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[SethCreiyd]

Heh, thanks, and sorry for the wait.  I've been dealing with some issues, but I should be able to update soon.

[Neyvn]

May I ask for a position in your fort. I heard from the Liason that you were looking for a Man of the Cloth, a Man of Armok. I believe I will be arriving with the King soon...

[SalmonGod]

SalmonGod pries the jaws of a young crocodile off his thickly gloved hand.  "NO!"  SalmonGod strikes the croc on the nose, which gapes open its mouth angrily.  He points to himself.  "DWARF!  Don't bite dwarf!  Bad croc!  Now let's try this again."  He places his hand inside the croc's open mouth, which does not snap shut this time.  He removes his hand.  "Good croc."  SalmonGod reaches into a bucket of goblin fingers and tosses one over his shoulder as he goes to sooth an angry gorilla who threatens to burst out of his enclosure.  The young croc snaps up the finger joyfully.

Mayor Olin wanders into the kennel, 4 kids in tow.  She slams the door shut behind her.  SalmonGod doesn't notice, as he's been tackled by the gorilla and forced into a wrestling match.  The mayor walks right up next to the wrestling pair and takes a deep breath.  "SalmonGod!!!"

The gorilla is distracted enough to stop rubbing SalmonGod's face into the floor, fascinated that his keeper's face is hard enough to gouge hard wood.  SalmonGod seizes the moment to pull a switch on the gorilla and seizes a hold around its neck.  Olin taps her feet impatiently as he applies pressure until the gorilla agrees to calm down.  He lets go and sits on the floor, looking up at Olin.

"You are SalmonGod, aren't you?"

"Yes..."  The gorilla begins grooming SalmonGod's hair.  He tries to wave it off, but it's persistent.  He gives in and allows it, so long as the creature remains calm while he deals with the mayor.

"How am I supposed to believe that?  SalmonGod was slain by goblins."

"You haven't talked to Aramco?  I thought everyone would know the story behind the mask by now."

"Yes, but her explanation was rather vague.  She only said that your ghost appeared to her and said you needed the mask to come back to life.  Not much of an explanation."

"Yeah... I guess not..."  SalmonGod takes a deep breath, which makes an odd noise blowing out from the mask's breathing hole.  The gorilla eats something picked off from his head. 

Random animal noises fill a few more seconds of awkward silence, which is then broken by Olin's kids.  "Mommy!  Mommy!  This big cat is so nice!  Can we keep it?"

"What?!  Get away from that, it's dangerous!"  Olin moves to pull her kids away, but SalmonGod grabs her hand.

"It's alright.  The leopard's one of my tamest pets.  I've taken quite a liking to them, ever since I was dead.  Try to give 'em the best treatment I can offer.  It's feeding time for her.  Go to the corner there and fill that bowl with the bag of swamp rat nibblets next to it, if you don't mind.  If you want to have a peaceful talk, I'm kinda stuck here."

"Uhh... umm... alright..."  The leopard grumbles only mildly as one of the kids hops on her back while she goes to the corner for her food.  Olin opens the bag and sniffs, then reels back in disgust.  "Ugh!  I don't envy your work, SalmonGod.  No matter who you really are, why, or how... you do a lot for this fortress."  She does as she was asked, then goes to sit in front of her subject for psychological evaluation.  The kids pet the purring leopard as she eats.  She can't help but be distracted by the gorilla's grooming procedures...

"So... More questions?"

"Umm... yes... you know it's been..."  Olin pulls out a scroll... "Great flaming beards, it's been over a year since Aramco made that mask and I requested a meeting with you."

"Yeah... I got back to work as quickly as I could.  I came back from the dead to swell our ranks with fearsome creatures.  After pulling that off, I thought it would be silly to let anything else slow me down."

"You caused quite a stir, you know."

"That's the other thing... I knew people would get all worked up and suspicious, or even worse I'd become some kinda celebrity.  I just wanted to do my job."

"It's worse than that.  People have grown all kinds of paranoid.  That was enough of a problem before your stunt.  Dariush even had a fit of nightmares about you that convinced him EVERYONE needs to start wearing adamantine masks.  He says somehow it will keep the demons from deceiving us.  I've been denying his requests every day for the past year."

"Don't.  Approve it."

"WHAT?  WHY?!  You need to explain yourself!  I still don't even understand how you're here right now or what you know!"

"Ok... here goes..."  SalmonGod details his period of unlife, in as much detail as possible, while avoiding the part where he stole an innocent dwarf's body for his own.  "This adamantine... it's special stuff, you see.  I think it has a spiritual connection to us dwarves.  That thread was just enough to keet me anchored in this world after death.  The mask was enough to bring me back.  I know our demon problems.  Like I said... I've seen them.  I watched them playing games with dwarven minds... but they seem repelled by adamantine.  They have power over everything else, but this stuff is untouchable to them.  Sometimes they would see me, and come to investigate.  I would focus on that thread, and they would lose interest.  We're the only ones who can shape it.  That's how it traps them in the depths, and they want out.  They can only escape by poisoning our minds until we let them out.  That's why I think everyone here should be required to carry some adamantine on them at all times."

