The Mountainhomes were depleted; the fabled, ancient fortress-hall of the Dwarves of Stibbumushrir rang hollow. For all that the furnaces still burned, for all that the Mountainhome was warm and well-appointed with the rich craft of centuries of Dwarf labor, its mines were stripped, dormant, empty. The King, long may his beard grow, required more wealth for his horde -- and so it was that he ordered the expedition that would found cursed Duthnurrimtar.
The high desert where Duthnurrimtar rose had been prospected long before, and its nature was known -- a treeless, desolate place, it nonetheless bore two features that made it viable. Its rich limestone deposits provided valuable flux for the forging of steel, and were of a sort known to bear a great deal of magnetite, one of the most prevalent of the iron ores. What's more, the place seemed blessed with an open magma vent, a limitless source of heat for the fortress's forges and smelters.
An auspicious dawn broke over the high desert where Duthnurrimtar now lays, on the morning of 1st Granite, in the spring of 1051. Indeed, that entire spring proved fortunate, with the smithing supplies of the expedition converted into temporary forges and smelters, and its supply of wood erected as a palisade to shield the Dwarves from the Kobolds and Goblins known to inhabit these lands. So great was the hope and expectation surrounding this expedition that not one, but two bands of immigrants arrived at the gate of the ever-expanding fortress before the first trades caravan arrived, swelling the Dwarven throng.
In those early days, the future looked bright indeed. Some small number of the craftsmen were so inspired -- divinely, some would say -- that legendary crafts were made in the wood and stone stockpiles that existed in those days. Quick work was made in establishing the fortress's mushroom farms, distillaries, and other workshops beside -- all good preparations for the years to come. The only thing that lagged was the living quarters -- but that part of the tale has not yet come.
The first tragedy to strike benighted Duthnurrimtar fell in the autumn of 1051, in the month of Sandstone. With the arrival of that first caravan from the Mountainhome came the first of the thieves and child-snatchers. Though by all accounts the thieves were discovered and driven off before they could do harm, the child-snatchers were all too successful. First one and then another Dwarfchild was nabbed from beyond the fortress's gates, where none noticed their disappearance 'til there could be no hope of rescue. In shame and grief, the names of these children were stricken from Duthnurrimtar's stone, to be forgotten.
Already, the fortress was growing unhealthy. While great spaces had been excavated in preparation for immigrants, the treeless waste allowed little preparation beyond that -- many of the newcomers were forced to sleep on bare, undressed stone, with not so much as a board to rest their head upon. For the sake of safety and warmth on that cold, desolate plateau, many gathered in the increasingly-crowded barracks, where soon dozens of dwarves would compete with the fortress's militia for what few bunks lay there. What's worse, this lack of wood soon led to a lack of barrels, a dire shortage that slowed the brewing of ale, rum and wine for the fortress's Dwarffolk; in that high, parched desert, a perpetual shortage of drink taxed the already irritable dwarves.
The second misfortune came in the spring of 1052. With so much limestone and magnetite, it was vitally important that Duthnurrimtar's magma forges be brought alive. After a delay to extract a vein of platinum from the path the magma would follow, Feb Aslisid, miner, broke open the thin wall of obsidian shielding the tunnel from the magma vent. For all that the magma would take months to flow to the furnaces, that first blast of heat seared the Dwarf to his bones -- his body, his tools were never recovered, melting beneath volcanic heat.
Quick on its heels came another tragic end -- while the children now were taught to remain in the great dining hall of the fortress, even there they weren't safe. One enterprising Goblin slipped past the gang of Dwarves guarding the path into the fortress, down into the bowels of the place to snatch a child from his evening meal. One Dwarf who was nearby sprang to the child's defense -- but fortune was not with him, for it seemed that the Dwarf, Rith Athelsarek, sprang not only to the child's defense, but onto the Goblin's sword. He died instantly, and the Goblin dashed for the exit, only to be felled at the fortress's entrance. Rith's sacrifice was for naught.
The crowding, by this point, had become critical. One of the Fortress's militia had become wounded during a sparring match in the barracks, and lay bed-ridden, in need of simple things such as drink and food. Forgotten in the noisy, smelly throng of Dwarves who looked more like refugees than immigrants and craftsmen, Onul Estilzulban was discovered dead after weeks of malnourishment -- a loss to the simple callousness afflicting Duthnurrimtar. His body was dragged to a refuse pile in a dark, forgotten corner of the fortress, and left to rot.
One last tragedy would strike in the autumn of that year. Mistem Likotrimtar, a peasant woman who had come to the fortress in the third band of migrants, felt the inspiration of the divine guiding her hand, and claimed a workshop to craft the thing that held her visions. But while she was driven by divinity, reality cared little for her demands; there was no wood to be had for her designs, nor clear glass, nor any number of other things. For weeks, she and her infant remained in the workshop, awaiting the arrival of supplies to begin her work -- for weeks, nothing came. As her ramblings began to sound dangerous, the Fortress's overseer ordered her room sealed. Not long after, the sounds of berserk yells came from within, and the infant's cries ceased. When the room was unsealed some months later, the Fortress Guard discovered that the mad peasantwoman had killed her own child, and then starved to death in a corner of the workshop.
From this point forward, the records of Duthnurrimtar were stricken from the stones of the Mountainhome. Perhaps careful searching might find more, but none will ever sing the story of fel Duthnurrimtar in the mead-halls of the Mountainhome.
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Actually, I've only gotten to the end of the second year so far. It was just so eventful that I had to write it up. 
Mind, I'm on 3 hours of sleep -- if anyone spots any errors or has recommendations on edits, do feel free to say!
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Topic: Dwarf Fortress: In the cursed halls of Duthnurrimtar (Read 1464 times)