Editing 40d:Stories/Archive 5

[[category:Stories]]
==="A Touch Warm" Indeed<sup>DF</sup>===
The butcher's shop area was well equipped to handle fiery outbursts, but nobody thought to fireproof the shop itself!  It had been hastily thrown together years ago with wood from the wagon and forgotten for years.  Erkurmorul earned his new nickname, 'Ninja Chef', by gutting and cleaning two whole fire imps <i>during the fire</i> with no injury to himself whatsoever.  The fire consumed everything inside, ashes and all.  He was pleased with the lack of effort afterwards but the next one will be glass, 'self cleaning table' be damned. 

----

=== The Eventual Triumph<sup>DF</sup> ===
It had been several years since Cerol had received those life-changing injuries from the seemingly endless swarms of goblins that plagued the fortress every season. Now denied the use of her legs from a crippling blow to her spine, she put away her warhammer and turned to carving ammunition from the bones of her enemies. Not one to let tragedy get the best of her, she made her four children and husband proud by crawling around the fortress ''on her hands alone'', undaunted by the mountain of bones beside her workshop. Still, her refusal to remain bedridden took a toll on her mental state... as did the constant mockery of the fortress children. Every day, she told herself that her children and her work were all she needed, but another part of her would always whisper that she needed to prove herself to the fortress, as she couldn't on the battlefield so long ago. Every day, she shrugged off cruel laughter and worked at her bench, deriving a small satisfaction from every rotting goblin corpse. This is all the satisfaction I need, after all. No it isn't. But I have a family that loves me, and nothing is more fulfilling than that. No, there's something. I won't go down the same path that killed so many of my friends, when they let the voices take them over. I won't let it happen to me. But Cerol... How they laugh at us. Crawling about on your hands, nose in the dirt, head hung in shame, that's not how you want to be remembered. You were a warrior, but you hesitated and let the goblins take your legs away. Show your peers you are a force to be reckoned with, show them what they have made a laughingstock of, show them who you really are. Cerol's family were worried to find that she did not return home that day, nor that week, nor that month. Eyes glazed over, Cerol rarely left her workshop except to gather strange materials... she had an eerie ability to get impossibly heavy stones and metal bars from the deepest labyrinths of the fortress to her shop on the surface, all without the use of her legs. No longer speaking to anybody but herself, she worked day and night. One day, she returned home, not seeming to remember where she had been all summer, or even how she'd fed herself. The town treasurer walked into her workshop to find but a tiny ring sitting atop the bench. Upon closer examination, all around it was an intricately carved image of the battle where Cerol had been wounded, but rather than her downfall, it portrayed her menacing over hordes of cowering goblins, striking them down in spades with wide strokes of her deadly hammer. Artifacts tell of dwarven history, and generations after Cerol's eventual death, dwarves who had never met her remembered her as a great warrior, the bane of the goblin hordes. She was tall as a human, wielded her hammer mercilessly, and slayed hundreds of goblins before dying a glorious death in battle. Not a soul recalled the ridiculous cripple that children threw rocks at for fun, and her descendents all aspired to wield warhammers the way they knew their ancestor once had.

----

=== Endok Ageshmorul, The Guard's Finest<sup>DF</sup> ===
In the year 229, the goblins were mounting their usual siege. They had brought 3 battalions with them. The alarm was sounded for the Dwarves of Clutchtour to move inside for the duration of the siege. Marksdwarves were ordered to their stations and 2 squads of axe dwarves were readied to mop up the Goblin wounded. All others moved inside of the gate. Except for one member of the Fortress guard, axedwarf Endok Ageshmorul. For whatever reason, Endok stayed outside. Perhaps she had finally had enough of the sometimes bi-yearly sieges. Perhaps it was that she expected support from the Marksdwarves within the fortifications. Unfortunately for Endok, all 4 squads of Marksdwarves had failed to answer the call to battlestations. They had split themselves between sleep, food, and water all at the same time. Endok stared down the first battalion as it mounted the hill over the fortress and charged her, hoping to bowl her over and move on around the trenches and in to Clutchtour. Endok readied her axe and struck the first goblin to reach her, taking his head off in a single stroke. The goblins were awestruck by the opening blow and Endok begin to wade her way through them. She got another kill before they surrounded her, bisecting a goblin at the waist. Despite the superiority of numbers and the lack of Marksdwarf support, Endok carried the day. She struck down 5 more goblins. They struck a glancing blow, moderately damaging Endok's lower spine. The first battalion fled. Endok readier her axe for the second charge, glanced over the moat and saw the goblins were running. She had broken the siege by herself and earned her title 'Willful Obscurity of Basement' for her efforts to protect the underground fortress of Clutchtour.

