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Dwarf Fortress => DF Community Games & Stories => Topic started by: Broseph Stalin on April 05, 2013, 12:38:51 am

Title: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 05, 2013, 12:38:51 am

This is the story of Dumplin. Dumplin is a composite of several dwarves from several forts who had severely shitty lives. I've really enjoyed constructing the narrative and I hope you'll enjoy it too. There will be alot of references that only make sense if you play masterwork.

The Dwarven stronghold of Arrowstockades was an oasis in the dense forests. A bastion of Dwarven Civilization it's great wooden walls masked a sprawling subterranean kingdom. The settlement was renowned for it's exports of gold, platinum, brass, and lead crafts of unparalleled quality, all decorated with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires and all inlaid with masterful touch. The most miraculous of these creations are the legendary goblets. It is believed that these goblets are by some unknown methods stolen from the heavens. Even those dwarves who witness the construction from beginning to end look upon the finished product convinced that no earthly being could create such beauty. From the earth they took sand and stone and with care worked them into glorious decorative cabochons and crystal glass. Kings of lesser races traded their fortunes, their lands, and the lives of their soldiers in brutal wars to possess even a single a goblet created by the steady dwarven hands of Arrowstockades.

   “Look lord Reginald, I have procured a Third chalice of Dwarven Design. All I had to do was sell the dwarves every piece of armor worn by my personal guard, many dozen of bins laden with weapons and bolts and leather, every gold ingot in my stores, and my second most favorite ring finger.”

“The savings!”

“Certainly so! I was in the middle of surrendering my clothes but as I began taking off my pants they told me I was entitled to a discount and my boots would quite suffice.”

“What splendor! I too shall take advantage of this discount just as soon as I am able. It may be some time though, my wife is having trouble birthing the four children I still owe for my first goblet.”

   And the silk! The moths tended religiously by dwarves ancient with experience in their dedicated handling. Whose hands tenderly manage the boiling fires that extract the threads of their cocoons. The weavers, the weavers who have never known other labor creating glimmering bolts of unimaginable quality. The Dyers, who labor for days mixing and inspecting and mixing once more ensuring every color is rich and vibrant and unique, imbued with color so glorious and so deep that their radiance and bassy tones can render the uninitiated both deaf and blind. These fabrics of immaculate design are shaped and stitched by the most skilled of dwarven hands into garments of unimaginable quality. The intricate designs adorning these fabrics relate stories of ancient heroes, the births and deaths of great kingdoms, and bear symbols of wealth and power. So perfectly elegant is this fabric that it appears to exist as a pure and naturally occurring substance, as though the Gods gave the land Earth Fire Wind Water and Arrowstockades Cloth.

   Oh how the elves weep! How they lament their poor drawing in the cosmic lottery to be born of an inferior people. How they labor! How they toil without end in a futile endeavor to replicate the majesty of Dwarven made cloth producing bolt upon bolt stuffed into bin upon bin destined to become rags for wiping vomit or simply burned for their blasphemous mockery of dwarven craftsmanship. Should the dwarves witnessing this utter defacement choose to slaughter the traders who were so brazen as to present them with it there is certainly no sane soul who would blame them.

   “Oh Ricote, how I long for death! I have gazed upon an outfit of dwarven design, the silken fabric was like a sheet of precious silver! The colors were those of my very soul! The designs were those of my sweetest dreams. I gave them bins upon bins of cloth and barrels upon barrels of ale and cage after cage manned by exotic beasts from far away lands and I did a tree-kicking dance for their amusement but when our trade was done they had everything and I was permitted only to touch a sock of dwarven conception.”

   The wealth and grandeur of Arrowstockades! Dwarves labor cutting the tallest and grandest of trees. They toil smoothing the great logs of all knots and bark, pruning all stray branches, and inspecting each piece before anointing them in oil and polishing them to brilliant shine. These splendid trunks are carved into planks and assembled into bedframes topped in the mattresses of the finest down and decorated with ivory and horn. Feathers grown from the storied feather trees stuff mattresses so perfectly plush yet firm that one does not lie upon them but accept their embrace. And only then are these beds beyond the imagining of any king in the land worthy of being handed to even the lowest of dwarfkind.

   The dining hall! Fifty stories from floor to ceiling, a mile in any given direction, and a sea of tables and chairs each worth more than the wealth of a small nation stretching from wall to wall all inlaid with gold, silver, platinum, and precious gems. And in this great and sprawling hall dwarves from all walks of life enjoy meals of the most exotic meats and cheeses spiced with rare herbs from far away lands. In this great hall dwarves spent their days trying in vain to exhaust the pleasures of life in a dwarven paradise. There is for each dwarf on their arrival a meal set constructed from a half side of beef a whole side of pork two guineahens, a turkey, twelve turtles whose shells formed bowls and plates holding soups, jellies, puddings, and roasted vegetables, several fine sausages of different blends all eaten with mermaid bone utensils to avoid contaminating the delicate flavors with a metallic taste. All of this offered simply to garnish the sea monster caviar, unicorn cheese fondue, and a cut of steak from a creature so ancient and mysterious that it's name had been lost to the ages.
   Oh the riches of Arrowstockades. An expansive network of tunnels was constructed to house the vast ocean of drink stored inside. Good strong liquor of every variety and vintage stacked in vast stockpiles large enough to swallow a modest goblin tower. Casks stacked upon casks filled the glorious chasm and should a man be lucky enough to taste a new variety every day he should still die having never known all they had to offer. Wines so decadent that to taste them would fill a minotaur with laughter and merriment, ale so hearty that one swig would turn a fluffy wambler into a quarrelsome brawler, liqour so stiff that a single whiff would stagger the sturdiest yeti all served out of goblets of unearthly quality.
   And defending it all the most enduring symbol of dwarven might. The military of Arrowstockades, dwarves of fleet foot and strong back whose every shot lands true. Their blades razor sharp, their armor impenetrable, their shields thick and wide. Their crossbows of unearthly quality who without recoil launch their deadly missiles at blinding speeds landing with impossible precision at the heart of any target they chose. Warriors of the fiercest kind whose mettle and moral fortitude is beyond imagining. Standing against all challengers this unstoppable force is the greatest in all the land. Oh how the goblins lament! Their kind wallow in infinite desperation for a single dwarven child who carries the blood of the fortress to one day lead their forces.

“Oh Amxu I am lost! One dwarven general and my forces would be unstoppable. But they are ever vigilant, fearsome and proficient in all manners of warfare the defenders of Arrowstockades are truly undefeatable!”

   The promise of Arrowstockades was clear. Any dwarf who slogged through the Weathered Mire, where the terrain was so hostile the clothes would be worn right off the wearers back, walked across the Taciturn Plains ,where the silence was so definite that a dwarven heartbeat could be heard for miles, braved the Baleful Desert ,where fleshless vultures greedily devoured every scrap of life that treaded near, dared to hike the Mournful Hills, where the souls of oathbreakers and those dead by their own hand were said to walk, and could still be unsatisfied by what they saw in the Heavenly Petal-Fields, where it rained beer and the grass was softer than the softest down, could navigate the Forest of Smoke, where the trees were so thick they formed a haze, scale the Loveless Mountains ,which were so steep that a stone could fall from it's summit and reach sea level without ever touching the slope, could reach the spire of the Certain Tooth where fabled Arrowstockades lied. And in that Eden they would sing and laugh and dance with the characters of the most fantastic of dwarven legend and be at peace for all time.

Or so go the stories. There are many stories in dwarven legends. Some are grand, some are simple, some are wondrous, some are horrible. This is one of those last ones.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Daily Grind
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 05, 2013, 01:25:16 am

“We're here dear husband we're here!” Said Dumat Stakepondered to her husband Asen Hateumbra.