Olin sits pale and silent for a time, absorbing the story.  Something about it bothers her, but she can't put her finger on it.  It's incredibly unlikely that any of it is true.  He's probably just a mad dwarf who welded a mask to his face, where others would have run around babbling naked until starved.  Yet, it all sat well with her intuition apart from one small, unidentifiable core of dread at the center of the whole thing.  It doesn't help that it's hard to read a dwarf without a face.  "Alright.  You've given me a lot to think about.  I was going to give you a full psychological evaluation today, but I think I've learned enough for the time being."

"Right.  I have more ideas to offer next time you decide to visit, but I also have a lot of work to do.  I figure my job is to keep the surface safe for us, without wasting dwarven hands that could be working down below against the demons.  It's busy work caring for all these creatures and keeping vigilant for gobbos."

Olin nods.  "Keep it up.  KIDS!  WE'RE LEAVING!"  The kids start lazily rousing from where they were napping with the leopard.

Before they're out the door, SalmonGod calls out "Hey!  What about those crossbows I asked Kzel to make!"

"I dont bloody know!  Go ask him yourself!"

As soon as they're all gone, SalmonGod spins around and punches the gorilla in the face.  "Damnit Bollo, my scalp is sore from your bullshit!"

[SethCreiyd]

Nice scene SalmonGod, thanks for the read   I'm kind of tempted to make gorillas semi-intelligent just for fun.  Request for crossbows noted.

There are now dwarves for the following players:

Spoiler: Ahriman (click to show/hide)

 

When you heard the great Duck was looking to emulate Elvenmake arms, you were thrilled.  This is your chance to shine and break the unfair monopoly the foresters have held for centuries!  The Carpenter's Guild has just formed the Knights of the Temple of Wood, an elite band of marksdwarves using the finest wooden equipment Quakemortal has to offer, a selection that bears as much resemblance to effective war equipment as does a legless puppy muzzled by a creatively-knotted hoop skirt.  Still, with the expanse of trees waiting to be logged and your years of expertise, it should take almost no time at all to get these wardens of woodworking properly fitted.

Spoiler: Azrael (click to show/hide)

 

Six years ago you were a farmer.  Four years ago you migrated to Quakemortal to become a Carpenter.  Three years ago, you were drafted into the army to fight goblins.  Two years ago, you slaughtered an ass fiend as it advanced on the Overseer, probably saving the latter's life (you still carry the axe).  One year ago, you crafted a legendary table in a state of delirium.  Now you are a decorated war hero with legendary Carpentry skill and from here, it's up to you.

((OOC:  I'm guessing your name is either a reference to Soul Calibur, or my first Morrowind character?))

Spoiler: Collie (click to show/hide)

Who do they think they are, forcing you to march like this?  It's ridiculous.  You used to be so pleasant before you came here.  Instead of using your talents to assist in his taming efforts, SalmonGod has you marching the gates like some commoner.  Maybe you can talk some sense into the guy in the mask, or maybe your talents would be better recognized by taking your grievance to the mayor or the overseer.  Heck, maybe when the King shows up you can join in the Royal Guard!  You hear there are all kinds of benefits.

((OOC:  To answer your question (a bit late, sorry), I haven't actually used Photoshop in about four years.  Nowadays I use a combination of Paint.NET and Gimp with plugins.  The Hell stuff was a polar conversion filter on a HFS screenshot, with some blending effects added to the later pics.))

Spoiler: Mosus the Magmaholic (click to show/hide)

In the summer of 233, you killed a goblin with a crude copper whip you barely knew how to use.  You've upgraded to bronze and are rather more skilled than a few years ago, but two years of uneventful patrol duty have left you a bored and rusted warrior.  If you could wrangle permission to enter the Danger Room, it would certainly aid your peace-weary bones, but said permission is harder to get in these days following a number of training deaths.  The heightened risk does bother you, but you've thought this over a long time and the Danger Room is really the most sensible route to power.  The question now is how you'll gain access to it.  The far less dangerous Recruit's Danger Room is still open to public use, but you've hardly any use for that feeble setup.  Perhaps you can talk the Chief Weaponsmith into making his personal training room more... substantial?

Spoiler: Nevyn (click to show/hide)

As it says in the Code of Tishak, "Fear not to walk through the fires of Hell, for it is I who have set them alight."  It has been a long trip to Quakemortal, though at long last the Royal Expedition has reached the Musical Swamp, the notorious realm of bubbling bogs and songful woods that belie the sinister forces skulking below.  For too long the citizens of Quakemortal have struggled without a proper representative of the Gods, but where the King goes, the Hierophant is fast behind.  Even if you did not want to come here, to remind these people that they do not struggle alone, the law would demand it.  After all, His Majesty needs proper advisement in these delicate matters.

((OOC:  Regarding the rage surrounding patrol duty... let's just say that as a player, I don't like the military getting too comfortable.  For Fun's sake, really.))


