I have an idea: how about do side stories for the B12er's who have dwarves?
((An update on everyone extravaganza! That is what I will do. After this. I have been reinvigorated.))
Meanwhile, in a Different Place, Some Time Earlier:
Aban Brothertreaties pulled herself over the edge of the cliff face and collapsed on the dirt there. She’d finally found it, she was sure... The mountains were shaped right, the piles of refuse scattered in the valleys below smelled the same as when she had left... She had made it. She was back in the Mountainhomes.
She stood up, looked around, and saw ruin.
Aban stared. She stared for a solid minute, and nothing changed.
She was home, all right. The massive granite pillars that lined the entry way were still there, huge and immovable (wrong, actually, one had fallen). The steel gateway, standing thirty dwarf heights high, still stood mostly, though the right door caved in and warped.
The walls of the cliffs had been blackened by smoke from some tremendous fire, and enormous blocks had come tumbling down onto the grand road that lead into the mountains.
And if that isn’t enough to convince you that something terrible has happened, Aban thought, the mounds of skeletons might just do it. You didn't need to look too close at them to see that they were dwarfs. Something had gone wrong, horribly, horribly wrong. Aban sat down heavily, feeling numb.
It was then that she heard the voice.
“
Awaken, oh sleeper!”
She looked around. There was no one who could have spoken, unless skeletons had learned to talk, a point she wasn’t going to dismiss right now.
“Um... hello?”
There was a pause. Smoke continued to billow around the shattered doors in a halfhearted sort of way.
“Listen.” said the voice, “Could we start over? I had kind of planned this based on the idea you would be sleeping.”
“Ah.” She stood up, noting as she did that she had accidentally sat on a rather large skull. “Well, I guess?”
“Excellent.” The voice did not clear its throat, but it did wait as if thinking, before saying “
Stand, oh seeker, and hear the voice of your god! You have been blessed and chosen for a great quest, and-“
“I’m already standing.” Aban began uncertainly, before the voice bellowed.
“
Silence before me for I am your god!”
“You are?” So you’ve gone mad, Aban. Might as well go with it. “ Well, which one?”
“I... I’m Tholtig, woman. I’m your damn god.” The voice had lost it’s echoey quality and just become irritated. “Listen, I need you to go back whatever hole you came from."
“Oceanbridge?”
“Really? That’s goo- I mean, yes. Go back there, and when you get there, I need you to do something very, very important... Er, I mean...
Listen, Insignificant One, to the words of Tholtig, God of Fortresses!”
((To be concluded))
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((Back to real business...))
From the Memoirs of Wilberforce Amber RopenourishedDear readers, I’m speaking to you for the first time, not as the leader of an expedition, but as a simple civilian. There’s been a change of leadership in Oceanbridge, and I’m still attempting to understand the issue.
I first heard the news when the normally taci... taci... What’s the word? Tactical, perhaps.
The normally quiet Mr. Anderson approached me in my office and informed me that he would require finer quarters and an office of his own. I politely responded that this would be impossible, as he had neither the rank nor skill to request such a thing. His response was that he did have the rank, as the office of mayor, which he had been voted in to, entitled him to not only a fine office, but a dining room as well.
From Balnash and Karakzon I’ve heard that this is a part of our home’s founding charter. One can’t imagine why. This voting business seems like a tremendous waste to me, but I shall respect the result. I have handed over the mantle of leadership to our Mr. Anderson, and I hope that it does not prove to heavy for him.
I suppose that I should thank the gods that it wasn’t Dr. Killpatient in my office.
One other item of note: the trapped yak whom some expected to replace Peacespray in our hearts has been stricken by a deep depression.
I’m not sure how we know that, but Professor Featherlog assures me that it is so. Possibly he was brought down by the weight of expectations.
.......................
Introducing Mr. Anderson:The soldiers of Oceanbridge were busy training when Mr. Anderson stopped by.
Mr. Anderson wasn’t the sort of dwarf people noticed. He blended in to the background. His hair and beard were immaculately trimmed and combed, and he walked with the aid of a cane sometimes, but aside from that most people thought of him as Professor Featherlog’s bodyguard. It had surprised almost everyone when he was elected mayor.
He watched the training for some time, unnoticed. Two of the newest recruits were staging a mock fight with obsidian swords. They were
very new recruits. It wasn’t much to look at.
Finally, Mr. Anderson stepped between them. Both had swung their swords, and both swords met Mr. Anderson’s steel cane with a loud clang.
“Stop.” He removed the cane, and pointed at one of the stunned recruits. “Who are you, and what are you doing.”
The recruit recovered quickly. He saluted, saying “Orcrist, sir! Just training with my friend the Counselor here.”
Mr. Anderson looked him up and down, and then said “No.” He paused. “You’re all starting a new training regimen. No fighting dummies or each other. You will fight real enemies.” He pointed to the ceiling. “The arena is above us. I have put Ferric Elves, Stranglers, Goblins and wild beasts there. In two weeks, you will all fight them.” He smiled, or at least his lips moved. “This was my training. It will be yours.”
Orcrist grinned. "Yes sir! I've been wanting to cleave a few goblins in two with my sword!"
"You shall have your chance."
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Next: The First (Real) Arena Battle, and Dwarf Story Number 1
((Did you know that hijinks is defined as "lively enjoyment"? I like that. Also big thanks again to everyone reading and posting. You are all the best.))