“Are you sure?” Asked a stranger from far back. “All I see is trees and more trees.”

“Yes I can see the top of the fortress from here! It's just up ahead now. I think there are men on the roof.” She replied.

“My wife's got the sharpest eyes in the empire!” Asen boasted. “She could count the hairs on their beards from this distance.”

“Yes!” Called another voice. “That is it! We've reached the fortress!”

Many days and many nights of travel brought the band to the gates. Thirty altogether they started their treks from different points but they had converged into a caravan of migrants. Some of there number had witnessed terrible trials and turned back, others had become injured or ill and had to be left at the nearest settlement, some still made it to the heavenly petal-fields and could not be persuaded to brave the Loveless Mountains when something so beautiful was already so near. Their feet were tired, their backs were sore, their bellies and packs were empty. The trip was grueling but it would be well worth it for soon the friendly denizens of Arrowstockades would greet them as friends and neighbors, and prepare beds while they were spirited to the great hall. But their first sight wasn't a dining hall, or even a regular hall. It was a dirty, nearly naked dwarf furiously strangling a struggling wolf. Treading new ground none of the group were quite sure about the social conventions for this particular scenario.

“Hello.” Said Dumat. “Are you alright?”

“If I choke this bear I get a toga!” he yelled.

“That's a wolf.” She replied.

“No,” he answered back. “It's definitely a toga.”

Not wanting to interrupt a man so invested in lupine asphyxiation they passed on to the main gate. The small structure was protected by a drawbridge, presently lowered, and a pair of doors, presently sealed. A dwarf of considerable years stood before them. In one hand he held a shimmering blade and in the other he held a great shield. His left eye milky white and surrounded by scar tissue his right eye a deep green hard and clear as emerald inspecting the newcomers. Before he could speak a yell came from the back.

A drow sprung from the dense wood and buried a knife into the chest of a migrant while simultaneously scooping her child into a sack. Without warning the semi-nude man from earlier sprung from the underbrush punching the drow in the back of the head. He proceeded to rain blows until the drow ceased to move. The gatekeeper called out to him with his thumb raised.

“Toga?” The gatekeeper inquired.
“Toga!” The blood spattered nudist replied.
“Grawk!” Squelched the bleeding dwarf.

The naked dwarf scooped up the bloody dwarf and hauled him indoors.

“That tends to happen.” Said the gatekeeper declining to explain. “Line up, the lot of you, and prepare to state your name and trade skills.

Dumat's optimism rendered her the least susceptible to the confusion and fear that had swallowed the group. “I'm Dumat Stakepondered. I'm a farmer”

The dwarf scribbled something onto a piece of paper with a bit of charcoal. “Dumplin Lakewanders, got it now what's your trade?”

“I'm a farmer, Dumat Stakepondered.”

“Okay and this is your husband?” The gatekeeper continued.

“Asen Hateumbra, Stonecrafter.” Said her husband.

“Okay so we have Dumplin Lakewanders--” The gatekeeper reiterated.

“Dumat Stakepondered” Interrupted Dumat.

“--and Asen Hateumbra--” Said the gatekeeper uninterrupted.

“Yep.” said Asen happily.

“Both Garbagedwarves.” Concluded the gatekeeper.

“What?” asked Dumat.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Daily Grind
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 05, 2013, 01:37:50 pm

“Garbagedwarves” Repeated the gatekeeper in a fashion she assumed was supposed to be happy. He noticed the confused and reluctant looks the pair wore. “It doesn't actually mean you'll be carrying garbage.” He explained.

“Well that's a relief.” Dumat said.

“It means you are garbage. You'll just be hauling things, like boulders, bins, barrels, bodies, and incidentally garbage.” the gatekeeper clarified.

“That can't be right.” Asen said. “I'm a skilled stonecrafter and my wife is an excellent farmer.”

“We don't really craft stones and we already have farmers.” said the gatekeeper.

“But you must also have plenty of haulers.” Asen pointed out.

“Garbagedwarves.” the gatekeeper corrected. “But you do have a point. I guess we only need a few haulers from this group. Your wife can do the hauling, you can manage the furnace because I think it will make you go away.”

“Maybe--”

“I'm already done paying attention to you.” The gatekeeper interrupted.

“Toga!” Came the cry as the door swung open.

“Toga!” Cheered the gatekeeper.

And there stood the nudist now wearing a toga of legendary quality. Deep purple in color and covered in images referencing the founding of the fortress.

“We have a garbagedwarf and a furnace operator.” The gatekeeper informed the no longer nude dwarf.

“Neither of those things are true.” Said Asen.

“Show them to their work assignments.” Said the gatekeeper ignoring them.

“Toga!” Gleefully replied the fully clothed nudist scooping the dead drow over his shoulders.

Inside the great wooden walls it was as though they had entered a different wilderness. The great indoor area had a great wooden roof riddled glass portals to let sun through. The ground was covered in tall grass and shrubbery and even a few trees spread about. Cragtooth Hog, and Tuskox, and Wooly Goat all passed through a never-ending cycle of being sheared and milked. Corn was taken from the plant and brewed into good whiskey or ground into meal. Cords of wood were stacked upon one another before being hauled to the mill to be smoothed and polished and cut into planks. Farmers tended to hens which sat upon eggs which sat upon nest boxes.

Dumat felt renewed optimism as joy swelled in her heart, this truly was the Arrowstockades of legend. “Don't worry husband. I'm certain everything will be fine. They have to process all these dwarves right now. I'm sure once things slow down we'll get everything straightened out.”

The nudist rolled his shoulders letting the body he carried fall to the ground. “So we'll start by having you throw this murdered drow corpse that I killed into the furnace.”

“Wait what?” Dumat replied.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: CognitiveDissonance on April 05, 2013, 01:59:41 pm

PTW. Love it.
"TOGA!"

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Daily Grind
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 05, 2013, 06:20:39 pm

“Your husband needs to burn this guy!” The Nudist replied brightly. “We can't just let him lay around, he'd stink up the place and possibly come back to life and revenge-kill me if necromancers come.”

“Does that happen?” Asen asked.

“No, because we burn the bodies and they will never come back.” The nudist answered.

“Are you afraid of zombies?” Asked Dumat.

“No, no, no, gods no.” The nudist assured unassuringly. “I'm a manly man! I'm not afraid of all of the animals and men I've watched die coming back to punish me.”

“That's an incredibly specific thing not to be afraid of.” Said Dumat.

“That's beside the point.” Insisted the nudist.“What matters is that inexperienced furnace operators get to huck corpses onto the fire. When he gets good at it maybe he can work the smelter but until then he's going to be burning corpses.”

“That sounds really unhealthy.” Said Asen.

“It's fine.” Said the nudist. “Sometimes you'll get a fever and start uncontrollably vomiting but that's to be expected.”

“That doesn't really sound fine.” Dumat pointed out.

“I guess it's really not.” The nudist conceded. “Still, he should start burning corpses. The other guys will show him all the tricks”

“There are tricks to burning corpses?” Asked Asen.

“No, I meant tricks for keeping the vomit off of your beard.”

“What?”

   “Goodbye!” Said the nudist leading Dumat away. Inside the enclosure there was a second structure, a small wooden building whose walls reached the roof. The central staircase rose up to the rooftop and down to the fortress. The Nudist ,who went on to introduce himself as Ashmon, led her down to the work area.

