Journal of Creiyd, Timber 11thWe have a new spear. Very plain, and very sharp. Its creator now broods over his forge like a pestilent viper, muttering dark things to himself as he toys with the hides of demonic creatures. I fear for my life walking by the foundries.
It was with bitter lament that we interred the body of our Templar, Lord Baelor, slain by a slavering lizard beast in the depths of the fortress. A novice miner stumbled on the beast as it lay upon the corpse of its victim, and managed to slay the brute before succumbing to his own injuries. He is not expected to survive, but we have at least discovered one last flaw in our defenses that is now sealed away. With the holes in our halls patched up, there should be no further surprises like this.
Winter approaches and our numbers dwindle ever downward. More than four dozen dwarves have died here since last Spring, a span of time otherwise used to carry refuse from one end of the fort to another in the name of 'cleaning.' However many bodies we hide cannot change the truth of their number.
18th TimberCaravan arrived. Edem the Stonecrafter appears to have gone insane.
He was followed in turn by Fikod, who turned violent in the hospital. The marksdwarves were sent to deal with the uproar.
Kelsa was the next to fall, the ghastly sight and sound too much to bear.
They suffer no longer, from either injury or The Mad Fool's sanguine tinkering. My thoughts turn often to the ghostly dwarves amok in our halls, ever increasing in number as we fail to respect their every demise. What terrors lay in death to drive these restless spirits back to imitate themselves? I try and envision beyond them, pale memories they are, just to cower behind the greatest night, the terrifying darkness of the unknown realm. Shadowing Death, how sweet it would be to illuminate thee. Thou keepest many secrets.
This is an awful place, and the more it fills with death the less I steer my thoughts to that persistent fate. The end of life looms in certainty like only birth and sheer existence might, the first a flashing instant, the next a whisper in a sea of names. Always nigh, the shadow of what little light we bear into the darkened world so full of death flickers endlessly about us, and in this cavern no distraction serves to save from painful rumination.
Our deepest roots embed in nothingness, but somehow we that live were born, and what can happen once can happen twice. The grave may be the womb we cannot see. I find a peace in this. Perhaps as all, fair death is but a fleeting moment against time, a speck amidst.
But only time can tell.
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A Letter from Mayor Derm to the Mountainhomes, Department of Administrative AssistanceTo Whom It May Concern,
Greetings from Deathgate! We've learned a whole lot the past year, the data's enclosed in the accompanying package. Don't mind the rattling, that's just the bones. There's still a lot of work to do on the demons, and we haven't learned a whole lot we didn't already know. We did discover the ones made of fire can be safely hauled around, but turning them into weaponry is another story. Which brings me to the last assistant you sent. Great guy, really thorough, a good listener. Always willing to help out. Unfortunately, there was an accident and we're going to need a replacement.
Long story short, one of the weaponsmiths found a way to make a sword out of demon flames. We needed someone to test it and since Creiyd was nearby he offered to give it a shot. He had an adamantine gauntlet and figured it was safe enough to drop if it got too hot.
Let's be clear here, no matter what anyone tells you, adamantine isn't a great insulator. By the time I noticed the kid's hand was melting inside his glove he was already on fire, tearing up the stairs to the golden road, where he ran out of steam. We'll all miss him.
It took a few more dwarves to move the hot weapon down to the mid-level catacombs and drop it in a forbidden room where it can't hurt anyone else. It's one less problem to worry about now, but new ones are always popping out of the stonework, so I have to cut this letter short.
Deathgate has a small gremlin problem. We're cooking up a special version of gnomeblight out of some collected beast extract, but it's likely to be as poisonous to us as the gremlins and safety regulations are slowing us down. In the meantime, the miners say the magma flood will travel safely down the new staircase into a sealed reservoir, so all is well in that regard. Only thing we need is a new staircase, until we finish that Nether Cap Diving Suit.
Great Lun, how can it be Granite already? Wow, the years are getting short. Ah well. Cheers to the world of tomorrow!
* * *
Since I started my turn with, IIRC, just over two hundred dwarves, I managed to kill just over sixty of them. Not a single casualty survived the hospital, and our military is largely comprised of inexperienced recruits. My attempt at assaulting Hell and building inside having failed, I spent the rest of the turn digging new pathways for efficient movement and cleaned up as much of the refuse / corpses as I could. I tried extending the lava chute on the surface for cooking invaders but it needs more magma to be a proper killing machine.
Here's the save, thanks all for letting me play! Best of luck Ovg, and may you not be in dire need of it.
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Topic: Deathgate - And We Must Scream (Finished Succession Game) (Read 866517 times)