=== Tekkudsherik, Pickperplex<sup>DF</sup> ===
My most proficient metalsmith is an odd dwarf. He is four times over legendary having mastered all skills related to the working of the metal he loved. Many a dwarf in a foreign land has marveled at the quality of the items from Cerol Nanirzas' forge. He is a dwarf who is hard to get along with. A tough, gruff, stubborn and insular dwarf. But what makes him odd persay. 

This beefy fantastic dwarf is a "crazy cat lady." 

He has been adopted by kittens that I am trying to slaughter seven times. And how can I refuse my best craftsdwarf when he says "Can I keep it?"

He currently is running around my magma forge working on grates with two cats in tow. Each of them has the remains of some kill in its mouth and they are trying to leave a gift for their dwarf. But he's running around far to fast and the cats are doing laps in my forge. It's kinda funny to watch. Eventually, Cerol returns to his forge to find two lovely little rotting corpses on his anvil. Such nice kitties. It's why he loves them so.


=== Boo the Mighty<sup>DF</sup> ===

To the rest of Dwarven civilization in the Absolute World, he was known as Stray Cat (Tame). But to those lucky few who lived within the Echoing Candles, he was Boo the Mighty. His claws were sharpened daggers of ivory, his reflexes like lightning! Nary was the lizard, rat, or vermin who could set paw within the hold before Boo left them as so many rotting bones on the floor. Not content to settle in with a single dwarf as did his female counterpart, Boo wandered the hallways and stairways of the Echoing Candles, driving the pests of the world into near extinction and fear. So great was his prowess and effortless grace that he even scared a kobold thief in the middle of its works, sending the rogue scrambling into the newly opened tunnels that were soon to be the magma pipe to feed the forges of Echoing Candles.

Alas, for Boo, that the dwarves did not see the wicked creature nor Boo the Mighty, who pursued it into the long but sealed magma tunnel. So ferocious was Boo that the Kobold, trembling, scrambled back from the dead end and ran towards the staircase so far away. Alas, then, for the Dwarves had already evacuated the tunnel and let flow the magma. Boo the Mighty chased the Kobold directly into the flaring, flowing lava, where the cretin was instantly immolated. Ah, but Boo would not die so easily! Though his rear legs were burned away and his tail naught but a charred stump, he dragged himself back towards the dead end of the tunnel. Though his pelt caught aflame and the smoke of his passing obscured the claustrophobic tunnels, he would not give up! It was all for naught, though, as the sole exit from the artificial magma tube was the very first victim of the magma's flow. And so, Boo the Mighty perished as brightly as he existed. But his legacy lives on, for within a cage at the highest point of the tower live twelve of his progency, ready to carry forth the name of their champion into the darkest corners of rat-infested stocks.

Long live the memory of Boo the Mighty.

=== The Emergency Protocol<sup>DF</sup> ===

Listen, new administrators - before you go, I must tell you the story of a fortress you wouldn't have heard of in your training. It was the greatest triumph, and the greatest failure. A fortress from which much may be learned, but which is never spoken off. Some fear to even name the fortress, lest memory of what happened there bring a curse upon us all. The administrator... he did terrible thing. Terrible, terrible things. Superstitious worry, though - you must hear of this, or you may make the mistake yourself.

There was a fortress by the name of Tradeddawn, famed in its time - at a peak population of 170 dwarfs, each one an expert in their field, the industrial might depressed prices over half a continent. Goblins besieged the great Tradeddawn, but none were successful - for the ruler of Tradeddawn was the great engineer Vyl, master of the floodgate and the drawbridge. Under his defences the Hall of Levers - a construct who'se name now lives on in legend - could hold the fortress safe. The surface of the land was carved into parcels, walled or channeled off, each of which could be isolated by pulling the appropriate levers - any invaders would be swiftly isolated. Another lever would then cause their death - by Atom Smasher, by flood or by siege weapon.

But the people of Tradeddawn grew overconfident, for it seemed nothing could cause their fotress to fall. Even built into the hashest of territory, it's defences were unbreakable. It's luxurious accommodations kept all happy, it's elaborate water distribution kept all healthy, and it's food production could be self-sustaining indefinitely. Vyl had planned for everything, even building devices by which the entire lower level of mines could be flooded in the event of demonic incursion - or the lower two, or three, whatever would be needed.

