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Knockknees posted:...or perhaps, when they think about it, its been quite longer than a week.. I'm going with "Bronzestabbed is three and a half years behind on important missing child paperwork." (And other paperwork.)
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Apr 10, 2013 17:32
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Bronzestabbed died.
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Apr 10, 2013 18:17
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TildeATH posted:Bronzestabbed died. ... I only made one update... 
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Apr 10, 2013 18:21
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May I have the gender of the newborn ToriasKane, please? Also holy poo poo pickled tink's name is bronzestabbed! How did nobody notice this before?
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Apr 10, 2013 18:31
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Leperflesh posted:May I have the gender of the newborn ToriasKane, please? It's in the post! The newborn ToriasKane is a beautiful girl. And... uh. I don't know. But I think we just lost the child of the prophecy or something.
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Apr 10, 2013 18:35
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Oh, yeah, the announcement screenshot has the gender, dur. Also, in all fairness, Tickled Pink did sass the hell out of the overseer. Kid deserved to at least be grounded for that. Maybe not grounded for 3+ years, though, but we must remember, dwarven justice is harsh. Leperflesh fucked around with this message at 19:06 on Apr 10, 2013 |
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Apr 10, 2013 19:04
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I'd feel worse about not noticing Pickled Tink's last name if 10 or so previous overseers hadn't failed to notice as well.
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Apr 10, 2013 19:54
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Leperflesh posted:Also holy poo poo pickled tink's name is bronzestabbed! How did nobody notice this before?
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Apr 11, 2013 01:23
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Pickled Tink literally did nothing during my whole update. TildeATH on the other hand sassed me, so he deserved his fate.
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Apr 11, 2013 01:42
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Did the namesake of the fortress just die? Good job, everyone! This is surely a good omen! 
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Apr 11, 2013 03:59
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 The Fifteenth Histories of Bronzestabbed a work of unknown providence, but possibly by the author of "Daddy, Why Am I Growing A Second Beard Down There? A Chief Medical Dwarf Explains The Facts Of Life To Your Dwarven Child" CHAPTER TWO The Sad Fate of Pickled Tink; Tiny Turtle Dreams; The Mayor's Mandate; A Butcher Does His Part; Insanity; Death of a Farmer  Let us, dear readers, imagine that you are a grieving parent. Your child is lost. Missing. Killed by a madman. That man has seen punishment for his crimes; you saw the bridge open beneath his feet and watched him burn in the magma below. There is no hope, you are told. The diagnostician comes by with the news. Your child is dead, of starvation, or madmen, or lava. They are very certain. It is medical science. He died of Overseers. You hold out hope that, one day, your child may return.  Nope. Not happening. Then, three and a half years later, a missing person announcement comes. Imagine the horror. Imagine the pain, and the old wounds opening up again. Fortunately, of course, Pickled Tink's parents had long since departed this mortal coil. Nonetheless, the death announcement still caused confusion for the better part of an hour until everybody remembered "Oh, right, THAT Pickled Tink" and called off the manhunt.  The night after the mysterious paperwork incident was a night full of other, equally mysterious activity. There is a great deal of mysterious activity in a proper Dwarven fortress at night. Night is the time of Tithleth Dreamyriddles, who spins a web of darkness like a cave spider over the fortress. In the morning, the Dwarves must answer her Riddles. Failure to answer riddles correctly leads to what the Dwarves call "The Worst Prize." The manager Tiny Turtle dreamed in her bedroom, clutching an infant to her chest. She had signed the Missing Persons paperwork absentmindedly this afternoon while trying to catch up on overdue paperwork. She was so tired, so very tired. With no overseer, the paperwork was backed up. Leperfish tried to help, of course, but he was so busy counting everything in the fortress and generally worrying about the Rising Darkness that some things just didn't get done. Under "Last Name" on the Missing Persons form, she had simply put down "Bronzestabbed", for such was Pickled Tink's last name. More fittingly, he was a dwarf of the people. He had lived as a child, but he had died like a dwarf. Perhaps the future of the Fortress died with him that day, dear reader, but if so I'm not going to tell you. Yet.  