((Sorry I took so ****ing long guys! But here it is. I spoilered my last entries for length.))
From the Journal of Yasten Nombesmar, BARON of Crewtowns, 7th Opal 192
Ahh, it seems the Mountainhomes have finally recognised all my good work! The liason was a bit of a
fool, though. "It is time we recognized your hard work,' they said. 'Whom would you recommend for the title
of Baron?" I could have knocked the fool's block off! I'm standing there, I who have worked my fingers to
the bone and shouted myself hoarse keeping this wretched place going, forming it into something more than a
hole in the ground, and this imbecile has the nerve to suggest anyone else could make a fitting
mayor?! I swiftly set him straight, and he hurriedly elected me and left, along with the trader's caravan.
Ah, yes, it is sweet to be commended for one's success. Work on the arena continues apace, one of the
viewing balconies is finished and furnished, and people already flock there to watch the progress. Now I
must simply finish the technical side of things, such as how prisoners will be released into the mean floor,
and then we shall christen my grand accomplishment with the blood of greenskins.
In related news, our chief glassmaker, Mebzuth Otungtirist, (Shockrim) has decided to celebrate my
appointment by making some magnificient creation from glass, the glass from the industry that I set up and
got moving. She is difficult on the details, however, she won't tell anyone a thing of her plans.
To be honest, I feel a strong need to finish the arena, the jewel in my throne, feather in my cap,
before the end of this year. The work, the hardship of running this as baron place has gotten to me.
Perhaps I shall simply retire, advising whomever takes my place from the comfort of my quarters, respected
and revered by all. But first, I shall finish my arena, which shall stand as testament to my greatness
across the ages.
The first fight shall be a trial of our newly-formed militia, whom I ordered drafted for menial soldierly
tasks, such as guarding the woodgatherers and such.
From the Journal of Yasten Nombesmar, Baron of Crewtowns, 17th Obsidian 192
Curses! The damned machinery for the arena is taking longer than I expected to complete!
No matter how I yell at the mechanics, they keep bumbling about, muttering under their breath about
'connections' and 'mechanisms' or 'finely crafted mechanisms', and it seems little gets done.
At least, I think it's just about complete now. The goblins are set in the holding area, and our newly-
formed squad, The Unseen Works, await in the arena floor for their first trial, their baptism in fire...
Or blood, as it were.
Also... Since attaining this position, I have a sudden, inexplicable apprehension. This arena is not enough!
No, I need a greater, true legacy! I need a tomb, for all to remember me by.
But for now, I'm off to kick a few mechanic's buttocks to hurry them up.
From the Journal of Yasten Nombesmar, Baron of Crewtowns, 26th Obsidian 192
Damnit! Damn damn damn, a plague of haemorroids on all lazy mechanics! Hurry up, you fools!
At least, they tell me they are almost done. Just one more cage to be linked, or some such. The new recruits
complain that they feel foolish, standing there in the arena before the audience, doing nothing, but I tell
them to hush, soon they shall be heroes!
In other, sadder news, poor young Mebzuth has given up on her planned creation of glass, sighing and saying
she did not have suitable materials. We complied to her every order, buying stacks of leather, glass, gems
and stone from the merchants, but it was no more satisfactory than our own.
I shall miss her... While I wouldn't exactly call us 'friends', she has always been behind my plans of
window-making one hundered percent. It helps that she was our only skilled glassmaker, too...
Once we have the arena made, I can finally have a tomb made. Oh, how I ache in this long, harsh winter...
I am getting old. Sometimes I ask, 'Limar, how much more time have you given me? How long shall I live?',
But I am answered only by silence, and the mocking expressions of the figures carved upon my walls.
Mistem Etesteral comforts me, though. She is truly a fine contrast to my own outlook... They say opposites
attract, well she is edgy, uncertain and generally unsociable, in polar opposition to my own magnamious
self, but we get along like a band of elves on fire.
She calms me down, and for that I am grateful. Still, I shall not truly be relaxed until the arena, and my
tomb, are finished.
From the Journal of Yasten Nombesmar, Baron of Crewtowns, 2nd Granite 193
I give up. Another can have this cursed position in this cursed place.
My arena was completed. It was to be my moment of glory, the pinnacle of my success, a great battle between
the latest additions to our fearsome military, and two vile, hated goblin captives. Blade against blade,
they would dance for our amusement, spilling blood to honour the gods.
The lever was pulled, battle was joined, and...
Disaster! I would not have minded some casualties, as long as they went out in a suitably heroic fashion.
Plenty more peasants where they came from, anyway. But alas, the bumbling fools did not manage to so much as
scratch the superior of the two goblins, and only scored a few cuts and bruises on the other.
In return, all have recieved most-likely crippling injuries, with the exception of that scumbag Olin
Lolokzagod, who disgraced himself by trying to flee, running back and forth about the arena's walls as his
friends were cut to pieces.
This last failure is too much, too much. I have weathered much hardship, but such a blow, a crushing blow to
my very dignity, and insult such as this, I cannot bear. I suppose I shall just wander the hallways in
defeat, until some other dwarf wishes to take my office from me.
Go ahead. I do not want it anymore. Perhaps I shall devote my newly-freed time to courting Mistem? May as
well, I suppose.
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Topic: Crewtowns: A direforged succession game (Needing more players) (Read 34886 times)