In the end it was not goblins who caused Tradeddawn to fall. It was one dwarf, and one mistake. One tiny error that bought down the mighty fortress. A cook, who baked prodigiously - exhausting every seed in the fortress. It took three months for the supplies to run out without farming, and the dwarves began to riot.

Perhaps if the dwarves had kept their heads, things would have gone differently - the animals could have been slaughtered for food, until a caravan bought the precious seeds. Fishing was still running. But as the mistake of the cook bought down the fortress, the mistakes of the others ruined it's first chance of recovery. In their riots they killed the hunters and the butchers, they tore down the butchers shops. Frenzied dwarves chased butchers even as they were carrying the meat which would have ended the crisis. At six months in, the 170 dwarves were down to 50 - all of them killed by their former friends.

Desperatly Vyl tried to hang on - he ordered the slaughter of animals, replaced the killed butchers and rebuilt their shops.

Growing desperate, he turned to a plan he hoped never to implement - a lever he had hoped never to pull. Creeping into the room at night he pulled the great lever, a great switch onstructed of whitest marble. A marble hideing the blackness of its purpose - the lever emptied a cistern into the noble quarters. Tax collecter, the Baron Consort and Baroness, even the Hammerer - all were drowned in the wave of destruction. Murdered, because the fortress could risk the food to keep them alive.

Anything he could to last a little longer, waiting for the caravan and the salvation of Tradeddawn. But even this last hope, the occupents destroyed - they tore down the depo, and killed all architects and masons sent to rebuild it. The caravan was lost.

Sickened by the destruction his people had bought upon themselves - a mere thirty of them left alive, and those intent on killing each other - Vyl has but five levers to pull. Secret, terrible levers - the Five Levers now spoken of in hushed tones to scare children. The first caused the lower mine levels to flood, but without limiting pressure - a riseing water that would eventually fill the fortress. The second flooded the tradeing area, a measure intended as the last-ditch defence against trolls. The third overloaded the farming irrigation system, feeding yet more water into the fortress. The fourth opened the noble quarters, sending the water - and the decaying corpses of the nobles - washing into the central shafts. The fifth opened a spillway in the main aqueduct, washing water over the surface farms and down the sunlight holes.

Tradeddawn went underwater in the year 207, population 27. All of them drowned, as had their nobles. Dwarven men, women and children, slaughtered for their own lack of self-control. Vyl was never found - rumors abound of human settlements suddenly acquiring new irrigation systems, and of goblin towers seen with water pouring out their uppermost windows from hidden underground pumps. Evidence, perhaps, that he was able to flee and continues to practice his trade in secret. Perhaps this is why he committed such a crime, to cover all tracks and fool others into thinking him dead. Of the fortress, only a few holes remain - pools of water connecting to the submerged structure of what was once a mighty tradeing empire.

Dwarves don't like to talk about Tradeddawn. Remember it. Learn from it. Never let your last seeds go into the cooking pot.

===First Line of Defense<sup>DF</sup>===

It was the seventh year of a fortress under inexperienced management when goblins besieged for the first time. The recently conscripted and under-trained military was nearly slaughtered. Soon a dwarf finally pulled the lever to close the drawbridge and lock out the goblins. In a desperate attempt to save the fortress the leader had the dwarfs carve out a twisting passageway and fill it with stone-fall and cage traps. When the work was done the few remaining military dwarfs guarded the end of the tunnel while one brave miner opened the hallway of traps to the outside and the goblins rushed in. The goblins were all slaughtered and miraculously no one else, not even the brave miner, was hurt. Needless to say the dwarfs agreed that the fortress needed a defense overhaul.

The new defenses were amazing. The drawbridge was rebuilt so that when it was closed it would open up a path into the fortress that would lead the invaders through a gauntlet of ballista, a dwarven atom smasher, and the original twisting hallway of traps. It was a beautifully designed system on par with the underground farming complex completed several years earlier. As terrible as the thought is, all of the engineers and siege operators were positively ecstatic to see how the system worked when the next siege came.

