Editing 40d:Stories/Archive 6

[[category:Stories]]
===Kogan Mossbeard enters a fell mood...<sup>DF</sup>===
One of my best craftdwarf has been hammered to death due to an impossible mandate from the nobles. His wife was very unhappy for a week before it finally happened.

''Kogan Mossbeard looses a roaring laughter, fell and terrible!''

Before my eyes I could see the guilty noble being dragged to the butchery shop, screaming bloody murder before her axe chopped his head off.

''Urist Pansypants has been struck down''

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=== Turns out he was playing in the whip vine flour this entire time!<sup>DF</sup> ===

After a caravan of tree-huggers left, I noticed two additions to my unit list: a tame hedgehog and a tame blackbird. Turns out those cages were so cheap because they had some pet vermin in them! I shrugged, ordered the well-decorated cages be built into the sheriff's office to add a spark of life to the room, and asked if anydwarf wanted to adopt them. My clothier quickly adopted the hedgehog, but the bird has been singing his song in his gilded cage for over a year now. Anyway....

I noticed about two seasons ago that the hedgehog was no longer in his cage. I couldn't zoom to him anywhere. We made a cursory search and then forgot about him.

Today, I went to go find my woodworker to ask about those new barrels, and it turns out he's in the pantry. Told me he was busy Small Creature Caging. I follow him out of curiosity, as he lops back to the sheriff's office and deposits the hedgehog back in his cage!

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=== The psychotic dwarf who could (swim)<sup>DF</sup> ===

Long long ago, back in the early ages of the world, there was a modest fortress known as Mournriddle the Mortified Armored Beetles of Angels. Now, it is simply known as Mournriddle. After it's founding in 210, it quickly grew in prosperity. One day, a certain Mebzuth Inkpuzzled had a wonderful idea for armor. Alas! The steel and iron brought to the fortress from caravans had ran out just a week ago when the very same dwarf created a wonderful variety of sheilds and chainmail. Mournriddle's leader was somewhat inexperienced, and a bit of a packrat, so it only occured to him later to melt down iron goods, and by then it was too late.

Inkpuzzled finally snapped, and started babbling everywhere. He eventually jumped into a small lake after nearly fully stripping himself of all clothing. He began to drown, and everyone wrote him off as dead. But then, something amazing happened. He learned to swim! He quickly became tougher and a better swimmer, and even falling asleep in the water could not prevent him from breathing! A year and a half later, after reaching grand master rank in swimming.

At least that's what the official records say. Adventurers who travelled to Mournriddle years after it's downfall at the hands of a massive siege said that, even after clearing out all of the goblins who had claimed the fortress as their own, they still heard the faint paddling of a dwarf, swimming for all eternity to seek solace from his own insanity.

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===Urdim's blowgun<sup>DF</sup>===

:<font style="color:yellow; background-color:black">Urdim Kutamèrith, Pump Operator, has created Rakusttenshed, a Glumprong blowgun!</font>

Urdim, you are a freaking idiot.
===The Shellfish Diet<sup>DF</sup>===
The peasant ònul âtastïeb of Fortress Creaturechamber suddenly abandoned his hauling duties, kicked a mason out of his shop, and screamed for shells, eyes shining with a wild and frightening light.  Most other times he'd be walled and locked in, but he'd picked the glassmaking level, crowded with skilled glassmakers and magma-rich, no room for barriers between the wall-to-wall workshops.  They'd have to tear down his shop to wall it and that was deemed too risky, ònul was clearly unstable enough already...

Frantically digging through the food stockpiles, all their chef could find was a barrel of mussels in brine that'd sat untouched for three years running.  Nobody wanted them before;  nobody would even dare, now.  Even after every other scrap of food in the fortress was expressly forbidden, nobody would touch them.  Some folks began to starve.  Others turned to a mysterious black-market supply of illicit dog meat...  Time went on.

After a few days of waiting with bated breath, the mayor put the entire military on duty, marched them to their quarters, and locked them in with the barrel.  After much yelling and screaming and trying to batter down the doors, the soldiers were forced to relent, prying off the lid and beginning their dubious meal.