She couldn't help but feel that she had forgotten some important paperwork, but it probably didn't matter. The mayor, WeaponBoy Idenag, was also in his room. He considered the slabwork of his decree very, very carefully. He had just come back from a meeting with the Queen, Sankis, Her Bearded Radiance. The conversation would not, could not, leave the throne room. He... wasn't sure what to think. He had seen the coffins, though he knew not whose bodies would fill them. He hoped he was worthy, that he was a good mayor, and that he would live to see the day when the fortress of Bronzestabbed rose above the darkness and cried out, to Armok himself, "Here we are! We are Dwarves!" Like any good politician, he also hoped he could claim credit for it somehow when he ran for office next. In the mean time, he knew he had to prepare. The ballistas were all that were keeping the Fortress safe from the Evil Without. It was vital that the Evil Without would be guarded against, while the dwarves of Bronzestabbed sought to purge the Evil Within.  Under no circumstances, as long as he was Mayor, would a ballista part ever leave the Fortress again.  The butcher Calhanol Memadiden strode through the halls with a purpose in his eye. He had heard the talk that had spread through the fortress like wildfire. All dwarves will be Judged by their Actions. What could he, a lowly butcher, do? He thought of Zergle, trapped in his workshop, slowly going madder and madder with every passing moment. The notes from the woodcutter had gotten more and more frantic, with the last one being the worst of all: written in dwarf blood, his blood, and simply reading "the ancestors are very disappointed with everybody." The note before that... the note before that had asked for skeletons. There was only one thing to do.  Fortunately, he was very good at doing that one thing.  All dwarves would be Judged by their Actions.  Zergle stirred from his workbench. Maybe it was not too late. There were bones again in the Fortress. He felt them. Gander bones, hollow bones, ready to be bent to his vision. He staggered out of the workshop like a Dwarf being exposed to the sunlight, slowly teetering down the hallway. Maybe it was not too late. Maybe...  ... no. Not like this. Never like this. Zergle collapsed in the Hall of Crafts, sinking to his knees. Tears streamed down his beard. All was sadness. All was lost. The visions were fading. There was nothing left but sadness.  Elsewhere in the fortress, the echoes of sadness spread. The farmer Woozelz Erushgur had staggered into another pit full of animals in cages, with much the same thought as Calhanol. Kill something. Get its bones. Get the bones to the workshop. The sadness washed over him like a wave. He felt the Rising Dark pass through his body, and he felt it empty him out like a stone mug full of sewer brew. Perhaps it was the judgement that the Queen had spoke of. Perhaps he was not fast enough, perhaps he was too bogged down in the depths of his despair. And he was suddenly thirsty. So very, very thirsty.  The animals began to squawk in their cages as the farmer collapsed to the ground. Let us, dear reader, not dwell on Woozelz' sad fate, nor the fate of Pickled Tink, or the ever-growing melancholy of the woodcutter Zergle, for this is nothing compared to what was to come. One rock coffin is full. Twenty-nine remain. nvining fucked around with this message at 06:34 on Apr 11, 2013 |
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Apr 11, 2013 05:49
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This update is ominous. 
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Apr 11, 2013 11:15
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It menaces with spikes of dog leather and woe.
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Apr 11, 2013 12:01
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SynthOrange posted:This update is ominous. Yes, yes indeed. I honestly don't know what happened to that farmer; he just collapsed in a pen full of animals, dying of thirst. I'm guessing melancholy of some sort. EDIT: Ah yes, I see from the Dwarf List that he previously went insane. I must have missed that update somewhere. Well, it's still sort of appropriate that our current insane melancholic dwarf dies as soon as we get a new one.
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Apr 11, 2013 22:06
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It's a ciiiircle, a circle of melancholic dehydration.
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Apr 11, 2013 23:49
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nvining posted:Yes, yes indeed. Oh. maybe he was the soldier that went insane for no reason in my last update. Also if you want to save the guy in the lower hospital, you'll need to assign him to a squad (or since he's already maybe in a squad, find it in the Military window), and set the squad to "Sleep in own room at will" by cycling through the s options. Dwarf Fortressssss. Edit: Oh, I'm so depressed. Now someone else is depressed too. Life just isn't worth living, woooooeeee *dies*
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Apr 12, 2013 00:21
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Veloxyll posted:Also if you want to save the guy in the lower hospital ... why would I do that? I still have to fill twenty-nine coffins.
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Apr 12, 2013 01:41
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I keep thinking I should sign myself up again for Overseership. And then this happens. Don't stop. Don't ever stop.