The sudden ambush came in the summer of the next year. As most of the dwarfs screamed and ran for the safety of the fortress the lead engineer smiled broadly and yelled "Pull the lever!" He stood just before the drawbridge and watched as the goblins ran towards the fortress. But the bridge wasn't raising. The engineer suddenly remembered, the new drawbridge never got hooked up the lever. The goblins weren't going to die in the labyrinth of traps and death, they were going to run straight into the fortress! Only thanks to the newly trained crossbow corps was the fortress saved, but at great cost. The moral of the story is never forget to link all you levers!

===The (Attempted) Rape of Webglaze<sup>DF</sup>===

Yeah, I know you're looking at me funny with a title like that.  Humies.
Rape means to carry off, to steal, to loot, capiche?  It's not like we want
dwarves for their BODIES, they don't even make good leather, much less
good ****toys.

Webglaze was on the outskirts of The Evils of Robustness.  Good strong
goblin name, good strong goblin kingdom.  They'd settled into the edge of
the mountain, started wasting their time on the sort of stupid shit
dwarves always waste their time on.  Work work work.  Stack objects
willynilly as if it actually mattered where an XX(Pig Tail Cap)XX with
dwarf blood spattering, blood spattering, and vomit spattering was.
Sell shit to the traders.  Humies are idiots, they'll do anything for a
narrow giant spider silk loincloth.  Probably worth more because they
like the fact it smells like goblin balls.

Young Amxu'd launched a raid on the fuckers.  That's Amxu Ukruaslot, the
wrestler, not old Axelord Amxu Stokgorukus Xudlubsnosstrosp.  He hadn't
come back, though nobody'd seen him get killed.  A bunch of dead dwarves,
a bunch of dead goblins.  All good, how else are we going to get a
reasonable amount of stuff?

There were a couple more raids, and the fuckers fought 'em off each time.
Big woop.  One of the survivors said he'd seen young Amxu in a cage, so old
Amxu went in to rescue him.  Yeah, stop looking at me like I'm crazy.  You
think elves are the only people with feelings, do you?  Bitch.  At least
Amxu didn't invade because he got his loincloth in a bunch about someone
cutting down his favorite larch or something.  Amxu went in.  Amxu wasn't
there when we got out.  That's old Amxu, that is.

But each time we'd invaded, the fuckers had taken heavy damage.  But there
wasn't enough time between raids to account for how they went from fifty
dwarves back up to seventy.  There were immigrants, and immigrant dwarves
can mean one thing and one thing only: Wealth.  There was something in that
maze of caverns that was worth risking their lives for.

Well, we decided to cut the small shit.  Thirty, forty?  Fuck that.  My
commander sent a full EIGHTY soldiers in.  Eighty.  One for each dwarf in
the fort.  Turns out we'd miscounted and there were only 78.  But we went
through them like cheese.  The Webglaze commanders paniced and activated
everyone, but it was like they never heard of squads or commanders - half
the soldiers were running across the surface to DRINK.  One guy I killed
begged me to let him live because he was a soap maker, not a soldier.  A
fucking soap maker.  These guys have never bothered to MAKE ANY SOAP.
Mad old Shorast, the mayor, thought to order them inside as our forces
marched to the entrance (which the fools had put RIGHT ON the border for
some reason.).

We charged across the drawbridge, but for some reason it didn't lift until
the whole troop was inside - I think the lever-puller must have been in the
other fort.  Good thing, too, because when I looked down I saw what the moat
was full of.  'Full' isn't quite the right word.  Depending on where I fell,
I might crack my head on granite - or splash into the lava.  Fuckers have
a lava moat.

Yeah, other fort.  What do you think that big rectangular wall up in the
mountains is all about?  The obsidian one surrounded by traps?  For some
reason Udim, he was the first leader they had - crazy bastard - had them
build two forts halfway across the map from each other.  I couldn't figure
why, but little Stukos told me the history of the place.   Said I had to
learn it good because her parents taught her, and now they were in a box,
and I was in a box too, and everyone would be in a box someday, and we should
take what we knew into the boxes.

She'd tell the mountain goat the same thing.  I don't think she was quite
right in the head.

Oh yeah, why were there two forts?  Well, Udim plonked everyone down in
the arable land first.  Dwarves like rock.  But they're also willing to
dig in the dirt.  So he set up a farm, instead of doing the sensible thing
and raiding the neighbours for stuff.  There were a couple pools there,
and they'd drink from them.  Well, until someone pissed in one or drowned
in one or got miasma in it or something.  So the fuckers were walking
halfway across the map to the brook every time they wanted a drink.
After the first couple of raids, he realized that that wasn't safe.
Hell, he couldn't even trade properly, because by the time he got back
the caravan was gone.  And you recall what I said about lava?  Well, crops
don't grow well in obsidian.  The dwarves were digging everywhere in Udim's
day, looking for magma.  They found it over to the northeast.  Right near 
that brook the fuckers were so fixed on drinking from.  Took them a while
to get a channel ready and figure out how to put together screw pumps,
but they got it working.  Presto, magma moat.