From "Demonic Cults and Diabolic Practices"
by Imush Kamukkel, Monk and Historian of Quakemortal

On Magic and Sorcery

Throughout history, the practices of mysticism and transcendentalism have been widespread even in eras of declined superstition, wherein they are enjoined in secret places at darkened hours far commoner than is generally believed.  Even these enlightened times (proliferative though they be with both assuming skepticism and errant idealism among even educated minds) placate an untold number of soothsayers natural-born and secretive, inheritors of an ancient lineage too powerful to be safe and too subtle to be accepted.  In fact their safety from the jealous masses rides with the unbelievability of their reality.

There passes, therefore, scarcely noticed by the masses at large, an increasing number of cabals and secret cults coming into prominent positions of power within kingdoms and even extant religions themselves.  Also alarming is the number of initial frontier outposts that would later become Mountainhomes to host such cults, often directly resulting in a large number of deaths.  The number, out of twelve fortresses surveyed, was six, including Headshoots and their well (and chillingly) documented Suicide Cult.  Historically-minded individuals may recall that Headshoots met its end after its two finest warriors, unmatched in either skill or brutality, were possessed by an unknown force and transformed into undead aberrations of form, which went on to slaughter the entire population, and finally each other.  This is, at least, how the story goes, and those skeptics among us should know that the Guild of Historians considers this to be what officially occurred.*

However, the common thread uniting all these fortresses may have but little to do with the presence of a monarch, such a thing being a ceremonial function of a functional people.  What is more important is that thing which drew the interests of the kings and queens to these doomed places: the discovery of adamantine, and the ensuing breach into the caves of the Underworld.

For whatever purpose the gods allow their mortal servants to suffer the continual onslaught of monsters inhabiting the world, it has had the (perhaps) unwanted effect of driving publicly devoted subjects to the realm of devil worship.  For it is the demons, for all their conniving and double-talk, that are quickest to point out the complacency of the gods.  To those who seek after them, they offer something novel, that of immediate reward, no matter if the 'reward' may be a thousand times more loathsome a fate than anything the gods would invoke out of idleness alone.  In fact, while worshiped deities are almost never seen or heard by masses of people, choosing to dispose their gift of communion to select individuals, demons are quick to reveal themselves, slaughter thousands, ascend to thrones by force or guile and otherwise establish their presence in real and myriad ways.

Yet not all reports of demons are provably accurate, while the issue of superstition must be considered moot to this point:  The actual existence of the obsessing spirit is inconsequential to the danger posed by groups in its service.  A demonic cult collecting the blood of children is no more or less horrible pending the actual existence of their object of worship, notwithstanding the event of such a demon actually standing in their presence, though mercifully, such occasions are rare.  Such groups are often motivated by the promise of power and gifts of sorcery they might acquire through sanguine offerings and sacrifices.

Here we must consider the difference between "magic" and "sorcery" as they are as different as hatred and love may be.  "Magic" is a word that passes down to us from Elves and their tales of the legendary Wizards of old, and their fantastic abilities.  The Elven word for magic, isila, comes from the two words, isa, shaft, and sila, staff = the shaft of the staff, held to be the wellspring of a wizard's talents and one possible reason for the importance of wood in modern Elvish culture.  For all their tricks and wondrous works, their acts were in accordance with natural law; a dwarven scientist today might find their bursts of light and fireballs to be superheated gaseous secretions employed by their particular bodily makeup.  In these old tales there is a peculiar emphasis that even the most miraculous of their talents - the changing of stone and wood into good food, for instance - was by no means "supernatural" in that it required nothing outside of nature.  The stone, as one tale goes, had the potential of being food all along, needing only to be told how to be what it could.

The elvish word for "Sorcery" is ifu, meaning "Stench."  Sorcerer, ifo, is literally "One of Sorcery," or One Who Is Of Stench.  There is a connection to the word ifebo, "to confuse," that is, to be strayed from proper thinking.  In this is a reference to the necromantic and sense-confounding Sorcerers of the old tales, whom the Elves blame for the origin of the undead plants and animals plaguing certain lands.  The "stench" may refer to the smell of walking death that surrounded the Sorcerers and their zombified minions, and to this day refers to the miasma coming from a rotten corpse.  These concepts are part of the reason Elves will eat individuals they themselves kill; for this cannibalistic act is considered the natural and respectful course of a judgmental being, and to do otherwise is to have killed for naught, to have abandoned their victim to decay in a place they are foreign to, upsetting the balance of the land.

Lest my readers accuse me of elfism, I shall provide the Olde Dwarven etymologies.  Aroth, the word for Magic, comes from Roth, the archaic Dwarven word for Art, a root seen also in the words Gorroth, literally "The Art of Disembowling," and Miroth, "The Art of Separating Oneself and Others Into A New Religious Sect Based On The Previous One."  Olthez, Sorcery, comes from Olthag, "To encyst," a symptom of disease.  Yet in Dwarven culture, "magic" is often prejudiced against, no matter the source, so long as it is not issuing from their own technological progress.  Indeed, the dwarven language has many variant words for wielders of magic - Ullung, Zethruk, Lirul - all with a context of deviousness and all but the last one derogatory.  However, the highly positive word Soloz, "To Worship," is used to describe both prayer and reverence unto the gods but also feats of supernatural might and bravery, the creation of artifacts with strange, inexplicable properties, and personal miraculous events, such as the way volcanoes seem to instantly fall dormant in the presence of dwarves, any of which can be considered "magical" happenings.  It is also used among miners as a way to express reverence for the stone they excavate, to remind each other not to dig too greedily or carelessly, lest the tunnels themselves turn on them.