    The grassy ground gave way to sand. The walls were sand and the ground was brass. Brass roads connected the different stockpiles and workshops where dwarves busied themselves doing important and delicate labors. They manufactured furniture and mechanisms and clothes and with great care worked ivory and bone and horn and gems into the priceless treasures of Arrowstockades.

   And a level below that the sand and brass gave way to bare stone. Here he showed her the forges and the furnaces and the brick ovens. The furnaces he explained were manned by a team of experienced veterans of the corpse burning trade. The ovens were staffed by masons who baked boulders into the decorative bricks which made up the furniture of the nobility. From here Ashmon grabbed a wooden wheelbarrow and gave it to her to carry.

   Another level down the floor and the walls were now wooden. Here, he explained, were the quarters and the dormitories. Warm dry beds for all who needed them safe and secure behind the fortifications of Arrowstockades. In these rooms dwarves were given a lovely wooden cabinet decorated with ivory, two chests with images made of silver or gold, a table and chair accentuated by pewter lead or some other non precious decorative metal, and a bed of incredible quality inlaid with gems all secured behind a sturdy door. The north wing, he explained was reserved for dwarves in good standing who in addition to their rooms and furnishings were given a good stone plinth and an item of personal significance to display upon it. The Militia Commander had apparently earned a platinum chalice that related his first kill with with his favored weapon in gold. Dumat briefly considered what she would place on her plinth but Ashmon didn't pause long before leading her even further down.

   Here the floor was stone but unlike any she'd ever seen. Smooth stone darker than black with a brilliant shine. These stones were wholly unlike their inferior, pedestrian, kin and their understated and stately beauty was undeniable. They were so perfect in ebony color that if she looked at it for too long she got the impression that the bricks were not there and she was staring into a black void or a perfectly starless sky. These were the fine bricks created in the ovens Ashmon explained, and it was apparent to Dumat why such work was put into them.

   To the north, west, east, and south were great double doors. The northern doors led to the nobles quarters. They were made from the brick material and decorated with platinum. In front of them stood a dwarf lapped in shining golden armor. Too heavy and soft to afford any real protection, Ashmon said, but it was a strictly ceremonial position. To the east the doors were decorated with bone and Ashmon said they led to the crypts. To the west the doors were decorated with iron, the jails, Ashmon explained. And to the south behind the doors decorated in gold was the dining hall of legends

   Dumat tried to sue for just a peek inside but Ashmon was insistent that they report directly to her work site. This time many levels passed formed from common, raw stone untouched by dwarven hands. She marked their progress by the different colors of stone that they passed as they descended through different layers of strata. By the time they reached the bottom her legs had grown very weak and she struggled to catch her breath. They now stood in a tiny, empty, wooden room with a simple wooden door. Ashmon pushed it open and revealed an expansive cavern filled with great woody mushrooms taller than a dwarf and dense moss that formed a grass-like carpet broken up by deep blue pools of water.

   They were not alone in these depths, miners all about were busy digging into the veins of colorful minerals that marked the walls. All over in fairly orderly piles were piles of boulders, rocks, and pebbles of different colors. Ashmon approached one and gave it a pat.

“This is gold ore.” He said. “Load it in the wheelbarrow and haul it to the stockpile by the furnaces.”

Dumat looked back at the stairs.

“What?” She asked.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: MrWillsauce on April 06, 2013, 03:08:49 am

I love it.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Daily Grind
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 06, 2013, 01:06:57 pm

“It's easy!” Lied Ashmon. “Just load up the wheelbarrow and take it to the stockpile.”

“But there are stairs.” Said Dumat. “A whole lot of stairs”

“Well it's not easy--”

“You just said it was literally a second ago.”

“--but this is my favorite part of the job.”

“How can you enjoy carrying thousands of pounds of stone up a giant staircase in a wheelbarrow?”

“Well it helps you forget about the nightmares.”

“Nightmares?” She asked.

“You know, the nightmares you have about the undead hands of the men you've killed ripping the flesh from your bones.” He said smiling.

“Um...”

“Or you know just thinking about the sound a wolf makes when it's neck snaps in your arms.”

“Are you okay?”

“Of course, now let's get to work, the faster we get up these stairs the faster the howling stops.”

Deciding it would be better to stop that howling sooner rather than later she stopped arguing and began pushing the wheelbarrow towards the stairs. A very small dwarf Dumat just didn't have the weight or power to to be particularly effective at moving the wheelbarrow that now weighed almost twenty times what she did. She tightly gripped the wheelbarrow by it's handles and threw her weight behind it budging it only slightly. She pushed and pushed but only succeeded in moving a few feet and causing an agonizing pain in her back. Ashmon growing in patient began alternating between offering very unhelpful advice and practicing his toga dance.

“Maybe jump at it?”

“Maybe I should wiggle my shoulders and tap my feet?”

“Ride it like a mule, they're really good at climbing!”

“Pelvic thrust! Pelvic thrust! Pelvic thrust!”

Finally after much practice she discovered that the best way to tune him out was to focus on the pain building in her legs. Finally she resigned to her fate.

“Ashmon?” She asked humbly.

“Pelvic thrust!” He said for the sixty seventh time.

“Ashmon I don't think I can do this.”

“You have to!” Ashmon was so alarmed by her statement that he was unable to preform pelvic thrust number sixty eight. “This is the simplest work, if you can't do this they'll send you away!”

“They can't do that!” Exclaimed Dumat.

“Why they do it all the time!” Said Ashmon. “If you can't do this you can't do anything and they'll never let you stay in the fortress.”

   Dumat thought of all the friends that she and her husband had left behind to reach the safety of Arrowstockades. She thought of the fearsome wilderness and rough terrain they'd braved to reach the gates. She thought of how important it was that she start a family somewhere it would be safe, somewhere her child would have a chance to grow and learn and work and go onto have it's own children. Leaving just wasn't an option. She thought for a moment and examined the wheelbarrow. Her sharp eyes ran over the design of the cart and determined that most of the weight could be born by it's wheel. Also, that there was no danger of stones falling out of the high edges of the wheelbarrow. Thinking quickly she positioned her body directly under the handles and stood straight up allowing gravity to do the rest. The wheelbarrow now steamed forward and her only role was to steer it and try to keep up. With a great rumbling thud the wheel struck the stair and the hard part now began.

   She spun the wheelbarrow around took a solid position on the stairs. With a great heave and a mighty yell she pulled with all her might bringing the wheel up to the level of the first stair. She took no time to catch her breath and took another step back. Positioning herself on the stairs she gave another yell and another pull bringing it up another level. She repeated this dozens of times and each time was met by a slightly fuller symphony as more and more muscles began to strain and creak. The pain built and built while her energy fell and fell with each stair bringing the gold ore closer to the furnaces and her body closer to ruin.

   What was worse was that these lower stairs were strictly utilitarian and unlike the grandiose upper flights had made hastily and without measuring. They were of different heights and widths meaning sometimes she only had a thin strip of stone to get traction on and sometimes she had to raise her leg very high to plant her foot on the next tier. Unable to turn fully around without letting go of one of the handles she had to feel around with her foot while balancing the weight of the gold and attempt to ascertain the geography of the stairs. The alternative was a very long and very painful fall. She turned to Ashmon to divert her attention to something slightly less painful and only slightly more terrifying.

“So HRGHA!” She grunted ascending another stair. “That's a very nice toga?”

“Thank you.” Said Ashmon. “It's a symbol of the fortress guard. Luckilly goblins killed everyone except Feb last month.”

“That's the opposite of lucky.” Said Dumat resting on a stair.

“Feb said the only way I could join the guard was if every single dwarf under him was dead. He made me prove my worth by chasing down and strangling wolves.”

“Oh, that explains- well actually it explains very little.”