The other party had made it to the obsidian fort - sure, a few of 'em got
stuck in the cages and deadfalls, but who cares?  Our Supreme Commander got
attacked by a bunch of elite hammerdwarves and thrown into the channel by
the obsidian fort - at least, that's his story as to how he got taken 
prisoner.  Me, I think one of our guys gave a boot to his backside as they
marched over the second drawbridge.  Nobody liked him much - he didn't
succeed at anything, even making excuses as to why he'd failed.  And we'd 
have noticed elite hammerdwarves.  Hell, we'd have noticed dwarves who 
could find their own weapons.  And we didn't see any hammerdwarves as we
rampaged through the fortress.

We charged in, killing their pets, smashing the skulls of a couple stupid
kids trying to plant seeds while their parents ran hither and yon trying
to find their weapons.  We got into the second floor (that's DOWN, to you -
remember, these are dwarves) and smashed up their kitchen a bit, chased a
few down to the graveyard rooms.  Creepy.  More coffins than there were
dwarves in Webglaze when we attacked, and all but two of them claimed.
Well, we fixed that.  The group I was in ran into their barracks.  Nice
place.  I think old Udim must have made that before any of the other rooms -
it was covered in the most insipid engravings.  An image of a dwarf and 
dwarves, the dwarf is surrounded by the dwarves, shit like that?  Well, the
place was pretty well secured.  Everyone awake enough to fight had died;
there were maybe twenty, twenty-five of the original dwarves left alive,
and they were all either in utterly stupid places, eating, drinking, or
sleeping.  We killed the ones sleeping in the barracks, started searching
for shit worth stealing.  Shorast tried to lock us in, but couldn't.
We'd TAKEN that doorway HARD.  

The surviving dwarves, those sane enough to do so at least, had locked
themselves in their rooms - the second dining room over by the magma pipe,
the new (and ugly) barracks), one of those crowded coffin complexes.
So here we are, a squadron of wrestlers and speardwarves, guzzling the
hooch - at least, the hooch that we hadn't pissed in - no, I take that
back.  Not all of us were bright enough to only chug from the sealed barrels
- when in come two recruits, wounded and exhausted.  And they flop on the
beds and go to sleep.  What.  The.  Fuck?

I poked one with my spear.  Cancelled that rest!  But he just rolled
over and went back to sleep.  So I poked him again.  One of the wrestlers went
out to get him a barrel of the special booze we'd made.

I should say, TRIED to go out.  The fuckers had locked the barracks door
when they went in to sleep!  We couldn't believe it.  We were trapped.
So much for my plan to pee in old Amxu's cage.  And the stupid recruits wouldn't even wake up and fight.

...  Actually, I did get a chance, but it's not so much fun when you're
in a cage too.  Stukos thought it was funny, though, so she'd bring me
extra beer.

Oh, whatever happened to her?  I hear she's mayor now.  Sometimes she comes
down to talk to me.  Says I helped her learn how to deal with people.

I know I'm rambling.  I'm trying to get around telling you what I need to
tell you, because it's not easy.  She's been drawing up plans.  They're
making a third fort deep under the mountains.  Where the surface is barely
better armed than Shorast made it, the deep one is bristling with weapons.
They've finally learned how to make siege engines.  And they're all
underground.  Her bedroom's there, too.  Deep down.  The walls are 
raw adamantine, engraved with horrible things.  The first is an adamantine
screw pump.  The screw pump is pumping liquid pitchblende.  It is a 
masterpiece.  I can tell it is because of the terror that it evokes, when
it seems so harmless.  There are two more masterpieces in there.  An
image of a dwarf and goblins, the goblins striking down the dwarf.  She 
said it was there so that her father could tell what he looked like when
he comes back.  The third is an image of dwarves and blazing suns.  The
blazing suns are scorching the dwarves.  She smiled when she said, "This
is so that I always know where I am going."

I don't know what she's doing down there, in the adamantine chambers.
I only know that you need to stop her before it is too late.