I managed to lose all but two pictures. The two coolest ones, anyway. This will be a more text-packed update.
Autumn has come. And with it, not many things. The human caravan left, and we all kept working on the arena. It is being engraved, and coffins are placed by the walls. It will serve as the resting place of our greatest heroes. Truly a place of wonders. I myself am still working on adamantine armour. When it is done, our glorious army shall be the greatest in the world!
With the departure of the humans, we are entering Stage Two of the Arena's construction: The Water cistern. It is a very risky plan, for we intend to use the water of the third cavern layer. If there are any sort of water-breathing beasts down there, our militia will have to deal with them. Thankfully, the fortress itself is not at danger of being flooded, since part of the Arena's floor is channeled out, allowing the water to drain into the magma sea.
The writing resumes sometime later, but it is not obvious when. A few pages are torn out.
A miner has drowned upon breaching the cavern's lake. Another had his lower spine broken by a rock falling on top of him. Nobody is helping him get to the hospital. He is making his way up the stairs, through the caverns, with fierce determination in his eyes. I wonder if our doctors will help. They should. They better do, or I swear I will strangle them with my own hands! What is with everyone here? If only I could se...The second half of the page is covered in some sort of blackish-reddish substance. Probably blood.
Our army... So many dead. So many dieing. They killed so many, with such elegance...Seriously, do I need to explain this pic?
He is owning half the siege in a martial trance, and his job is "Training Session"? Aww yeah!
yet they could not prevail. They were swarmed, and one by one, our great heroes fell. Only a bare fifteen of them survived. Fifteen of fifty. Such pointless bloodshed...
A sombre mood fell on the fortress. With the death of not only our army, but the dwarven caravan, it is hard to see hope in this place. I heard deathly wails last night. If I didn't know better, I would say it was a ghost.
A cheese maker attacked the rest of us today. He slammed his fist into Urist once, twice, thrice, before he got a spear in the neck. I feel no remorse for putting him down. He was a killer, a madman, and I will not tolerate that, even if I am but an armourer.Scorch marks make the next few pages unreadable.
Darkness. Outside and inside, all is dark. It is winter, not only in the world, but in our hearts too. Madness fills the corridors. Nobody is working any more. Some are tearing their hairs out, some are fighting. I am sitting in a corner, weeping at the fall of our glorious fort. But there is one dwarf who is not lost. A lowly craftsdwarf, he scours the fortress for the materials to fullfill his dream. Once he finds and gathers them, he gets to work furiously, as the fortress around him crumbles. From the fires it was born, named Tonegloves. A beautiful artifact, if it weren't for the time it was created.Seriously. In the middle of a tantrum spiral, one dwarf gets a mood, and makes this, dodging blows as he gathers the materials. Badass.
This has to stop. I have come to a decision. If I have to die, I will, but Icemachines must not. Those with most of their sanity intact shall be walled inside the food and drink stockpiles. The rest of us will die in the cleansing fires of madness.
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Topic: Icemachines, saving the world from starvation [SUCCESSION_FORT][NEED_OVERSEERS] (Read 33958 times)