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Apr 12, 2013 03:47
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The Fifteenth Histories of Bronzestabbed a chronicle of unknown provenance, but possibly written by SOMEBODY IN THIS VERY ROOM Also, one of you will die tonight. CHAPTER THREE Grim Duty of an Architect; The Naming of Dwarves; Strike the Earth; A Royal Mandate; Vomit; Mr. Showtime's Wild Ride; Vomit, and Also Death; A Trader Considers the Economic Problems of Water Necromancers; Some Migrants Have Arrived; The Taste of Duck, from the Old Country Dear readers, turn away now if you are not willing to hear of the gravest duties of an architect. At some point, a Dwarf comes to a new Fortress with dreams of grand architecture in his head. He will construct new buildings, he will make enormous glass greenhouses, he will construct the best MegaProjects that Dwarfkind has ever seen. Slowly, reality sets in. The fortress endures, but there will be no MegaProjects this year. There will be no new workshops constructed, no new windmills, no new track lines. All there is, is the construction of coffins, and the burying of bodies.  The architect 'Athanboros' Uzolal surveyed her work with a grim pride. It may not be the most exciting project she'd ever worked on, he noted, but at least she had the satisfaction of a job well done.  In the days when Leperfish first came to Bronzestabbed, it was proclaimed that all Dwarves should take a Secret Name, so that they would be protected. Names have power, dear readers. Names have such power. It has been said that you can tell a lot by a dwarf's Secret Name. The Secret Name, they say, reveals the character of the dwarf within.  Well, alright then. But why were there no spinels? Why were the miners hauling blocks and constructing roads? This was no work for a dwarf. Dwarves knew only digging, the constant digging, until finally somebody opened a deceptively hollow vein of adamantium and then they knew only death. The miners, left to the own devices, knew what they must do. Strike tunnels again. Take up the --=copper pickaxe=-- and hew new roads. There were levels to be dug. It would be a long, hard year without an overseer, and they needed to provide wealth for all.  Once again, strike the earth.  Elsewhere, the Queen continued to mandate that no ballista arrow would ever leave the fortress. Ballistas were to be stored here, in Bronzestabbed, where they could never fall into the wrong hands.  Dear reader, do not believe for an instant that a 'nematode' is a real thing. Trust me, for I am a writer and I know big words like this. There are no such things as nematodes. Nematodes. Hah! You might as well believe in Water Necromancers, dear reader. Yes. Water Necromancers. Since there is clearly no such thing as a nematode, the Dwarves of Bronzestabbed relaxed. Besides which, it could never get into the fortress anyway. Everything in Bronzestabbed was Perfectly Safe.  Down below the surface of the mines, the glassmaker Archaeology Hat may have been a Water Necromancer. He was certainly creepy enough. Other dwarves were starting to say things. He may, in fact, also have been curiously obsessed with the cataloguing of his own bodily fluids. There he sat, in his glassworks, holding a collection of tiny test tubes, each made of purest glittering glass. On his workbench, a sample of finest vomit. From this, he imagined, he would fashion a weapon. A powerful weapon, made entirely of chemicals and vomit, that would wreak havoc upon his enemies. All dwarves shall be judged by their actions, dear readers, but some dwarves invite significantly more judgement than others.  Mr. Showtime, meanwhile, was looking for something to do. There was metalwork to be done, but a strange urge led him to unearth an old minecart from a stockpile where it lay. He considered the circular minecart tracks in the middle of the fortress, which went from the top down to the Hidden Magma Forges that Everyone Knew About. Perhaps he could spare some time to get the minecarts working again? Did they ever work? He was no Mechanic, no Siege Engineer, but he was smart and he could work with metal as well as the rest of them.  It was the Trader Federico de Soya who first noticed the dead body of Duckbill as it lay in an abandoned bedroom. By the looks of it, Duckbill had died as he had lived: thirstily.  For a moment, Federico de Soya genuinely considered collecting the body and selling it to somebody. After all, there were people who would pay for dehydrated dwarf parts. He knew people. Body parts for sale would keep the fortress safe from necromancers for yet another year. Another dwarf dead, and by mysterious dehydration. Maybe this was the true nature of Water Necromancy. It had been many years since an Overseer concerned himself with Water Necromancy, and the banning of its practices. Federico wondered if, perhaps, they had been too lenient. Should they Heed? He decided to check the drinks stockpile.  Armok curse them all, there WERE Water Necromancers. Steps would have to be taken. The presence of vomit in the room was also troubling. There had been so much vomit in the fortress lately. The alcohol without, still stored in barrels, was dwindling fast; the alcohol within the dwarf's body was bursting forth through the seems, having Gone Too Far. What was happening?  Dear reader, some migrants have arrived, despite the danger. The dangers did not include nematodes, which do not possibly exist, and Water Necromancers, which are figments of a Dwarf's deranged imagination (but should still be Heeded, if only for purposes of morale.) The dangers probably include vomit. Let us now, dear readers, consider just precisely what the fortress of Bronzestabbed will be exporting to the traders this year.  A full accounting of the migrants shall occur in the next chapter, for now we shall consider this happy gentleman. He bought his duck with him to the fortress. How nice for him. The duck never tastes as good, he says to anybody who will listen, as it does when you raise the duck back in the old country. Back in the Mountainhome. This winter, he shall feast on the duck eggs and duck tripe, and they shall taste good, and he shall tell any who shall listen that this is what duck should taste like. But, dear reader, this is the Mountainhome now. And soon, nothing shall taste good to this dwarf any more.