Dwarves respect the land in a purely practical manner.  While they may deforest an entire region of woods, the wood is used on site: turned to beds, ash, glass, an entire number of things used for other ends.  A fortress of a thousand dwarves may lay devastation to the surrounding landscape, but in a temporal way.  A dwarf may chop down as many trees as they like in a given area around their settlements, but no more, and given time, the trees will grow back; at some point, a line is drawn in our minds upon which we are forced to turn back, before we overextend ourselves.  This presence of unspoken boundaries inhibits all dwarves.  We know when we've dug too deeply, when we must build no taller spires, before the wind can tear them down; we know when our walls are wide enough, beyond which we must build no further.  Is this inborn knowledge of our limits and the limits of the land not a kind of magic?

Adherence to natural law among Elves must in some way be related to their stories of suffering at the hands of Sorcerers, something many Elves, with their immortal lifespans and perfect memories, claim to have personally lived through, something they simply cannot ever forget.  Sorcery, then, is that which fights against nature - not the industries and alchemies of dwarves which, as much as certain elves may condemn them, are in fact forms of art and magic laying in perfect accordance with both dwarven nature and the lands our people most often inhabit.  Sorcery is that which would destroy our ability to use these magics by way of crippling our means or lives, or by ballooning it out of proportion, consuming and destroying all that is needed to thrive, whatsoever as long as it is controlled.  It is the twisting of life and land into things which could not naturally be, by means and tactics beyond moral repugnance and logical sense.  It is laughing at death, or maybe worse, conspiring with it.  It is that which is rotting but not yet suffered to wholly die.

There are many forms of magic, worship of the gods being only one.  But demons offer sorcery, calling it magic.  Magic and Sorcery are not so much opposites as they are reflections of one another through a tarnished mirror.  If on one side of a coin we have magic and the promotion of life, then on the other we have sorcery and the debauchery of the soul.  Only by shunning the coin altogether do we avoid the distinction of joining an ancient war beyond any beginning or end, across more battles and battlefields than there are stars in the sky.  Fields of infernal stone below, there may be no avoiding it for Quakemortal.

_{* The body of one soldier, nicknamed "Nemo" by adventurers and historians alike, was shown to have been decapitated, in an advanced necrotic state, despite the frozen temperatures and the fact that all other bodies discovered on site were devoid of such decay.  The body of the second soldier, known as HolisticDetective, as described in the fortress log, has never been found.}

(There are some notes scribbled into the lower-right margin of the page.)

My dreams are grim and haunting of late. 

Our home is too comforting a place to live for what it truly is, and with the arrival of the King I fear that comfort must now break.  Life and law in a frontier outpost is a far cry from that of a Mountainhome.  I can only pray that the King's insistence on personal security does little to impede upon the freedom and prosperity we have enjoyed here at, of all places, the very mouth of perdition.

My wife says I'm worrying too much, and she's probably right.  Besides, I'm certain that the dubious talk of the King's involvement with demons and gods of death and darkness is all the mere stuff of unfounded gossip.  I'm sure the King is an ordinary monarch who knowingly chose to move His Majesty's court to a place that calls Hell its backyard.  He must simply be here for the glory of fighting the demons.  And the adamantine too.  And such wealth that we boast.

Yes, there's nothing at all to be worried about.

[peregarrett]

Holy carp, that's a real science paper.

[Psychron]

My. That passage there is entirely plausible and would explain much. Gives a dwarf something to think about.

_____________________________________________
(From the assorted notes of "Collie" Zonakmam, written in charcoal on olmman hide)

How dare they. How dare he. He knows that I am a trainer of repudiable skill. Does that Notable Prize I received for taming and training that Giant Zombie Leopard mean nothing?!? Apparently so, because he sent me on patrol duty. Patrol duty! Me! The only way this could be more humiliating would be if they sent me out wearing only a thong and assigned me a pack of war dogs.

(OOC: Try to get this to happen)

 If only I had my deshlirfst here with me... but nooooo, we weren't allowed to bring giant war leopards with us, only common domestic pets...
(Drawn on this line is an image of a terrified dwarf being attacked by a giant war leopard)
... But no. That's beneath me. Anyways, Unib and the kids were there with me. I couldn't let that happen in front of them!
(Beneath the passage is a list labled "IDEAS")
IDEAS

Lean on Mask-face - Dangerous
Lean on King - Dangerous
Lean on Miners - Dangerous
Lean on hunters -Dangerous
Continue soldiering and bide time - Maybe.
Create reason to get of patrol - ??
     Fake (or create injury) - Risky or painful.
     Remove reason for patrol - Prob. not at good idea
     Ask for removal and assignment to the kennels for use in training animals - TO DO
     Sabotage - Vry risky

_______________________________________

What gender(s) are the kids?