Too little, too late.  Mad shrieking was heard by the glass furnaces as the peasant gave up hope, funneling his fury on the fortress that had failed him, chasing terrified glassmakers in circles around the magma pipe.  A war dog sprung to the attack to be instantly thrown down with mad strength, broken.  Glassdwarves darted past and down a staircase while ònul, unseeing, continued to thrash the poor creature;  looking up, the next and last thing he saw was Sodel Esdorsodel, the only soldier in the entire force not suffering from severe gastroenteritis, iron within and iron without.

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===Any Cost<sup>DF</sup>===

It was never known whether the cave-in was a freak accident, or a cruel product of design.  Whether Fate, Chance, or some mortal brought it about, it was Sibrek who suffered for it.  They hauled him to the barracks, his left leg broken, his right leg shaking and unsteady.  The whispers outside the barracks doors said that his leg would heal, but his spine wouldn't; he would never walk quite right again, if lucky.  It was possible he would never walk again.

Sibrek could hear them, and saw a grim future in store for him.  He was one of the first seven to found Agebolts, and he had not done anything of import.  He had dug, and that was all.  He would leave no legacy.

It was that night that the dream came to him.  Sibrek awoke from his bed, mind hazy in delirium and pain, and rose to his quaking feet.  The dream had burned an image into his eyes, the image of his last work, the legacy he would leave.  It was worth any cost.

The dwarves on night watch saw Sibrek stagger from the barracks, face contorted in agony, forcing himself across the grand hall to the mason's shop.  He only paused there momentarily, as if briefly collecting his thoughts, before limping to the stone stores beyond the fortress gates.

It took him hours to return with the stone blocks he needed.  The dwarves who witnessed his march say that the pain in his face was unbearable, that they could not turn away.  Those who offered help went unheard; Sibrek could not hear anything through the agony hammering through his legs, echoing through his spine like struck iron.

The stone returned, Sibrek set out again, to the risen sun and the stone piles.  It took him a day and a night to return with the stone he needed, well after the sun had risen again, and every second of his journey marked a drumbeat of pain, and a litany of resolve.  It was worth any cost.  Any cost.  Any cost.

The third time he emerged from the workshop, he could not make it more than ten dwarflengths before his body buckled from the pain.  For an hour he leaned against the wall, his sight blurred, but the image sharper and clearer in his mind, and the hammers drumming against his body.  Any cost.  Any cost.

On his fourth trek, he collapsed in the hallway, and lay there for two days.  The dwarves of Agebolts passed his body quietly, averting their eyes and quickly going about their business.  There was nothing they could do for him.  He probably wouldn't last much longer.  But later that night, the watch saw him rise to his feet, shaking, muttering... and advance.  Any cost.  Any cost.

He returned to the masonry a fourth time, and did not emerge.  For a week the sounds of work could be heard within, punctuated by periods of uncomfortable silence.  No dwarf would enter.  No dwarf wished to find Sibrek's body, sprawled across a work that he would never finish; the mere thought of witnessing such a tragedy was a terror of the soul that noone wished to bear.

After seven days, silence reigned in the crafthalls for many hours, and finally the mayor of Agebolts opened the door.  Sibrek's body lay against the workshop wall, contorted in final agony.  Before him lay his legacy - a table, etched in diorite, filigreed in realgar, inlaid in designs that defied worldly description.  It took some time before the mayor remembered Sibrek and stepped forward to carry him to his bed, for Sibrek's legs could no longer carry him.  On the way, Sibrek whispered into his ear before he finally lay still.

"Any cost."  


The newest citizens of Agebolts always come amid quiet acknowledgement and quick assignment of duties, but a few choose first to find their way to a small room of the fortress - an unassuming chamber of rough-hewn walls set apart from the fortress, and no furniture - none, except for the table of unsurpassed beauty, still as flawless as the day it was discovered in the mason's shop, next to Sibrek's crumpled body.

And Sibrek himself is sometimes there, when he is not working in the mines; his legs do not carry him as well as they should, but they carry him, and his pick-hand is the stuff of legends.  He has never spoken of his labors.  But when asked, he always has an answer, one that the young dwarves take to heart: that creation is worth any cost.