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Apr 12, 2013 08:39
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Nvining, always put this at the end of your update, thanks  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rY0WxgSXdEE
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Apr 12, 2013 08:50
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Dear Reader, here is a brief compendium of the migrants who arrived during the month of Sandstone in the year 247. Do not get too attached to them, for they shall all probably die soon. MisterFuzzles, who comes to us as a noble Woodworker.  The Whaler, one who burns the wood and does absolutely nothing to do with whaling. Perhaps the wood is her whale, dear reader. Perhaps she will not rest until she burns it all, and perhaps the last words, sputtering out of her mouth at the End of Days, when the darkness finally rises to claim Bronzestabbed, shall be 'gently caress. The. Elves.'  Clockwork Cupcake, the engraver.  You may ask, my faithful reader: what does Clockwork Cupcake engrave? Bodies, apparently:  brian obel, a Strand Extractor. We have nothing to say about strand extraction, save that it is serious business.  The farmer Valtis, who shall grow the grains to keep the fortress of Bronzestabbed truly and utterly hammered.  Noble Aximus, a Thresher. Whatever that is.  The trader Vault Vanderhuge, who was blessed with an auspicious name for a trader. Who amongst us, dear readers, does not wish our vault to be Vanderhuge? (The word 'vanderhuge' descends from the Highest Tongue, and refers to 'having a vault like a well-manicured beard.' Nobody is quite sure what this is, but all dwarves want one.)  Finally, Nevermore is but a humble Peasant, doomed to a life of hauling things and then probably a sudden death.  Welcome to Bronzestabbed!
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Apr 12, 2013 09:00
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nvining posted:
A truly pesantly fate for anydwarf to aspire to. And I just suggested the hospital thing in case you wanted to mix things up by not killing a dwarf due to his own incompetence. quote:Welcome to Bronzestabbed!
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Apr 12, 2013 09:18
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Jesus Christ, dude. I'm suddenly kind of anxious.
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Apr 12, 2013 09:30
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Claven666 posted:Jesus Christ, dude. I'm suddenly kind of anxious. ... *you're* anxious? I'm the one who has to keep this death trap running. There's about three things going to go wrong this winter. All at once. Whee!
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Apr 12, 2013 23:06
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Perfectly Safe.
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Apr 12, 2013 23:19
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^ Username/post combo!nvining posted:... *you're* anxious? I'm the one who has to keep this death trap running. Whelp, look like Queen Sankis should have planned more than 30 coffins.
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Apr 12, 2013 23:51
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nvining posted:Welcome to Bronzestabbed! Hope you like
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Apr 13, 2013 00:27
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Iceclaw posted:^ Username/post combo! The worst part is that the construction order was complete, so I put it in the story, and then I noticed that we'd actually used 27 of the 30 coffins already. So I had place ANOTHER order for 30 more coffins just so we could have 30 coffins to fill later. It's not easy having a good time. EDIT: Well, so much for *those* thirty coffins: 
nvining fucked around with this message at 02:04 on Apr 13, 2013 |
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Apr 13, 2013 00:45
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Thankfully I am an unskilled axe dwarf now. I got this thing. Everyone stand back.
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Apr 13, 2013 02:22
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nvining posted:The worst part is that the construction order was complete, so I put it in the story, and then I noticed that we'd actually used 27 of the 30 coffins already. Yeah, the peril of Work Orders is that sometimes, sometimes you use 90% of the crafted goods before the order is complete. I still quite like them as a management mechanic though.