[SethCreiyd]

Collie fathers two daughters: Olin is seven and Asėn is four.
His wife Unib is a brilliant and willful woman with a lack of patience.
You mean imperious, not willful.
Whatever.
Jerk.

Spoiler: Darkmere (click to show/hide)

What better way to peer into the secret spaces in between the worlds than to embark on one?  Here at Quakemortal, two run together, and life and death shall mix in many ways.  Responding to the call for a knowledgeable occultist, you have joined King Domas' expedition and hope to gain the knowledge you seek at lush and sunny Quakemortal.  And, perhaps, a cure for that fickle and fearsome temper of yours.

[powpow]

thats a big piece of lore

[Ahrimahn]

Is there a Crossbow squad in the Fort because if not my first mandate is to equip and supply a full ten man Marksdwarf squad.

[Psychron]

Collie fathers two daughters: Olin is seven and Asėn is four.
His wife Unib is a brilliant and willful woman with a lack of patience.
You mean imperious, not willful.
Whatever.
Jerk.

Lol, thanks.
Wonder how he's going to explain patrol duty to her.

[davros]

This fortress is awesome.

[Darkmere]

Meanwhile, elsewhere....

A human porter wanders through twisting corridors cut far into an ancient mountain. He counts off turns to himself carefully, following instructions he was given. Dwarves weren't the warmest folk to outsiders, and he didn't want to ask directions from any of the traffic heading in the opposite direction, towards the trade depot. After several minutes, he stops in front of a rutile door; eighth on the right, market row.

Engraved above the door is a sign. Speaking dwarvish is easy, so traders say. Drink enough prickleberry wine and anyone can sound dwarven. Reading it, however, is another matter. The porter furrowed his brow and sounded out the runes in his head. Umomogred ur Zethruk, na Ullung, na Mizes. The first  word sounded like a name.... Darkmere? The rest were wholly unfamiliar, certainly nothing that comes up in regular trading. He shook his head and knocked on the door.

"The shop's closed! Come again tomorrow."

"I'm not a customer, I'm a runner from the caravans. Olith Bazeudal sent me to find you. He says your shipment is in, and to get off your stumpy ass, we're leaving at first light!"

A pause, then from inside "Tell that bow-legged bastard I'm on my way. And mind the stairs on your way back, it's still slick from a well accident last week."

The porter turned and hurried back towards the trade depot, almost slipping on a muddy patch in the stairwell. Someone really should clean that up before anyone gets hurt.

(I figured some content might be welcome, so I'm writing a bit of backstory for my dwarf. More to come.)

[davros]

No matter how long  it takes for a new update, this fortress will always be the best of all community forts.

[SethCreiyd]

"Two currents tug in ebb and flow about the Hailian soul: the desire to follow, and the desire to lead.  No Halian dwarf can resist either compulsion, and so at once when any opportunity is presented, any of them will seek to satisfy both.  They all desire a monarch to lead them, a king or a queen, but only so long as that monarch is popular.  The chains upon our freedoms are most tolerable when we ourselves have fixed them.  But when the ruler inevitably fails to meet the expectations of an ever-demanding populace, the people wish to depose them.  We all wish to be led, but only so far as we've chosen our leader.  These forces, until they are further refined, shall fuel the Wars of Succession forever."
~ Imush Kamukkel, Monk and Historian of Quakemortal

For a long time, Kzel watched the blood run to the floor from the broken body in front of him.  He felt the stain would never leave his skin.  He had killed an alligator in the swamp, once, in his youth - with only his forging hammer to defend himself, he had no choice but to use it to save his own hide.  It was different than this.

Vicious troglodytes from the caves were appearing in greater numbers ever since the mid-level caverns were opened up.  Every now and then the cage traps would exhaust themselves and into the fortress would walk these apish snarling things to terrorize the children and animals.  This one had the misfortune of encountering Kzel in a lonesome corridor and made the mistake of attacking him.

The scourge was a cruel weapon.  It could inflict no killing blow, forcing the snaggle-toothed victim to suffer through a thousand cuts and chipped bones while they slowly and agonizingly bled to death.  Kzel whipped the creature's head again and again, before repeatedly stomping down on it until the skull gave way with a crack.

Later that day, the news would come that a miller was slain picking flowers outside the city walls.  Not entirely certain why, Kzel wandered out to the site of the battle, where Jacen's recruits engaged the attackers and defeated them all.  The bodies of two recruits clung to the grass beside a lonesome speardwarf and a few pacing axedwarves.

"It was over quickly," said Jacen to the Weaponsmith as he approached.  "They attack without any sign of thought."  A crimson-stained axe swung from the soldier's side.  "Like animals.  Came and murdered a miller before we got here."

Kzel nodded, only scarcely hearing the words.  The scene of carnage gnawed at him.  He felt detached from the ground.