“I had to earn each piece of my uniform.” Said Ashmon. “That's why when you saw me I only had socks, gloves and boots.”

“I was wondering why you were naked.” Said Dumat.

“I wasn't completely naked.” Ashmon replied.

“I noticed.” Said Dumat.

“I did something clever with the sock.” Said Ashmon.

“I saw, please stop explaining.” Insisted Dumat.

“I put it on my penis.” Said Asmon.

“We don't need to talk anymore.” Said Dumat.

Determined now to get as far from Ashmon as possible Dumat was reinvigorated. She stumbled several times and even collapsed once but over the course of many hours she worked her way up the stairs. As she went along her progress became more apparent as the stairs became more even. Remembering the different colors of stone she determined there were only five or six more levels to go until she reached the furnace. However as often happens in life as she grew closer to her goal the difficulty sharply increased.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 06, 2013, 01:16:54 pm

“Excuse me.” Came the voice from behind. She cocked her neck back as far as she could and saw a dwarf standing patiently behind her. A miner, helmet on his head and pick over his shoulder was trying to pass to get to the work site in the caverns.

“Sorry.” She said. She wiggled and jimmied and slid until the wheelbarrow and her body were off to one side and the miner slipped passed with a wink and a nod. She tried to continue but the wheelbarrow's wheel was off center. The wheelbarrow didn't go in a straight line and occasionally either the frame or one of her arms would scrape the rough stone wall. She was forced to take the center path again alternating between ascending one stair and lifting one stair.

“Excuse me.” Came another voice. A woman struggling with a large wooden bin was standing behind her this time.

“Sorry.” She said again and once more manuvered and jostled and reoriented herself and the wheelbarrow to one side.

“Thank you.” The woman said hurrying down the stairs.

Once more she had to push and pull and shove the wheelbarrow back to the center of the staircase and with a great pull begin ascending the stairs again. A few more stairs passed before yet another voice called out.

“Coming through.” This was a stern looking woodcutter off to harvest the great woody mushrooms.

“Sorry.” She said and strained and struggled and shifted until the wheelbarrow and her body were out of the path.

The woodcutter just looked at her grumpily before passing by and going off to the caverns. She worked and labored, and huffed and puffed until the wheelbarrow was once more in line to ascend the staircase. A single stair went by this time before a voice from behind announced another worker.

“Squeezing passed.” He said pushing by. She worked very hard to prevent him from accidentally toppling the wheelbarrow and he worked very hard to do just that. “Thanks.” He said finally getting by.

She didn't even try to reposition the wheelbarrow. She just tried to keep it from tipping and keep the sleeve of her shirt or flesh of her arm from tearing too badly. Sure enough several more people came through some apologizing some admonishing her for blocking the staircase and some not paying attention to her at all. Still she found a bit of joy in the fact that the strata had once again become white meaning they were only one level below the forges. And then the bell rang.

“Somethings in the caverns.” Explained Ashmon. “Something dangerous.”
Sure enough a moment later a troupe of mail clad dwarf carrying a sword shoved passed her and just after he'd passed the miner ,his pick now dripping with blood, came running back up followed by a stampede of workers shoving their way back to the safety of the fortress. And then the bell stopped ringing.

That wave was met by a team of medics rushing to the wounded and struggling to find room to pass. They were joined by the woman with the bin returning to the caverns to finish her interrupted job and she brought with her the other haulers trying to slip their empty wheelbarrows by her full one.

And so she sunk. Lower and lower to the ground letting bins and barrels pass over her head while haulers shoved passed. Soon she was completely prone with men stepping over her frantically trying to get through the slowly growing clot in the tight corridor.

“Wait!” She called out to the mob. “Please stop for just a moment.”
The cacaphonic mob either did not hear or was not interested in her cries.
“Please! Just long enough for me to find my bearings.”
Her calls went unanswered.
“Ashmon, help me!”

“Toga!” He cried and was answered by several replies of “Toga!”

“You need to stop!” She yelled as errant boots began striking her sides and stepping on her legs.

“No!” she cried as her blistered, raw hands were filled with splinters and the wheelbarrow gave a horrible lurch forward spilling it's contents onto the stairs. The small mountain of gold ore rolled in a wave slamming into dwarves and knocking them off their feet or tripping them up causing an even greater wave of confused dwarves and the items they carried. Yells of anger, terror, and confusion split the air as dwarves fell on one another in the heap. When the rumble had stopped Dumat sat on the stairs surveying they damage done. The ore laid all over the stairs and the wheelbarrow laid in a far corner completely devoid it's contents.

“Welp,” said Ashmon. “Looks like we get to start over!”

Authors note: Ashmon was a dwarf who actually had to strangle wolves. He picked up "Doesn't really care about anything anymore" but was constantly ecstatic. I imagined him as a gleeful psychopath insisting everything was great while he watched the light leave a wolf's eyes.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Daily Grind
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 06, 2013, 03:28:58 pm

Dumat apologized to everyone who in turn continued to ignore her and go about their business. She recognized that she still had to get the gold to the furnace and didn't attempt to get Ashmon's help or advice. She righted the wheelbarrow and started piling the gold ore back in handful by handful. Ashmon busied himself with his toga dance for almost an hour before he was interrupted by Dumat's scream.

“What's the matter?” He asked.

“I've killed a man!” She cried tears streaming down her face.

“Me too! I've killed seven!” Ashmon said proudly. “Did you get a good grip on his neck or did you have to pummel him first? Are you screaming about his filthy undead hands clawing at your soul?”

“No! I mean just now, look!”

“Oh,” Ahsmon said disappointedly eyeing the corpse half buried in unprocessed ore. “I don't think that counts. He probably won't want to rip your eyes out for that.”

“I'm not screaming about undead claws!” She yellled.

“Lucky.” Ashmon said. “So why are you screaming?”

“Because he's dead!” Dumat yelled.

Ashmon stared blankly and began prodding the body.

“Stop poking that!” Came an order from upstairs. A man with a distinctly medical look and a distinctly homeless smell was rushing down the stairs. “We were wondering where that got to. A troll ripped him apart in the caverns, someone dropped him during the chaos.”

“That's horrible!” Said Dumat.

“It sure is!” Concurred Ashmon. “What if necromancers brought him back to life and his eyes reflected all of our sins?”

“I'm not talking about zombies Ashmon.” Dumat said.

“Well I suppose someone could have tripped over him but that's really a secondary concern.” He replied.

“I meant it's undignified! You can't just throw the dead about like trash, this man had a family, and friends, and- what are you doing!?”

“Taking his shirt.” Said Ashmon working the shirt off the stiff corpse. “Mine is getting a little worn.”

“You have a toga!” She yelled.

“And now I have a shirt to wear under it!” Ashmon said happily.

“This is insane, even you have to have more compassion than this!” She plead.

Without warning a child came running down the stairs and deftly yanked the socks off the mans feet. She looked up and sure enough more people were on their way down to claim the mans property from his yet warm body.

“No!” She shouted. The pain and ignorance and insanity she'd endured had finally reached it's zenith. She shoved the mob back and threw the man onto the pile of ore. “He's in the wheelbarrow now.” She said boldly. “I'm in the middle of completing a work order to haul the contents of wheelbarrow to their destination and if you stop me then this guard will have to stop you.”
Ashmon pelvic trusted his approval.

“Now run on!” She concluded loading the wheelbarrow with the rest of the ore. The break from the strenuous labor of hauling the wheelbarrow had given her body a chance to rest and that rest had given her muscles a chance to slacken. Her body now limp and noodly she struggled to get up the stairs a far weaker woman. Empowered by her choice to stick to her convictions she supplemented her physical weakness with her spiritual strength. When she reached her destination she gently laid the fallen dwarf on the ground and dumped out the ore.

