Journal of Scrubbedcreams
I'm done. I don't even care about the date anymore. I've gotten sick of burying the dead, and overseeing the creation of even more corpses. I've done my best, but even with years of labor behind me the fort is still a mess. Our farms barely produce enough food to keep us fed, beer runs low constantly, and the dead are stacked in corners. I've seen far too many of my fellow dwarves, a gaunt haunted look on the face. It pains me.
We have food, we have shelter, we have a few beds, though not enough for our current number, and no access to wood to make more. Our military is a shambles, and the yeti rule the ice above our heads. I have not seen a caravan in over a year, I fear we have been forgotten.
In the past months two more beasts have emerged in the caverns. There are four, five, I've lost count. More likely lost the will to count. I've collected what notes I could find. The stocks are in the mid levels, the farms below. Bedrooms below the farms. We have no metal industry, no animals.
About a half-dozen of our number no longer respond to their own name, or to voice at all, they wander the halls as if already dead. Those that live are not far behind. Some of us prosper though, morbid a thought as it is.
Our walls stand, but no useful fortifications or walkways. There was some sort of bridge fashioned in the days of Old Scrubbedcreams but I never had the time, nor the inclination to make it work.
I leave these thoughts for whoever comes after me.
- Bury the dead.
- Complete the walls, and retake the surface.
- Find a way to grow trees, my back aches for the chance to sleep in a real bed.
Good luck, and may you have better fortunes then I have.
-- Thob "Threetoes" Idatis