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Apr 13, 2013 04:07
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Could the dehydration and vomiting be caused by a forgotten beast's syndrome spreading throughout the fortress?
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Apr 13, 2013 04:31
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NinjaNerd posted:Could the dehydration and vomiting be caused by a forgotten beast's syndrome spreading throughout the fortress? Oh god, I wish it was Nolio.  Water necromancers is a pretty good second guess.The vomit, as far as I can tell, is due to light sensitivity. All the military rushes out to deal with a Forgotten Beast or Brush Titan or whatever, then everybody goes back inside and immediately vomits over EVERYTHING. Normally I like to do fortress builds with central lighting around a main staircase to prevent this sort of thing, but then I also like to make elaborate water features. Since we have a full compliment of actively rotating military units, there's a *lot* of people throwing up. It's AWESOME. The dehydration is mainly due to a) depressed, suicidal dwarves forgetting to drink; b) some guy getting trapped in a hospital bed by some kind of Dwarf Logic gently caress-up. I was going to fix it after The Previous Administration mentioned it, but I was sort of "now where is that guy who's dying in a hospital be-... oh, there he is."
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Apr 13, 2013 05:00
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Don't fix it. Seems to be a running theme for this fort. Like gemclod had the missing fingers.
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Apr 13, 2013 06:29
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it took me two dwarves dying to the same thing to figure it out. It's kind of a dumb thing.
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Apr 13, 2013 06:32
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The Fifteenth Histories of Bronzestabbed a chronicle of unknown provenance, by the author of "HEED! A Critical Study of Overseeing In Modern Dwarven Society" CHAPTER FOUR The Reader is Warned; Examples of Dwarven Political Art; More Water Necromancy; Caravan; A Vile Force of Darkness; A Brave Recruit; Battle Is Joined; Dang Cursedream; The Queen's Rage; The Dwarf Who Could Not Escape Her Fate; A Planter Tills The Soil; The List of the Dead; The Queen's New Plan; Winter Has Come Be warned, dear reader, this chapter contains so much death. So. Much. Death. You would do well to not read this document. You would be well to put down the book, to not concern yourself with the terrible fate of the dwarves of Bronzestabbed, and to read something peaceful and cheery like "Happy Time Adventures in an Elf Treehouse" or something else light and jolly. Reading these words, knowing the truths about Bronzestabbed, about the fate of the dwarves, and about what befell the Mountainhome, will scar your mind. It will crack your brain like an egg, and leave it like a yolk scrambled upon a griddle. Still, you have decided to ignore my advice. Very well, dear reader, but be warned: they always ignore my advice, and they always regret it. The Reader Is Warned.  Let us, noble reader, consider the matter of dwarven political artwork. The following selection of engravings have survived the fall of Bronzestabbed, and were recovered by bold Adventurers who dared descend into the ruins to bring us these works of art. In all cases, these were found in the Great Hall of Burial. In all cases, the artwork concerns matters of politics. The dwarves reject their leaders, their leaders are confused.  Such is life.  Why do the Dwarves reject their leaders, dear reader? Perhaps it is because, for the most part, their leaders are insane, inept, or mad. Precious resources are squandered on futile MegaProjects, while pressing crisises affect the Dwarves. Dwarven justice, fickle at best, hammers the innocent and lets the guilty live until a crowd demands the Justice of the Bridge and the Magma, the only justice which is left.  Why do the Dwarves reject their leaders, dear reader?  Perhaps it is because the fortress of Bronzestabbed has two hundred and seventy four dwarves, and now only three hundred and fifty odd drinks left. Was it water necromancy that caused the drinks to disappear, dear reader?  Was it water necromancy that caused the maddened Zergle to finally succumb to a terrible, thirsty death? No. It was but the actions of their leaders. Thus it has always been, ever since the first Dwarven Overseer wrestled the secret of Fun from the Gods and was forever cursed with Fun in return.  