The Furnace Operators began shoveling immediately and by the time she'd worked the body back into the wheelbarrow and prepared to depart they'd already produced a few bars of gold and dispensed with the waste material. She was resentful about how much easier their job was but she dispelled those negative thoughts and proceeded to what Ashmon had pointed out as the crypts. The long hall had acloves every few feet where slabs and coffins rested. The silence of the crypts was a welcome reprieve from the hustle and bustle of the fortress. She read the many slabs relating the names and manners of death of the coffins occupants surmising by the proximity of the years a few cataclysmic events.

Apparently in a winter a few years ago there was a mass drought which claimed at least nine dwarves and a few years later seven dwarves died in a fire. Only a few months later a goblin attack claimed twelve and a few months after that the last of the casualties died in the hospital. There were a few accidents and a few “accidents” one outright murder and one death by natural causes. Finally she came to a slab with no name and laid the dwarf to rest in the coffin behind it. She found she had nothing to say about him or his passing and instead let the silence speak for itself. She sat for several minutes in the sacred stillness before going off to find her husband.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: MightyDorf on April 06, 2013, 03:49:29 pm

Loving your story so far. Keep up the good work !

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Daily Grind
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 06, 2013, 10:10:44 pm

Leaving peace of the crypts Dumat found her reserve of inner strength depleted. Physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted her body demanded rest. What remained of her will however compelled her to find her husband before she laid down to rest. With her work order complete Ashmon left Dumat to her own devices.

She found her way back to the open technically indoor area and looked around the furnace. Asen was nowhere to be seen. She saw instead a few strange, filthy, men shoveling piles of rat carcasses into the furnace.

“What happened to Asen?” She asked the least strange but most filthy man.

“Who?” Asked the filthy dwarf.

“My husband, the new worker.” Said Dumat.

“Oh, the new guy.” The dirty dwarf nodded in understanding. “He was taken to the hospital.”

“What!?” Dumat ask-laimed

“He passed out from the smell and choked on his own vomit.” Said the disgusting dwarf. “That happens sometime.” He added.

“Where's the hospital?” She asked.

“It's upstairs.” Said the soot-caked dwarf. “But that's not where he is.”

“Well then where is he?” She demanded becoming frustrated.

“One of the dormitories.” Said the dirty-smelly-gross dwarf. “Not sure which.”

And so Dumat went back inside, and down three flights of stairs, and down a hallway, and all throughout a large, dark, sleeping area, and then back down that hallway, and down another hallway, and throughout another dark sleeping area, and then back down said hallway, before going into into yet another hallway, and all over a third dark sleeping area, and back down said hallway, and then down another hallway, and throughout another large sleeping area before discovering she was in the first sleeping area again, and then back down that hallway, and then down the fourth hallway, and all throughout the dark sleeping area before finally finding her husband.

“Asen!” She cried happily.

“Hello Dumat.” Asen said weakly.

Her legs buckled and she collapsed beside him.
“How was your day?” She asked.

“Poor.” Said her husband. “Shoveling garbage, rotten food, and the body parts of animals and even men was taxing work. The smell... They say I inhaled a lot of my own vomit but they wouldn't let me stay in the hospital. I came here to rest but the beds were all full even though the sun hadn't even set. Apparently day and night don't mean a lot here. Told me I had to sleep on the floor. But no use crying about the past, how was your day?”

“Wonderful.” She said. “Pick the stones up and put them down somewhere else, simple work.”

“I'm glad your day was better than mine.” Asen Said. “I don't think I can handle many more days like this.”

Dumat smiled. “I know how it can get better.”

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Daily Grind
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 07, 2013, 06:43:40 am

Her body voiced it's disapproval of all the work today had held. After hiking ten miles through rough wilderness, walking throughout the fortress with Ashmon, climbing down the great staircase, climbing up the great staircase, loading the wheelbarrow, climbing the rest of the way up the great staircase, burying the dwarf, climbing the rest of the great staircase, and walking all over the dormitory level every muscle cried out in pain but there was enough will in her for one more task.

She staggered to her feet.

“Where are you going?” Asen asked.

“To dinner.” She said. She scooped Asen up supporting his entire weight on her shoulders.

“No, I'm too feverish to move and I'm too sore to walk.” He said. Dumat pressed on undeterred.

“Please Dumat set me down, I'm far too heavy.” He insisted. Dumat took one step at a time with heavy yet steady footfalls. Her body protested. She'd undoubtedly incurred severe injuries to her muscles this day but the mind was stronger than the body. Down the hall and down the stairs to the great doors.

The sight of the beautiful, brilliant, sheen of the black stone energized her. All over the door were spectacular images in gold and gems. From the Baroness and her six confederates founding the settlement, to the great fires and famines that had plagued the fortress. She pushed the door open and revealed the renowned dining hall of Arrowstockades.

It was no sea but it could seat thirty dwarves at a time and featured magnificent statues. All about dwarves in various states of exhaustion and starvation greedily munched on various foods and guzzled flagons of various drinks. She found an open spot and sat her husband down. She spotted in the back of the room a dwarf with an odd hat and filthy face stood by numerous barrels with a ladle and a stack of lead mugs and plates.

“Hello.” She said.

“Hello.” He replied. “Food or drink?” He asked.

“Both.” She said. “For two dwarves.”

In practiced motions he laid out two plates and two mugs and with a scoop of his ladle filled each mug with brown liquor and then with the same ladle piled both plates with brown mush.

“What is this?” She asked as politely as she could.

“Corn whiskey and Tallow Cakes.” He replied with a smile.

“Tallow is inedible.” She pointed out.

“Well sure it is raw, but this is minced tallow.” He retorted.

“You can't mince tallow.” She said.

“I can,” said the cook. “I'm a cook. Besides there's other stuff in them.”

“Like what?” She asked.

“Minced tallow, finely minced tallow, and acorns.”

“I can't eat this.” She said.

“Well there'll be a different meal tomorrow.” He said. “We're out of acorns so I'll have to figure out a recipe for tallow cakes that doesn't need acorns. I think I'll use some minced tallow.”

“I'm starving,” she conceded. “I'll try your tallow cakes.”

She balanced the plates and mugs and went back to the table.

“What is this?” Asen asked.

“It's uh, very tasty.” She replied.

Maybe it was her desperate need for refueling but the tallow cakes weren't a bad way to end an awful day. They were to put it lightly a high energy foodstuff but it wasn't like she couldn't use the calories. She'd worked harder than she'd ever had and she was in more pain than she'd ever experienced but it was done now. She was enjoying good food and drink beside her husband now with the days challenges finally done.

She was truthfully happy for the trials today had held, completely pleased with how awful it had all been. She'd proven to herself just how strong she could be, and it stood to reason that as long as you learn from your mistakes the next day is always easier than the last. Soon today would just be a fun story to tell, soon the great staircase would be a leisurely stroll, soon Arrowstockades would be home.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Liber celi on April 07, 2013, 07:31:13 am

PTW, good work

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Cwivers of dubious quality
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 07, 2013, 08:21:52 am

Sure enough the next day was easier. Her body was wracked with pain from the very beginning but there was no need to relearn the techniques. Since she figured out the rhythm on the first day and she knew to avoid traffic in the stairwell she was able to get her wheelbarrow up the stairs almost two hours earlier this time. She once again carried Asen who had once again taken ill to dinner and once again enjoyed a strange but satisfying meal.