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These are stories created by users based on their experiences in-game. They take what happened in-game, and go into more detail. Feel free to add your own!

===The turtle shell Idol<sup>DF</sup>===

There was a dwarf known as "Treehugger Bristlewhipped." He was called "Treehugger" for he was such a gentle and kind dwarf. Very generous and immodest.<br />
One day Treehugger was caught by a peculiar mood. He went into a craftdwarvshop and began bringing in various materials.. he worked like a mad man for several days and emerged with a turtleshell idol! It was called... "Treehugger Bristlewhipped."<br />
None of the dwarves knew what to say. The ones before Treehugger had produced ornate shields, high quality weapon racks and perfect jewels.<br /> ''Treehugger had made a self portrait.'' <br />
As if things weren't bad enough Treehugger explained the idol. He had encrusted it with Lace agate, decorated it with goblin bone and encircled it with bands of Lace agate. The idol menaced with spikes of turtle shell and carried the images of diamonds and many-pointed stars in iron.<br /><br />
Even to this day when a dwarf is asked WHERE the spikes and decorations were located they simply change the subject. Only in our dreams shall we know what this piece really looks like ... if you can remember it when you wake up screaming.

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===The Story of Treatyflames<sup>DF</sup>===
At last, we have arrived at the site of our new home, at the edge of the Forest of Calm in the shadow of the peaks of the Beak of Direction. I must admit, it's nothing like I was expecting from the information we received from the Becorrovod officials. The flowing water is little more than a brook, and the lush vegetation consists mainly of shrubs and bushes. Rather than a fertile valley, it appears to be a desolate gulch. Still, there is no turning back now, and we must make the best of what we have: two miners, one woodworker, three farmers, a bookkeeper, a dog, two oxen, an anvil, an axe, two picks, five seeds, and whatever food and ale we managed to avoid consuming on the journey through the wilderness.

...By Rimtar Katthirduthnur's ever-long beard, we are all going to die out here. I know it. 

''Continued [[User:Dark_T_Zeratul/TreatyflamesPart1|here]].''

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===The first half year of Onulod<sup>DF</sup>===
The fortress Onulod, known as Mirrortunneled amongst men, was founded early in the year 301 under the leadership of Sarvesh Gostmelbil. Seeking a vantage point to look for a good site to start, Sarvesh directed the expedition to one of the highest peaks in the local area. Unfortunately, at the top the wagon broke, the pieces tumbling into the abyss, though the dwarves managed to save all of their supplies. Still, the peak was hardly a suitable place to start the outpost. For one thing, merchants might have touble negotiating the peak, so Sarvesh's first order was for everybody to drag down all the supplies, 27 levels down, to a valley far below. Meanwhile she and the miner Kosoth began digging deep into the mountain, heading for the magma pipe of the local volcano.

No sooner had the settlers dragged down the supplies, and begun to get comfortable, than Sarvesh ordered them into action again. Everything was to be moved inside, through the long, long tunnel dug by him and Kosoth. Everybody grumbled, most of all Erith the craftsman who had just begun converting the bones and shells produced by hungry dwarves into fine wares in his new workshop. The workshop was torn down, and another built deep within the mountain. Everybody was busy, dragging goods, and establishing workshops and personal chambers deep within the mountains. Summer passed by without anybody noticing. Then the merchants from nearby dwarven Kivish Ziril arrived, and everybody was more busy. Barrels of foodstuffs, and most of Erith's first goods were still lying out in the rain, including an exceptionally crafted crown that Erith was quite proud of. During the chaos, a kobold snuck up to the tunnel opening of the settlement and stole Erith's crown lying just outside. Nobody saw the thief, except for the tracks left behind.

The merchants left again, and things simmered down to normal. Olon the Carpenter and Dodok the Mason were the only dwarves to have gotten their own rooms. Everybody else was still sleeping in a barrack, while Sarvesh pursued her dream of a dining hall with open access to the magma pipe. Erith was lying in bed in the barracks, listening to Catten the Farmer snoring next to him, fuming about his lost crown, his lack of proper quarters, all the indignities heaped upon him. And he snapped. He began trashing Catten, while only two beds away Sarvesh was lying in blissful sleep. Several rooms away, while chipping away a staircase to the future underground gardens, Kosoth heard the noise and grabbing her pick tight headed down to investigate.