"Two lashers-in-training," Jacen continued. "Thought they could do without plate or mail.  I'll be stressing the importance of proper battle dress to their replacements."

The Weaponsmith's gaze slowly crept away from the gory heaps all around.  Bloody whips.  There were bloodied whips everywhere on the ground, and he wasn't sure which of them were his and which had belonged to the goblins.

(Sanity: 90/100)

*     *     *

The expectation of royalty led to Quakemortal's populace turning out an immense amount of work in a very short time.  No sooner than the announcement was made did a soldier fall under a strange mood and produce an unrivaled crown for King Domas.  While the other woodworkers viewed this obvious bootlicking with scorn, the creator was nonetheless pleased with himself.

The Guildhall of Freecarpenters was well-underway, and with luck, would be completed within a few years.  Duck was immensely proud of his workers' accomplishments, and he hoped the King would be so pleased with its progress he would scarcely notice the demons.

Still, despite all the activity, the shadow of where Quakemortal bustled remained ever looming.  Strange sightings and reports of ghostly activity were on the rise.  And still, the nighttime rang out with someone's nightmarish shouts, every night.

The dusky meeting room, filled with voices and faces so often before, lay vacant aside from the Overseer, who stared at the walls.  Any minute now, the heads of staff would come marching through the doors and filling the chairs, but for now it was quiet, and though the silence would soon be broken, he appreciated any moment of quiet in these busy times.  He remembered a time when this hall was new, rough, undecorated.  How he could feel nostalgia for this terrible place, he did not know, but the memory pressed itself upon his senses.

Indeed, the solace was short lived.  Dwarves were soon piling into the room and taking their seats with a great deal of chatter.  The reality of the room came back to him; the walls were once again smoothed, the engravings and furnishings came back into view.  Emerging from his backward trance, Sethrist waited for the conversation to lull before clearing his throat to speak.

"In the year 233, my father, Old King Doren, was killed by a bronze colossus during an attack on our hometown, Claspsinged.

"I was his only heir, and Crumby assumed his role as my liaison and agent.  He'd been my father's bodyguard for years and taught me the ways of the hammer and shield.  I was a slow learner, and he an impatient teacher, but I slowly made progress.  'There is no King who cannot fight,' he used to say.

"The day of coronation approached when Domas addressed the High Council and presented them with what were said to be my birth records.  He claimed there was no way to prove I was the actual birth child of my parents due to the records giving no indication about it."

"Well?  Was it true?" said Zaroz after a moment.

Sethrist shrugged.  "I'm certain that I am the son of my parents.  My face bears much of my mother who raised me.  And I hold a striking likeness to an engraving of my father's father Ustuth in the old palace.  Domas conceded that I was certainly the late king's son -- meaning, if only by adoption -- yet asserted my true lineage was questionable. 

"So were the records faked?" Peregarrett asked.  "A forgery?"

"Perhaps.  But Domas swore under oath he had enacted no forgery, and the Council's soothsayers believed him.  My advisors could produce no alternative record.  Without clear evidence concerning my heritage, and faced with Domas' place in the bloodline securely documented, I had no basis to argue against them."

"To blazes with the Council!" Kulet said.  "Did you not fight the ruling?"

"What choice did I have?  The Council had delivered their verdict.  I didn't suspect Domas would turn out to be so petty a ruler, nor did I think the right to rule entitled me to plunge our kingdom back into the madness of the Succession Wars.  I could either renounce my claim, or drag all the Lanterns of Hail into bloodshed and chaos."  The Overseer rested his hands on the table.  "The decision was easy to make.  I accepted the Council's ruling and Domas ascended to the throne a year later."

"Initially, I stayed at the Capital as an adviser to the Crown, but my Uncle would hear nothing I had to say.  Soon enough, every two-bit assassin in the kingdom came looking for Domas, so he tightened security in every province loyal to him.  He began centralizing authority away from the Council and local lordships, and issued new taxes and tariffs to pay for his expansion of the military.  Eventually, I gave up on the madness of the court and signed up at Duck's University.  That's where Rimtar and I met, at the Herbalism course."

"You were a terrible carpenter," Duck said.

"A terrible carpenter with inheritance," Sethrist said.  "I was named in my Father's will; my Uncle would not move against that.  The very plot of land we built this fortress on goes back to an old family claim made hundreds of years ago at the dawn of the Age by my Great Grandfather.  The three of us met Derm and Kulet at the tavern and plotted our journey here.  We knew there'd be plenty of trees.  This was supposed to be a simple logging outpost."

"It was, until Kulet went and exposed the shores of Hell," Rimtar said sweetly.

"I'm getting real tired of the blame game," Kulet said.

"My own motivation for settling down here," Sethrist said, "was simple: I wanted a quieter life, away from the King and his mania.  Now that His Majesty is coming here, I feel I should warn you our lives will be changing.  I shall do my best to protect us all, but you must also protect yourselves."

"This is deeply uncomfortable talk," Peregarrett said.  "We should not be speaking ill of the King."