The third day was easier still, she'd taken a bit of time to work on the wheelbarrow and prevented it from wobbling shaving a little time off of each stair she had to climb. On the fourth day Ashmon found her a pair of gloves and she no longer had to stop adjust her grip and she reached the top just before sunset. She took the time off to visit Asen who had fallen sick every day but was no longer allowed to quit working. Eventually she sensed that her presence was distracting him and went on to find Ashmon ,who never seemed to be particularly busy, but someone sighted an ostrich and he ran off into the wilderness to punch it in the face.

It was far too late to take another work order and she didn't want to sit down for dinner without Asen so she just leaned against a jewlers shop waiting for time to pass.
“Hello.” Said a friendly voice from above. An old dwarf with a great gray beard and a great crooked nose peered down at her seated form from the workshop. “You seem troubled.”

She sighed. “I just don't know about all of this,I wish they would let me do something important.”

“They do!” Said the jewler matter of factly. “Everything's important. If it wasn't then nobody would have to do it.” He pointed out.

“I'm not important.”Dumat lamented. “I'm a garbagedwarf. I just haul rocks while my husband burns rats.”

He slowly walked around the workstation and sat down beside her with a grunt. “We need a constant supply of ashes.” He said. “So dwarves work all day throwing rat carcasses into the fire and pulling out bars of ash. Then the potash makers work day and night to make potash.” he pointed out a few men laboring with a bin full of ash bricks. “The potash gets taken to the kilns and baked into pearlash. While that's happening the miners labor deep in the caverns to extract rock crystal and ore.” He pointed to men working with glass. “Then they mix the rock crystal and the pearlash to make crystal glass. And then that ore is smelted and worked into shapes and that glass is cut into gems and then....”
He reached over the workshop table and drew his hand back with an object in his grip. He held an immaculate golden goblet inlaid with gorgeous glimmering gems. As perfect as any diamond they glimmered even in the dim light of the tunnels. She understood why someone would wage wars or trade kingdoms for an item of such beauty.
“Then I set those glass gems into the golden crafts. But when someone holds a genuine Arrowstockades goblet they think of dwarven craftsmanship, they don't think of burning rats, or long staircases, or pulled muscles and men vomiting in hospital beds. They just think of how beautiful the end result is even if the road to get there was awful. And who knows, maybe if you work hard enough they'll notice you. For now your just one migrant out of thirty but if you keep working they'll give you more opportunities, then maybe you'll get a room of your own.”

Dumat struggled with her words for a moment before settling on “Thank you.”
The old dwarf returned to his workshop but continued chatting lightly with Dumat until a familiar voice split the air.

“Order come down for Dumplin Lakewanders!” it cried. When Dumat turned there stood Feb One-Eye wearing his full armor over a toga of incredible quality.

“I'm Dumat Stakepondered.” Said Dumat Stakepondered.

“No!” Barked the captain of the guard. “Dumplin Lakewanders, says the paper and for Dumplin Lakewanders I search.”

“Well my name is Dumat Stakepondered.” She was determined to get the captain to call her by the correct name.

“I've got a special work order for Dumplin Lakewanders, if she's not here to take it someone else will be happy for the opportunity.”

She remembered what the jewler said, 'work hard enough and they'll notice you.' She decided it wasn't incredibly important that the Captain called her by her name. “I'm Dumplin Lakewanders.” She said.

He sauntered over with a paper in his outstretched hand. “Well if you're done mispronouncing your own name this is for you.”

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Cwivers of dubious quality.
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 07, 2013, 08:48:57 am

“Tree Cwivers” Said the paper. The secret message had been passed down directly from the manager and whatever it was it was clearly important. So important, she thought, that it couldn't be described in clear terms.

Tree was a simple clue. She should find a tree, but there were many trees. There were trees outside and trees in the cavern and even a few trees inside the enclave. Was she to find a specific tree or a specific type of tree or just anything that could be considered a tree? Should she cut it, climb it, search it for a dead drop of some kind?

Or perhaps she thought tree was a reference to an elf? She had to find an elf? Catch an elf? Kill an elf? That didn't make sense. Maybe there really was a Dumplin Lakwewanders who was some kind of warrior or professional elf assassin?

Or maybe tree was a verb? She had to tree someone? Something? She could find an elf and chase it up a tree! But that would be difficult, she thought. She wasn't particularly scary so there was always a chance that the elf wouldn't be afraid enough to run at all much less climb. Then again there was no reason to be so stuck on elves. Traditionally one trees raccoons, was she being assigned to a secret raccoon catching mission? To find a new source of pelts and affordable meat? If any old hauler could catch a raccoon without any tools or hounds then the fortress would have all the hides and meat it could use! The Hunters guild wouldn't like that, they would be less important to the fortress and might loose their rooms. They may try to kill her! She considered stuffing wooden planks into her clothes as a sort of makeshift armor.

But then, she thought, what is Cwiver? C is a homophone for Sea of course so she was to find the nearest ocean. That would explain why she was chosen, the ocean was many miles south and in between were hills and mountains and dense forests. Her brief but intense experience with the grand staircase made her an excellent candidate for a long journey. But what was a wiver?

Wiver, she concluded was how a young child would say river. So she had to find a river, a saltwater river and she had to bring a baby to it. But what about the Tree? Of course! She thought happily she had to cut down a tree and catch the raccoon that fell out and find a young child and then take him to where a river met the ocean and put him on the log and send him across like a tiny sailor with a raccoon first mateand that would accomplish... No that probably wasn't it at all. The note was, as far as she could tell complete gibberish. Luckily however she knew someone who spoke gibberish.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Cwivers of dubious quality.
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 07, 2013, 10:54:26 am

“Three Quivers.” Said Ashmon glancing at the paper before immediately returning his attention to the cougar he was wrestling.

“It says Tree Cwivers.” Dumat said.

“The managers illiterate.” Explained Ashmon locking his legs around the cougars left rear leg.

“He probably shouldn't be a manager then” Dumat pointed out.

“He was one of the original seven.” Ashmon retorted stretching the cougar.

“But he's miserably unqualified.” Said Dumat. “And so am I! I'm not a leatherworker, I've never held a needle and thread.”

“Still!” Ashmon yelled over the cougars incessant howls. “It's got the Baroness's stamp on it. If you don't complete the work order you'll be jailed.”
“Well how do I start?” Asked Dumat.
“First you need leather.” Ashmon arched his back and with a loud pop the cougar fell still.

Ashmon slung the cougar over his shoulders and with heavy steps led Dumat back to the Enclave and to the Butchers shop. The dwarf stationed at it was soaked in blood and caked with dirt. Ashmon laid the cougar on the table and the butcher wordlessly and with apparent skill processed it into it's component pieces. Ashmon took the skin over to the tannery and while that piece was being tanned the tanner handed him a few pieces of leather and then it was off to the leatherworks. There were several workshops but they were in use. Dwarves worked tirelessly making leather armor for the militia to wear under their metal armor. The sight of the empty leatherworks was paralyzing. The table was covered in delicate instruments and tools hanging from hooks and tucked into drawers, and sitting about in precarious orders silently judging her inexperience. Dumat laid the leather on the station and stared blankly at it.

“Now make it into a quiver.” Ashmon instructed.
“How?” Dumat asked.
“I don't know.” Ashmon said. “Quivers carry bolts so make something that carries bolts and that will be a quiver.”

“That makes sense I suppose.” Dumat said with a sigh.

She'd seen quivers before. They were tubes that bolts got put into, hunters and marksdwarves carried them. So she endeavored to create a leather tube. The workshop had many tools and no doubt there was a correct way to make a quiver but she didn't fully understand what the tools did or what actually went into leathercraft. Cautiously treading new ground she opted to ignore the more complicated tools and focus on creating a utilitarian product. She recognized shears and knew their purpose so she started by cutting a piece of leather to approximately quiver size.

