says it's too stringy, wants to know where it came from. I know he's friends with that maddwarf Ledi, and I may have to confine him to his still if he continues to act as a sympathizer.
As for the Cat Lady, well... she's quite talented. I do hope nothing happens to her, honest.
* * *
From the depths of dreams, Andreus followed a familiar flow of shapes and lights to his destination.
Mortality had driven Lur to delirium, Andreus mused.
The rambling made too little sense. Too many inconsistencies. But truth was in there. Where must be confirmed.For the first time in over thirty years, his astral form now stood before the iron doors of the Library, rusted and ruined amidst the cracked and crumbling walls. The once peaceful and starry sky here was laden with greenish cracks and shadowy vortices sucking away the vibrance that once danced along the Library's walls, leaving them bleak and lifeless.
The door was unlocked this time, and he stepped inside. Darkness had overwhelmed the place now that torches now longer blazed in chandeliers that once hovered the countless shelves but had crashed into golden slag upon the floor.
Andreus nervously made his way inside. The old desk was inaccessible through the twisted metal rubble, but the section he needed was thankfully there at the fore of the many, many books in the section labelled
001.Addoredir... Agakthoth... Aluonra.He lifted the thick metal tome from the shelf and pried it open. A hollow chorus of wails rose from the ash-covered words and faded away.
Flipping hurriedly through the pages, he lamented lacking the time to study the secrets of this invaluable book, but time was precious and the entire astral realm felt wholly unsafe as it was. He was unsure what would happen if his current form was destroyed, if such a thing was possible.
Finding the proper year, Andreus scrolled his eyes through the text, and gasped. "It is true," he whispered.
In the early spring of 501, the human queen Led Shakeoars performed the secret ritual of The Crypts of Flickering.
In the early spring of 501, the goddess Ura manifested as a skeletal human in the Plains of Ooze.* * *
Within the greatest tragedies lay seeds of great success. These dwarves, those who've survived unbelievable peril or braved stories of them to embark here, they're among the hardiest, most talented dwarves I've ever seen. Our crafters are adept if not far greater. Our soldiers are brave and well-armed, if unskilled.
Our dining room is AMAZING with sixty gold and silver tables each. That last bit will have to change if we ever want the population to say, be miserable for longer than the time it takes them to eat and become completely ecstatic over the death of their lover.
The High Master Weaponsmith that migrated here recently has claimed a Magma Forge and gathered several wafers of adamantine, but he seems to want some kind of cloth we can't provide. We'll start the looms up once the
WEAPON is complete.
Oh my, was Elderont pissed that his roasted seeds were left out to rot in the kitchen. Seems we've run out of barrels, so I'm ordering 90 barrels of pure silver to be made. We can always melt them down when we must, and with tons of native silver here, I doubt the need will arise.
No one's heard from Zeocin in some time. They say he went off to build a wall near the underground reactor and was never heard from again. Are the murders not behind us by now?
In happier news, with the coming of the New Year we are ready to begin testing of
F.A.I.L.S.The Failcannon Automated Inderdictive Landflood System: Four pumps, dozens of silver and golden bridges channeling seawater into a holding tank at the front of our fort. Windmills provide constant power, while a water intake valve is controlled by a lever in the western courtyard, so that the machine can be switched on and off at will. Valves at the tank and along the aqueduct stand ready to release the water at a moment's notice.
Try and get to us now, filthy skorses! Actually, don't. Skeletal horses can swim, can't they?
Well, whatever. PULL THE LEVER!
The holding tank is filled. I love the smell of cat piss in the morning.
Mwahahaha. MWAHAHAHAhANOTHING CAN STOP US NOW!
YES. YES DROWN> DROWN EVERYTHING
Ahem. Testing of
F.A.I.L.S. concluded successfully. We're proceeding to Step 2 of the defense grid. It's only the beginning of our crusade for perfect safety, but we've lain the groundwork for the future. There should be magma, and poison tanks as well. And spikes in the field. With lye. And some lignite scattered about the sand. Nothing like a nice unquenchable coal fire on the beach. Warms those chilly bones.
1st GraniteNearly a year has passed since I began working as Failcannon's Overseer. We've come a long way, but much work needs to be done. Just this morning I had to stop several dwarves from destroying the coffins of babies to smash up their bones. Some kind of perverse annual holiday, it seems. I shudder to think of what happened in the days preceding my arrival last year.
Despite all the calamitous deaths, there are sixty-eight of us here, one less than the same number as when I arrived. I call that just about breaking even. It'll be sixty-seven soon enough, as despite the work of our weavers, Urist still hasn't found the cloth he needs and is starting to get that crazy look in his eye. Sixty-six if Little McArthur dies. Sixty-five should the cat-loving blacksmith somehow mysteriously find herself surrounded by magma in her own home. Not that such a thing could ever happen.
New construction is underway and the place is starting to resemble a habitable, well-ordered home. If we keep this up, the Queen herself may decide to pay a visit. Perhaps an extended one, should trouble in Graspedseduce be as great as I hear it is.
Dastot Cog has lost much blood to the Plains of Ooze. Let's hope it was all spilled for a reason. Soon no outside force shall be able to threaten us. Failcannon is safe, perfectly safe.
Safe.
Would it be alright if I played through another year? It went by quickly, and there's a bunch of stuff I intended to do that never got done. Otherwise I can wrap up the turn and upload the save; the Spring save was before the pump was tested, so fps should be tolerable.
The deaths of the several cat owners were completely unintentional, if usefully coincidental.
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Topic: FailCannon: No Rest for the Wicked (or anyone else) (Succession: Battlefailed 2) (Read 937369 times)