"Let no one say I have spoken falsely," Sethrist said.  "I offer no ails against our King.  But know that His Majesty shall put his own safety before all of ours.  And we will not be able to meet like this again without some agent of the crown sitting in, dictating to us how to do things.  Such is the right of rule, but that does not make it good for us.  The one expedition His Majesty led to the wilderness met with fleet-footed disaster."

"To be fair, our own outpost here nearly ended more violently."  Sethrist looked around.  "Things could have turned out rather diffferently."

"We'd never have run out of wood," Duck observed.

"I merely wish to continue as we have, untroubled," Sethrist said with a sigh.  "I don't think we can."

"The Succession Wars never really ended," said Impersonat nervously.  "Two hundred years, and the old factions still send assassins after the King."

"Yet another good reason to move his court to our fort," Rimtar said.  "The warriors of Quakemortal are known through the realm.  This is the strongest fortress in all the land, and everyone's aware of it."

"We already have security issues," said Captain Worldlenses.  "Between the demons and threat of sabotage, seeing to His Majesty's safety is going to triple my workload.  We'll need to swell the ranks of the Guard."

"No need to worry about that," said Dariush.  "The King will probably see to his own defenses.  I've never known a monarch that didn't travel around with a band of armored thugs."

"They're called soldiers," Derm said in warning tones.  "You should thank such thugs for keeping goblins from running off with you as a child."

"I'm certain my mother begrudges them that," Dariush said.  "She hasn't even sent a letter asking about her grandkids, not once."

"Dariush," Rimtar interrupted.  "What have you and the Captain learned about our saboteur?"

"Only that they are a great Engineer," Dariush said.  "The linkage we were tracing ran through one gigantic circle throughout the fort and looped back in on itself on an alternate conduit.  It's a closed circuit, it doesn't lead anywhere."

"Terrific," Rimtar groaned.  "One great waste of time."

"Not exactly," Dariush said.  "The circuit would have to've been closed after the trap was sprung.  That could not've been done remotely, and it would have required hands-on expertise.  There's maybe three people in the fort who could've done that, myself included."

"Leaving us with three suspects," Captain Worldlenses said quietly.

"Exactly," Dariush said.  "Wait, what?"

"I didn't say I suspect you, personally," the Captain said quickly.  "But you are a confirmed suspect."  From beneath the table, she pulled forth a leather-bound book and set it on the table.  "Do you recognize this?" she said to the Engineer.

Dariush blanched.  "That's... that..." he said, looking uncertain.

"I took it from your room during my last visit.  I'm sorry Dariush, but it's for the safety of the fort."  The Captain opened the book.  Dariush flew to his feet.  "What the hell are you doing?!" he raged.  "You can't just ta..."

A pair of spears emerged from the two guards sitting beside the Captain and pointed themselves at Dariush, who froze in his tracks.  Sethrist watched the scene unfold with growing concern.

"I'm sorry, Chief," said the Captain.  "But you said yourself, only a few people could have done it."  Flipping through the book, she stopped midway through the first half and read aloud: "'What a weird place. As if demons, voices-in-the-head and hole to hell wasn't enough, there're now weirdos in adamantine masks running around.'"

What followed is viable proof that looks cannot kill, for the Captain otherwise would have collapsed into smoldering ruin beneath the Engineer's harrowing stare.  The Captain flipped forward a page and continued reading in a strained voice.  "'As I pulled the lever that opened the cursed gate, I immediately heard a mind-splitting cry from below. Hundreds of demons rushed through the entrance.'"

"You're taking that out of context!" Dariush yelled.  "It was a dream!  That's why we need the masks!  That's why..."

He trailed off, looking frantically back and forth at the staring faces, and finally at his wife, whose eyes had reddened.  "Olin!" he cried.  "You know I didn't..."

"I know," Olin said.  She stood from her chair.  "My husband speaks the truth," she said.  "That journal is evidence not of a crime but of a bad dream.  Furthermore, it is stolen property."

"It is evidence of demonic communion," the Captain said, closing the journal.  "If Dariush is hearing the voices of the damned, they could be working through him even as we speak.  He would have no say in the matter."

"I should like," Sethrist said from his seat, "to know the reason behind that statement."

"As I said," the Captain began.

"I should also like to see the warrant for acquiring this journal.  As far as I know, I never signed one."

"Due to the threat..."

"Captain, is there a warrant?"

"I did not feel it was necessary..."

"Captain Worldlenses, as Overseer I hereby sentence you to twenty days' imprisonment for this theft."  Sethrist looked sideways at the table.  "The sentence is mild in regard to your dutiful service; I will question you later."

The Captain gave the Overseer a look of disbelief, then shoved the journal across the table and stepped angrily over her chair.  "The chains for doing my job!" she exclaimed.  "I know the way," she snapped at the two guards accompanying her, whose spears had turned in her direction.

When they had left the room, Sethrist sank deeper into his chair.  "I do not like what is happening here," he exhaled.  "I would not imprison you for this, Chief, but I cannot ignore the Captain's latent suspicions.  This situation of paranoia is what I've been most afraid of.  Let us pray it grows no more in coming months."