'Leather tube' she thought. She rolled the leather into a tube shape and pinched it together with her fingers. She realized that she didn't have a needle so she released the tube, for a moment she lamented not measuring how tightly she'd rolled it but then remembered it didn't really matter. She'd never used a needle but she knew what they were supposed to look like so she took the straightest one and after almost a minute of doing ran a piece of thread through it.
Her first stitch was awkward, the leather was very tough, and by the time she forced the needle through the two sides of the leather were no longer straight and her thumb was directly in the path of the needle. Her second stitch was a bit more experienced and though a bit of slippage occurred it was more or less fine she only pricked herself half as bady. The third stitch was a little better and a little more even and she hardly pricked herself at all. By the time she'd done her last stitch she had the technique down and on several occasions completed a stitch without pricking herself. It was a bit rough but she had successfully created a leather tube. She cut the excess from her first bad stitch and quickly fastened it to the bottom pricking herself less than seven times.

“It's done.” She said.

“Are you sure?” Ashmon asked.

“Yes, It's a quiver.” She said.

“Are you sure?” Ashmon asked.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Cwivers of dubious quality.
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 07, 2013, 01:23:25 pm

Hauling was physically demanding but this delicate work was mentally exhausting. She focused so intently that her head began to throb and her eyes began to ache. The quiver was stained red with her blood in places and between cramping and pricking her fingers suggested rather vehemently that she give up. Her product was so much less than she envisioned, while it could technically hold bolts the stitching was too weak to last for very long and if loaded in full there was a non-negligible chance that the bottom would fall out.

“This is my best.” Dumat said.

“That's sad.” Replied Ashmon.
She grew frustrated with the general unhelpfulness of Ashmon and everyone else in the fortress. Of the terrible food and the terrible people with their terrible lies and their terrible work. She stabbed angrilly into the next piece of leather and with a ragged motion stabbed back through. And with a long ugly swipe she hacked a piece of leather with a sharp tool and fastened the new piece to the bottom. Soon she had finished another leather tube far less sturdy than the first.
“That's two.” She said.

“Are you sure?” Asked Ashmon.

“Yes.” She replied.

One day a hunter would wear that quiver on his back and he would never care that a tired, hungry, dwarfette had quite literally poured blood and sweat into it's manufacture. He would never care that her muscles ached from a long day of hauling stone or that she was distracted by concerns for her ill husband. He would never care that she had never worked leather prior and had tried her very best. He would just think how terrible his quiver was. But if nobody cared about the pain she'd suffered maybe it truly didn't matter? Maybe momentary suffering was just a rough chapter in an overall happy story?

“I can't do this,” Dumat said.

“Sure you can,” Ashmon replied. “Just not very well.”

“This isn't how crafting works.” Dumat insisted. “I can't just reverse engineer a quiver from memory.”
Ashmon stared vacantly.
She thought for a minute about how to phrase it in a way he would understand. “You wear togas on your body right?”

“Of course!” Said Ashmon gleefully.

“And togas are made from cloth right?”

“Yes!” Ashmon exclaimed happily.

“So if I made something out of cloth that you could wear on your body it would be a toga?”

“NO!” Ashmon screamed a deep rumbling scream that shook the caverns. “No!No!No!No!” He yelled with fury in his eyes.

“Shhhh! Calm down, calm down Ashmon!” Dumat tried desperately to placate him.

“That's not how togas work!” He shouted.

“And it's not how quivers work either.” Dumat said.

“Oh, that makes sense.” Ashmon smiled as wide as he had been and showed no indication that he had been shrieking in fury a moment earlier.

“So...” She chose her words very carefully. “If I had to make a toga but I'd never done it before how would I start?”

“By looking at a toga.” Ashmon replied.

“That's a good place to start, find me the best quiver you can.” Ashmon ran off to the stockpiles and began rummaging through bins. Dumat had never made, held, or even really looked closely at a quiver, figuring out what a quiver looked like seemed to be a good starting point. When Ashmon came back he was holding a magnificent quiver made of the finest leather and stitched together with care. It was fairly flat, almost like a leather plank with rounded edges, and the bottom tapered into a triangular shape. Designed to be worn like a belt and secure bolts near the hip it combined form and function. The leather was very soft but incredibly tough, it's gentle ruggedness gave it character. And so too did the bone worked into it's side, it's pure milky white color was lovely but that did not detract from the menace of it's spikes. The beautiful crystal glass gems were clear as a mountain stream and they sparkled like the stars in the sky., but their splendor didn't conceal the cold hardness natural to their kind. The silk that adorned it were elegant and yet she had no doubt that even a troll would be unable to tear a sheet of it. She understood now that a quiver was equal parts work of art and instrument of death. She had her model.

“Well I have to check my room for undead hands.” Asmon said. “I'll see you you tommorrow Dumplin.”
“Dumat.” She said.
“You're welcome.” He replied.

It was very late now. Asen had surely been carried back to the dormitory by now and was probably fast asleep. She had made a point to carry him to dinner every night but by morning he would be able to walk himself to the dining hall for breakfast. She had a lot of work to do if this last quiver was going to be one worth making. If Ashmon was to believe she had a few days to dally with the work order before she was carted off for disobeying it, she would make use of every minute. She took a piece of charcoal from the workshop table, flipped her work order over, and began a list of things she would need.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: MightyDorf on April 07, 2013, 01:50:02 pm

Sweet !

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Cwivers of dubious quality.
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 07, 2013, 05:28:06 pm

Dumat woke up early and went to work immediately. Her first two quivers were disgraceful. She rushed in determined to work on the fly. This time her approach would be steady and thorough. She vowed to do no actual leatherwork today, instead she would plan, plan, and plan once more.

She rummaged through the trash for a few pieces of scrap wood and began using them to mark the measurements of the the model quiver. She took precise records of it's length and width, the angles it tapered at, the actual amount of decoration, and the distance between each of the fastenings.

Then it was time for professional consultation. found the most leathery looking woman she could and asked for advice about leathercraft. The woman ,who was called Gosmer, was on break but she had few friends and was happy to have someone interested in talking to her. She described each tool and it's purpose and taught Dumat all about different qualities of leather. She taught her how to render it rigid or pliable in different areas and when either would be appropriate. Anything that could be taught in an afternoon was and by the end of it Dumat had a good idea of how to start her final quiver.

But that wouldn't be enough. After all, why would a baroness specially commission quivers if not for a hunt? A big lavish hunt for fox or stag, a hunt attended by lords and ladies of the land. And at that hunt she would distribute the quivers surely saving the best for herself.

“My baroness, what a fine quiver that is.” They would say.
“Yes,” she would reply. “It is a masterwork by Dumat Stakepondered, a recent migrant to the fort.”
“Wonderful.” They would say. “You must be very glad that Dumat Stakepondered is in your fort.”
“Yes,” she would agree. “I've seen fit to give she and her husband their own room with a nice display stand and no other stinky, snorey, dirty dwarves to steal all the beds and make her sleep on the floor.”
“Will you ever make her carry giant boulders up a giant crowded staircase with a rickety wheelbarrow?” They would ask.
“Of course not.” She would reply.

