The only segment of actual diary I was able to obtain from these "Waterhalls of Drowning" was the following, unmarked and unsigned. Therefore, author unknown. It appears to be a transcription from an impartial viewpoint, likely assembled from multiple accounts of the same sequence of events and narrated as follows:
"The wagon had disappeared.
The Doc and Salmongod stared down at that surf-washed patch of rocky sand, mystified. The wheel tracks were right there, leading down the slope, cutting through the sandy loam until petering out somewhere around where the tiniest of waves lapped against the grains.
Salmongod removed his glasses, squinted, and then put them back on. The wagon continued to not exist.
The Doc tried to count on his fingers the barrels they'd unloaded, wishing they'd been able to haul his former office with them. One, two, three . . . something like fourty servings of meat, twenty hearty doses of booze, perhaps ten plump helmets. The anvil was accounted for and his cloth was safely wrapped up in the uncouth and crude storage area that Metalmilitia and Guudespelur had quickly hacked out just a dwarf's height beneath the undergrowth.
Nothing important was missing, right?
Guudespelur joined them with pick in tow, noting the necessity of sleeping arrangements for the coming night. They'd all be sleeping in the dirt if he didn't fell some of these bizarre bigleafed "Palm" whatchamacallits and get to planing out bed-frames. All he needed was a good sturdy board from the wagon to pare down into an axe handle and then affix a . . .
The three of them shared a moment of silence atop the cliff, staring down at that empty space with an eerie sensation. Whether it was the unprecedented disappearance of their entire wagon or the prospect of sleeping in the dirt until an axe could be acquired, well, I can only guess.
The sound of something gigantic screaming in fury echoed from the south which sent them scattering back towards the safety of their hole. It persisted for half a day. The Doc quickly organized the group into an impromptu meeting at the storage zone when they noticed that Valrandir was absent without a word as to his whereabouts. Eliza shrugged, holding several handfuls of prickle berries by the hem of her dress. Salmongod related to the rest the vanishing of the wagon while Taricus popped his head out of the hole and scanned the jungle for any sign of Valrandir, or the beast that had let loose such a terrifying wail.
A rustling in the bushes preceded the reappearance of the engineer with a steel crossbow resting on his shoulder and a peculiar expression. He gestured over his shoulder and let Taricus know that he'd procured dinner for the group for the next month.
It took Taricus an entire day to haul its monstrous corpse back to the dig, and another day and a half for Eliza to slash the damn thing up. It filled a quarter of their barrels with just the meat. Valrandir, apparently satisfied with this catch alone, set the crossbow aside and began setting up masonry and gear-making arrangements while Taricus learned how to tan hides. It was much more difficult and smelly of work than he'd ever imagined, but in the end he found himself with a workable slab of elephant hide fit for a suit of armor.
The miners continued their grunt work until a suitable soft industries sector had been carved out. "Suitable," as in, "functional." Not a single dwarf was looking forwards to working in such pitiable conditions. A semi-decent dining room was one of the highest priorities all seven.
When asked about what in the name of Armok they were going to do with sixteen rooms and no beds, Metalmilitia and Guudespelur shrugged and went upstairs to check on some commotion issuing forth from above. Almost everything; the eating surfaces, the chairs, the floors, the walls, the workshops, all carved out of salt. Just breathing down here seemed to suck the spit out of your mouth. Eliza had to keep swatting the donkey away from licking the table legs.
The Doctor, unfamiliar with floodgate mechanisms, was pounding on the wrong side of one after doing his best to follow Valrandir's installation instructions. Meanwhile, the mechanic was busy helping transfer comestibles from top-level to the newly established subterranean farming zone that Eliza was outfitting with various workstations. She seemed concerned about the mere 20 Urists of booze left.
By the time Valrandir had gotten the floodgate properly linked up, the Doctor was sweating and complaining loudly of his thirst. Upon activation of the gate he sprang from the prison he'd constructed for himself and hit the barrel.
Work, as always, contracted time: it was summer already and the farms hadn't even been planted yet. Their new home was nothing more than a pit with a hinged slab tossed on top of it:
and they were being forced to sleep on the cold hard ground. What had caused the wagon to vanish so neatly and simply? Even underground they could hear The Waters of Lamentation crashing against the conglomerate, bellowing like some manner of beast of its own. Something was very disquieting about those waters. If one spent too long looking at the waves, they could swear something was under there looking back.
Waiting.
Their hands now dirty, the seven wondered how long it would be before they had a true fortress that could be properly called a home."
OOC
Well! Our humble little hole in the ground is born. I've dug down far enough to get rock salt, limonite and lignite and I still haven't hit the aquifer, so we're probably not even going to have to deal with it for now. At the seasonal save I was irrigating underground farming. My next update will probably be at year's end since this early stuff isn't very exciting. If any Fun goes down I will document it.
My current plans are: build an enclosed surface farm zone, dig a trade depot with an attached drowning deathtrap, start digging down to see if there's an aquifer between us and magma, get food supplies running and produce some basic needs, work out some simple entryway defenses and get a barracks up.
I was extremely embarrassed to find out that we had no wagon to turn into trading axes and therefore chop trees into beds, or for fuel to start processing the copious amounts of coal we've uncovered. It looks like the next trading caravan is going to get a rude surprise: I'm seizing the goods we need from them.
And if it's the mountainhomes, well, those evil imperial bastards aren't going to make it out alive to send word of our survival.
Rrequests or suggestions for the coming seasons? Need any more pix? Just let me know.
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Topic: Areliton Ador, Community Fort - XXXXU: [The End] (Read 34238 times)