The Overseer looked over Dariush, then the rest of them.  "That said, if I find out one of you has kept a demonic encounter secret after this meeting, dream or not, I will cast them in chains myself.  All right?"

A knock sounded at the siltstone door.  "A runner of the King has arrived!" said a voice from the other side.  "His Majesty shall arrive momentarily!"

"Looks like that's it, everyone," Sethrist cringed.  "Meeting adjourned."

As everyone left, Sethrist motioned toward Derm.  The Commander hobbled over to the Overseer, using the table for support.

"I think you should have this, Commander," Sethrist said.

"It's served me well, but it belongs to Quakemortal's Lord of Arms.  Wield it with pride."

"I will," Derm said, his mouth involuntarily hanging open as he took hold of the stunning targe.  It gleamed and seemed to resonate with an incandescent power.  Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously.  "If this is because you feel sorry for me..."

"Believe me, Commander," Sethrist said as he strode toward the door, "I feel sorrier for all your enemies."

*     *     *

Sethrist's Journal, excerpts

An advance runner informed us His Majesty expected a military ovation to greet him, and so we obliged.

"Lord Overseer," he said to me when we finally stood face-to-face.  "It has been a long time."

"Ten years or so," I replied, and turned back to lead the procession down to our home.

*     *     *

Meanwhilst...

"Boss."

"Yeah?"

"I think we have a problem."

"Oh."

"That's a problem, right?"

"Don't panic, m'lad.  I'm sure the others will get us out of here soon enough."

*     *     *

"And this is the forge level, where we make all our weapons and armor..."

*     *     *

"Tell her to stop screaming!  I can't think!"

"Oh Gods!  It-it wont stop!"

"STOP SCREAMING, MEDTOB!"

"What are we going to do!?"

*     *     *

"And this is a gift from the Carpenter's Guild, Your Majesty.  The Guildmaster is quite proud of the new Journeydwarves."

"I'm sure."

*     *     *

"Quick!  Start digging the edge of the pit!  We need to let the magma fall through!"

"No way!  I'll be swept down and burned!"

"We'll be burnt if you don't!"

"No!  I refuse!"

"Then throw me your pick!"

"I'll try, boss!"

"Good lad, Goden!"

"Goden!  Goden, speak to me!"

*     *     *

"See to it those doors are replaced.  Some adamant furnishings for the room would be nice as well."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"The ropes in the prison are to be replaced with cages, tell the metalworkers to begin on cages immediately.  And that wall will have to come down for the barracks of my Royal Guard."

"But... Your Majesty, that, sir, is a masterful engraving of ocean waves by one Goden Sigunrazot.  He would be traumatized to lose such a magnificent piece of artwork."

"So what?  It's dreadful, anyway.  Break it down!"

*     *     *

"It's been nice knowing you, Medtob.  May we meet in the Bountiful Woods after this."

"I don't want to die!  I don't want to die!"

"Quiet!  You hear that!"

"Rushing magma!"

"Besides that!"

"We're saved!"

*     *     *

"This is it?  This is my throne room?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"I requested that the floor be fully paved in adamantine, did I not?"

"Yes, but we ran out of..."

"Ran out?"

"Yes, Majesty, but we are mining for more..."

*     *     *

"When we realized you were missing," Jacen said, "we searched the vein, only to find it flooded with magma.  We came here expecting to find three charred corpses."

"We're lucky you found us in time," Kulet breathed with relief.  He suddenly started, grabbing hold of Jacen's cloak.  "Goden!" he cried.  "Is Goden alright?"

"We'll see what the Doctor can do," Jacen said.

*     *     *

"And here, Your Majesty, is another fine gift from the workers."

"Wonderful!  A great hunk of glass!  I shall throw it on my growing pile of worthless trinkets."

@Ahrimahn,
There are two fully equipped marksdwarf squads, but the new squadron will soon be forming to protect the Guildhall, and they'll need some new wooden crossbows.

@davros,
Thank you for reading   Feel free to claim a dwarf, if you like.  I like the ensemble cast and I really like reading what everyone writes, so hopefully if I write more, everyone else will.

@Darkmere,
Looking forward to more!  Quick question:  Be Darkmere magician, enchanter or sorcerer?

@Dariush,
The new and improved elf trap is coming along slowly.  The outside walls were recently finished.

@Duck,
The Guildhall hit a snag when I realized an entire floor was lain out wrong, but by now it's mostly complete with only the upper stories awaiting completion.  Did you want anything special for the roof?


I've started playing again and set the new player characters up with living quarters.  If you have any requests regarding offices, houses, secret dungeons or whatever else, just let me know.

[peregarrett]

Whoa! That's the arrogant king who we need here the most, for sure.

It's a thrilling thing, especially diary discussion and magma-flooding at mines.

"Wonderful!  A great hunk of glass!  I shall throw it on my growing pile of worthless trinkets."

Hey, do we really lack common gems?! I'm not saying about diamonds, rubies and such, but various opals, agates and stuff? Do we really have to stuck with that amorphous material?!