The arrival of a trading caravan in the fall promised some hope. The trader Frederico De Soya desperately hoped they had cloth and booze, pig tail seeds and clothing, enough to get them through the winter and into the spring. Imagine, dear reader, that you are a Caravan. You drive up to the fortress of Bronzestabbed, the mountainhome, and are greeted by... well, by whatever the hell this is:  A collection of bones, skin, vomit, forgotten beast body parts, more vomit, more body parts, and for some reason a collection of statues, most of which concern themselves with mosquitoes. Welcome to Bronzestabbed! Still, the traders thought, there was Profit here to be made. The wealth of Bronzestabbed would be taken back to their homes, cleaned extremely thoroughly, and their lives would be enriched.  The Trader Frederico de Soya thought that this was what was good about global trade. He made himself a new sock in anticipation of meeting with the traders, with what little cloth was left in the fortress. It was important to be put on a good show. Restrictionists be damned, trade was... What in the name of Armok's taint was that? Oh no, dear reader. Oh, no.  Dear reader, a vile force of darkness has arrived. You might think, perhaps, that this is no big deal. Perhaps the noble dwarves of Bronzestabbed would live out the day in glory and triumph, perhaps...    No, dear reader, let me not deceive you with happy little lies. You have chosen to read on, you have chosen to hear The Histories. You have chosen to understand the true nature of the Rising Dark, and you have chosen to have your mind opened.  The great militaries of Bronzestabbed were not, perhaps, what they once were. Still, the marksmen had aim both strong and true, and the swords and axes were still ready to be wielded in Bronzestabbed's glory. With many a cry of "Equipment Mismatch!", they charged into battle. Dear reader, we must admit at this point that there have been more effective rallying cries.  The first dwarf on the scene was 'Reverence' Ilralgikut. She did not wait for the rest of her squadron to arrive, but charged forth into battle. She had the terrible misfortune to encounter a great and powerful enemy, dear readers: Dang Cursedream, the goblin who would later be known in the histories as the Crystalline Reward of Plague. The fight was nasty, brutish and short.  Many dwarves fell that day, dear reader. So many, many dwarves. Battle was joined, and it was fierce.    Queen Sankis could be seen storming through the fortress. "Why are they not firing the ballistas?" she yelled to anyone who could hear. "Everybody, fire the ballistas!" Unfortunately, as the mayor pointed out, the ballistas were only effective if the invading army happened to line up directly in front of them. The attackers elected for a much simpler strategy of not going anywhere near the ballistas and simply attacking dwarves as they scrambled for the burrows. The Queen cursed all dwarves, dear readers, but especially siege engineers. Also, for good measure, fish dissectors. (A fish dissector, dear reader, is only one step away from a water necromancer and therefore not to be trusted. What do they do?) Many dwarves showed what they were made of that day, dear readers, and all will be Judged for their Actions.  'Rain' Athelsarek, Axedwarf, had seen her husband 'Zergle' die of thirst and madness. She went down fighting, for Bronzestabbed. Clockwork Cupcake only wanted a simple life of peace. She wished to flee the tragedies of her past, and the eighty-three things that she had killed. She held onto her trophies to remind her of the painful, terrible past. When she heard the call, she knew she was a doomed dwarf.  You can never escape the past, dear reader. In the midst of battle, she sighted him. Dang Cursedream, who would later be known to the historians as the Crystalline Reward of Plague. Clockwork Cupcake had faced many enemies in her life. She had defeated a vile woman. She had conquered many foes, and had fought for the survival, not only of the Rare Ship, but for all dwarves. But yet, as her strength failed her, she did not know why she had fallen this day.  The planter 'Tarox' Gearsmoothedness was not a military dwarf. He was but a simple dwarf of the soil, a humble planter. But upon that day, he seized the nearest weapon at hand and charged. Fortunately for Tarox, it was an adamantium shortsword. And thus, Dang Cursedream fell. Where one warrior falls, another will take up the charge. 'gbuchold' Steeltwinkles was but a young dwarf, born a mere sixteen years ago. He charged the goblin Atu Monstrousreigned next to the more experienced 'Jazzimus' Dumatromlam, and together they fought. The goblin Atu Monstrousreigned, dear readers, bashed both their heads in with an iron shield and stood cackling over their bodies.  'Chickenfrogdwarf' may not have been a hammerer any more, but when he saw the filthy goblin Atu Monstrousreigned, he knew how to dispense dwarven justice. He took aim with his crossbow and fired.  