She first saw Shem the Fisher, standing in the doorway, loudly complaining how it would be impossible to get any sleep with the current racket. Pushing Shem aside, she arrived just in time to see Erith mangling Catten's left leg with a mighty blow. Sarvesh was still sleeping only two beds away, cradling her beloved pick. Erith was a good friend of Kosoth's, but she recognized the maddened gleam in the craftman's eyes. She knew what had to be done, and with a heavy heart she charged Erith, battering him with the shaft of the pick. Erith turned his attention from the unconscious Catten to Kosoth, and maddened with rage tried to bring down his old friend as well. But if Kosoth knew anything, it was how to handle a pick. In short order she struck Erith down. Shaking, both from the emotions and excess adrenalin, Kosoth sat against the wall resting, watching as Shem came into the room, unceremoniously pushed Erith's still cooling corpse of the bed, and lay herself to sleep in the blood soaked linens.

After that Kosoth was a very depressed person. But she buried herself in her work. Digging out the new tombs was first order of business. Then she dedicated herself to completing the underground farms, digging with single minded purpose the long tunnel that would lead water from the local brook. Sometimes her pet cat would bring a small comfort, but her mood never lifted much. With Erith dead, and Catten bedridden, there were two less hands. Everybody was feeling the strain. And it was on this note that winter came around.

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===Did the elk damage his brain, or was he just stupid?<sup>DF</sup>===

Urist was slightly confused. An order had come down from on high, requesting him to hunt some of the peaceful elk that roamed the region around the fortress. What bothered him, was that he had no experience with hunting animals, and there hadn't been an order to collect equipment, either.
Still, not one to go against the rules, Urist went out in search of some elk to punch to death. He spotted one, and began to chase it. At one point during the arduous trek, they were running alongside a river of lava. Urist felt woozy and unco-ordinated.
Eventually, Urist got the order to stop hunting, and took it, with great relief.

The basic story behind this, is I accidentally assign a mason or miner or somesuch to go mining. He has no equipment, so he decides to chase an elk, brandishing his bare fists. When I finally found him, he had yellow brain damage. The scariest bit is, I think he actually got a deer or two.

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===The Merciless Gears<sup>DF</sup>===

The echos reverberated across the canyon as the cage trap slammed shut, bringing an early end to another snatcher's career. Within the fortress walls the dwarf Litast Castlebust found herself closest to the sprung trap. Being the civic minded dwarf that she was, she set off down the entryway to collect the prisoner.

Litast liked this entryway. As the chief architect and engineer of Clockworks, she knew its simple appearance hid a deadly secret. She had built those gears herself over many years. In all the kingdom of Kadol Dural, no fort possessed defenses like those of Clockworks. Where other forts built long entryways with many fortifications for the marksdwarves, this entryway was smooth and unbroken on all sides. No dwarves stood watch in here, and few patrolled the walls above. Contentedly, Litast continued into the dark center of the entryway.

Looking ahead she could see the bright square of light that marked the end of the passage into the wilderness. Then her eyes saw it, a blemish, a sneaking figure breaking the perfect contours of light there at the entrance to the fortress. <sub>*click*</sub> A menacing shape, too evil and stupid to care why the muddy tiles shifted so slightly under his feet. But Litast knew. Even before she was able to turn around and begin running she knew there was no time; the gears were already turning. <sub>*click*</sub> It was going to work just like she had planned it to. The gears were now lifting the drawbridges, sealing both ends of the entryway. Above her, a muffled sound like falling sand could be heard. <sup>*click*</sup> Behind her, a dagger slid from its scabbard. In the dark sealed chamber Litast ran to the end of the passage. Careful to take two steps to the left, she praying for enough breath to survive until Stage Three. <sup>*click*</sup> Stage Two was about to begin.

CLICK!!


-An account of how Litast Castlebust was nearly killed by the same automatic Drowning Chamber that she built.