The continued memoirs of Zon Endokakum, Stonecrafter of Areliton Ador. Goblins. Goblins at our doorstep. 12 count. Have I failed to mention that I've only seen two dwarves in this place using the goddamned barracks?
Well, it was their time to shine. I, myself, heard the rancid howls of green filth echoing from above and proceeded to huddle in a corner of the plump helmets and fertilize the soil through my trousers. I was sure we were fucked. I hadn't closely observed the entryway traps but I knew well enough that they weren't going to kill an entire unit of gobbos on their own. I was pretty sure I'd seen some cages being hauled upstairs. The doors were being barred and I saw the miners Guudespelur and Metalmilitia suiting up.
I hear the traps did their job . . . and at the same time, didn't.
The goblins were adept enough to avoid the swinging balls and iron discs without injury, but to do so they kept spilling over the walkway into the side pits. Unfortunately, we hadn't had the prudence to set up any sort of injury mechanisms down there. They just kept leaping into the pits, tireless, wouldn't give up. They crawled over each other just to get another shot at the gauntlet.
For a day's length, while we nervously drank and slept in the mud, Guudespelur and Metalmilitia stalked the foyer right outside the farming zone waiting for a goblin to make it out. A couple of them got tangled up in the cage traps, but once those were occupied we were wide open. The command was given through the door by Doc to charge. Guudespelur gave him a glance backwards, thinking of the odds: 2 against 10. I heard he shrugged before raising his pick up and charging, Metalmilitia in . . . tow?
Ten against one. I don't know how he found the courage to head out against them but he did. He ploughed straight into the lot of them swinging like a madman. I think his sudden attack had enough shock and awe in it to take them off-guard: they didn't expect one dwarf to take the lot of them on. That sort of suicidal bravery will elicit a reaction from a warrior of any race. Their blows glanced off of his bronze armour and he blocked the rest with his pick, swinging back with fury.
All at once suffering actual losses where they were making progress, the goblins must have panicked something fierce. Everyone knows how the gnarled bastards work, that that's like dwarven dominoes: one gets scared and runs, the rest'll soon follow. And run they did. And Guudespelur followed the vile ones right back out into the glare of the sun:
He wasn't through with them yet. Not by a long shot.
I . . . can't stomach describing the details here myself. The Doctor did some, er, anatomical diagrams of the damage suffered by this goblin. I'll include them here for . . . posterity's sake.
That can speak for itself. Suffice to say, I heard them describe its corpse as something akin to a worm with a head.
Guudespelur returned with some bad bruises that the Doc deemed inconsequential. The miner, now warrior, seemed satisfied with himself.
He really did.
Things were under control again. As if in response to all the death we'd just experienced, her majesty Eliza had some news to share with the rest of us.
With the goblins dead and a new addition to the fort, what else could the lot of us do but throw a damn party?
In attendance were the original seven founders of this place. Me, I let myself out after a hearty fill-up of dwarven ale in one of my own crafted mugs. I was emotionally split: on one had, we'd killed our own kin. On the other, one of our own had nearly sacrificed his own life for the lot of us and I didn't know what to think anymore. Was I . . . questioning my loyalty to the Rags of Paint? Had I been?
My thoughts were interrupted by another blast on the horn. Different alert: incoming elves. Must've come to trade with us in spite of our prior loyalty to the Wet Papers. I guess this was a good sign, eh? As good a sign as elves can be.
Then came the second alert: goblins
again?!
Our doors were sealed, as were the doors to the trade depot. Two entire goblin units had been stalking the jungle besides the one that Guudespelur had dispatched. The elves, unarmed and caught by complete surprise, had no chance.
The goblins herded them up and slaughtered them before camping out on their corpses and the spoils of their cowardly assault. I'd heard tale of the sea's influence from others, those suspicious types who actually thought we had a ghost living in a tunnel off of the barracks. Well, I could see where they're getting their ideas from. The gobbos seemed to be entranced by the water. They were standing at the lip of the cliff and just . . . staring.
Business, for us, remained as usual. Our lumber reserves were spilling over and so we didn't need to go topside for any reason. The gobbos could build a fucking town up there for all we cared. Our mechanics were busy outfitting the side-troughs of the trap line with lever-controlled spears for when we decided to crack open the hatches and scream "Piggy" at the green menace.
I snuck up there to get a little peek at them once, just to recount their numbers. What I saw was . . . well, I don't even know what to say about it.
Monkeys were stripping the goblins naked as they stood. I . . . can't describe how strange of a scene this was. I've had dreams about it: strange, uncomfortable dreams. Is the water truly haunted as they say it is? And are the mandrills on our side, or on no side but their own?
The only thing I know is this: between murdering those merchants, the weird ocean, gobbos, rotting elf corpses and molesting monkeys . . .
. . . we are not winning any popularity contests.
Armok help us all, we better improve our publicity.
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Topic: Areliton Ador, Community Fort - XXXXU: [The End] (Read 34261 times)