'Potato Jones' Thobisan knew his armour would keep the dwarves of Bronzestabbed safe. In the midst of battle, he knew that armour alone would not withstand the forces of the Evil Without; instead, he must craft something superior. A piece of armour that was not just a a piece of armour, but a statement, a symbol, that dwarves would rise up and rally around and cry out, unto the heavens, "We are Dwarves! Today is not our day to Lose!" Perhaps something like a ++*copper high boot*++ with some dog bone stuck to it... Nobody noticed when he slunk away from the field of battle and claimed a magma forge. Nobody noticed when his eyes started to burn with The Time.  Dear Reader, we include a list of the dead at this point. May their souls rest with whichever God they believe in. 'Reverence' Ilralgikut, Recruit 'rzal' Zithisthikut, Miner 'Maugrum' Boardburned, Militia Captain 'Chaosfeather' Bardumasob, Stonecrafter 'Clockwork Cupcake', Axedwarf 'Tias' Lorbamnekut, Fishery Worker 'Ohtsam' Lecadlogem, Swordsdwarf 'Deceitful Penguin', Stakuddesis 'Nidhhogg' Nimarletmos, Recruit 'Jazzimus' Dumatromlam, Recruit 'gbuchold' Steeltwinkles, Recruit 'Pokey' Obokfikod, Recruit 'SilentW' Nisgakkadol, Recruit 'Rain' Athelsarek, Axedwarf 'Ikubi Akius' Katthiralath, Hammerdwarf 'DoubleDonut' Eribfikuk, Miner Let us not forget the names of the dead, dear reader, nor how bravely they fought for Bronzestabbed. How they suffered, and died, for the Mountainhome. They lived, and died, like Dwarves.    One by one, the dwarves of Bronzestabbed beat off the invaders. Don't look at me, dear readers, I am a writer and must use the words the muse tells me.  In the midst of the confusion, a Thief tried to make off with trade goods. He was quickly to find that it was the wrong day to mess with the dwarves of Bronzestabbed.  One group of goblins remained, stationed to the east of the Fortress. Dwarves would find themselves suddenly stopping what they were doing to be distracted by their loud taunts and cries. The mayor of Bronzestabbed, WeaponBoy, found himself stopped in the hallway by his Queen. "In the Winter of the year 247," he muttered apologetically in the Highest Speech, "the mayor of Bronzestabbed expressed his regrets concerning the Loss of Dwarven Life." He wasn't sure how this was going to look to the voters, either - but probably not good. The Queen was having none of his veiled etiquette. "Goblins," she muttered. "Destroy them. Publically." "How?" asked the mayor, who just wanted nothing more than to go curl up in his nice office and drink heavily. He found that he didn't care much about anything any more, and found that Her Majesty's quiet mutterings were probably responsible for this condition. "First," said Sankis, "You must build something."  Then, wordlessly, Sankis handed over a stone slab. WeaponBoy looked at the plans and smiled.  Yes, he thought. This would do nicely.  It would be a cruel, cruel Winter indeed, dear readers, for the tragedy we have seen so far is nothing compared to what was to come. The Enemy Without had been defeated, but at a terrible price. But what of the Enemy Within...? (Dear readers, we have been reminded that we are requested to end every single post with a musical number now. We hope you will find this appropriate: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YRbqdABXGBM) nvining fucked around with this message at 07:48 on Apr 13, 2013 |
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Apr 13, 2013 07:43
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 Why do we even build fortresses?
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Apr 13, 2013 12:57
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Wouldn't it be more worthwhile to wait for them and shoot ballistas into their faces? Anyways, loving your writing!
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Apr 13, 2013 14:47
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So, this is going to sound funny, but: there's no "Jazzimus" on the Dwarfing List. Presumably, he dwarfed himself at the start of his Overseership... but probably didn't mention that in any update, and also I didn't realize he'd done it, or that his name wasn't on the dwarfing list anyway. And now he's dead. So, hey Jazzimus, could you please put yourself on the dwarfing list, so I can move you up (I'll have to figure out which migration wave you came in on), dwarf you, and then turn your name red and record the manner of your demise?
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Apr 13, 2013 19:33
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Camoes posted:Wouldn't it be more worthwhile to wait for them and shoot ballistas into their faces? That's what happens when you have no overseer and dwarfs have to decide what to do for themselves. Dwarfs are drunken little retards. Most seem to have a deathwish. On the upside, there are now fewer bodies trying to steal the last of our precious booze supply.
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Apr 13, 2013 20:06
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nvining posted:
You could have ended your post with: TL;DR Spermy Smurf singlehandedly saved the day.
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Apr 13, 2013 20:41
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