And then everything would be perfect. She tracked down a bonecarver and had him explain the ins and outs of his craft. He taught her the different types of tools and their uses. He showed her all the basic techniques to shape bone and how to affix them to leather. Before she was done listening he'd taught her everything there was to know about the properties of different types of bones and which ones would look best affixed to leather. When that was done she found a clothier and sat down while he laid out the bullet points of the trade. He showed her all the tricks to stitching evenly and how to avoid pricking her fingers. He went over and how to hide a stitch and how to make them solid. He showed her all the different kinds of needles and taught her when to use each one. By now it was very late but she had one final job to do. She found the friendly jeweler and he was eager to offer his advice. He showed her how to cut and affix gems. He showed her the different cuts and styles of cabochon and the different tools he used.

By the time she was done her work order was covered in notes, her head swam with details, and her set of makeshift tools had grown very large. Tomorrow she would begin her masterwork.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Cwivers of dubious quality.
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 08, 2013, 06:03:40 pm

By the time the sun rose Dumat had been hard at work for an hour. There was a lot of work to do if her final quiver was going to make up for the haphazard craftsmanship of other two. Resource acquisition was her first task.

The Bookkeeper ,she'd gathered, kept obsessive records of every piece of glass, bone, silk, and stray leaf in the fortress. She had been allotted three pieces of leather and nothing else to complete the task, unauthorized use of fortress supplies may get her in trouble. If she was going to do it right she was going to have to acquire all the materials herself.

“-Silk
-Glass
-Bone”
So went her supply list. Silk was first. She watched the collectors and observed their technique. It was fairly simple, all she had to do was take a pair of sticks and try to collect the web as intact as possible. After a bit of doing she twisted the web into a single thread and with instructions from weavers and some alone time with an unattended bench she had created a serviceable strip of cloth.

Glass would be more difficult. She couldn't use an axe so she found a dead tree. Her experiences hauling stone up the grand staircase had rendered her quite strong and with a good push and a good pull the tree came down with a loud crack. She found the wood furnace unattended and burned it into charcoal. She wasn't allowed to use any bags so she collected sand in her pockets and some in her stretched out shirt then hauled it down to the glass furnace spilling most of it and ultimately making a second trip. With the tools available and the advice she was offered she successfully made a chunk of raw glass. She took it and put it with the silk in the work shop.

The last ingredient for her masterpiece was bone. Getting bone that wasn't already parceled out to the professional bonecarvers , meant finding and killing an animal. Ashmon would gladly handle this for her but Feb One-Eye informed her that he was resting in the hospital. As an alternative to safety or prompt treatment Ashmon ,Feb explained, had a standing monthly appointments with the hospital to have his dozens of accrued bites, scratches, and stab wounds professionally washed. She would have to get the bones by herself.

She'd closely watched Ashmon during his multiple altercations and surmised a few things. First, that striking the first blow was important. Even though it had a knife the drow had no chance to strike at him because Ashmon's first blow won him the initiative. Second, that the use of distance was imperative. When he strangled the wolf he kept his body too close for it to gain leverage and kept far back enough to prevent it from biting. Third, that wrestling could end a fight very quickly. The cougar despite being much stronger than Ashmon wasn't able to prevent having it's neck snapped.

And so Dumat Stakepondered became a hunter. But first she had to learn to hunt. She spent the early morning hours stalking the hunters as they pursued their quarry. She watched the way they stepped, they gently tested the ground with their lead foot and if it proved sturdy they planted the ball of their foot and slowly shifted their weight forward. Once their lead foot became their plant foot they tested the ground with their other foot and began again.

   It required a great degree of technique, caution, and patience to avoid stepping on any of the twigs, pinecones, or unsteady rocks that littered the ground while trying to navigate dense forest. The most skilled of the others moved only slightly slower than a normal walking speed preforming the entire process in a second. She mimicked them as best she could and when she felt ready she began her own hunt.

   She stalked through the forest searching for something she could take down. She eventually stumbled upon a stag but without a crossbow she had to get close enough to bring it down with her bare hands. The stag however, was better at spotting than she was at sneaking and before she got within striking distance it bounded off over the hills.

   She continued her hunt and as time went on she was very happy to have missed the deer. While it's bones and fine horns would serve her purposes she realized exactly how hard it would be to beat a deer to death with her bare hands. She could have been injured or killed if the beast had turned on her. She focused on smaller game now, using her sharp eyes to spot pawprints and droppings. Soon she found her prey. The small brown rabbit sat in a small green clearing absently nibbling at some clover.

   She approached slowly, it's only blindspot was directly behind it so she maneuvered all the way around. Getting closer and closer to the ground she stepped then crawled then stopped and stared dead on. One quick lunge would overpower the hare but when she prepared to attack she froze, there in the corner of her eye was a kobold creeping towards the fortress.

   She prepared to yell for the guard but stopped herself. If she could apprehend the thief she would be a hero. If she returned to the Baroness with a chained kobold thief and her three new quivers she would be given a room on the spot! She may even be granted a title of nobility, she couldn't expect to be made a duchess or a lady but surely the fortress would gleefully vote a hero for mayor.

   She picked up a rock of good weight and moved carefully behind the kobold. If she could just knock the kobold down and get it's weapon away then she could take it back to the fortress alive for trial. She would testify about how she briefly interrupted her important work for the fortress to protect the safety of her new home. She steadied herself.

“One quick blow” she thought. “Just like Ashmon.”

with a swift motion she lashed out with all her might and squarely struck the air where the kobolds head used to be.

“I'm not Ashmon.” She remembered.
She pondered that fact while a copper dagger tore into her stomach.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Cwivers of dubious quality
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 13, 2013, 02:54:38 pm

“Hello Dumat.” said a friendly voice.
Her eyes were already open but she was possessed of consciousness only by the most liberal definitions.
“Asen?” She asked the nearby blurs.

“Yes.” He replied. “We're in the hospital. You've been up here for three days now.”

Dumat began to remember her expedition to catch a rabbit. She'd stupidly tried to apprehend a Kobold thief and was predictably stabbed.

“I'm glad you came to visit.” She said weakly.

“I didn't really.” He said.

She looked over and saw her husband lying back with his arm bandaged.

“I had a minor accident.” He explained. “I heard you were in a fight with a Kobold.”

She looked at her stomach. A long ugly scar ran diagonally along her abdomen. Judging by the size of the wound organs had inevitably been pierced.

“Just a nick.” She lied. “I just thought I could spend a day or two relaxing.”

“I'm glad you're in better health than I.” He said. “They'll have to stitch me up before I regain full control of my arm.”

“That's awful.” She said struggling to maintain consciousness. “What happened?” She asked.

“Sparring accident,” he replied. “They haven't issued me armor yet.”

“What?” Dumat asked.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Cwivers of dubious quality
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 13, 2013, 05:39:40 pm

“I'm in the militia now.” Asen said. “After they finished processing all the migrants they sought me out personally. I'll probably never see any action but if I work my way up to captain we get a proper room.”

“You aren't very strong and you have trouble breathing.” Dumat pointed out. “This isn't a very good idea.”

“I'm as strong as anyone else in the squad.” Asen said. “We're the fifth melee squadron. All the veteran warriors are in the first corps, the skilled soldiers are in the guard, the experienced fighters are in the second squad and anyone whose ever held a blade is in the third squad. The fourth squad is just people who don't have real jobs and by the time someone's assigned to the fifth squad it's usually because they're crippled. I don't need help getting up the stairs so I'm a shoe-in for the captains position.”

“I'm still concerned.” Dumat said. “I think you should seek discharge.”

“It'll be fine Dumat.” Asen insisted. We just patrol the fortress so people feel safer and the guard doesn't have to stop training. I'll spend a few days a month walking in circles and for all the trouble we'll be guaranteed a room of our own when the militia captain steps down.”

Dumat realized the battle was futile. “Please,” she begged. “Ask Ashmon to train you. His advice might save your life.”

Asen smiled. “There's no need Dumat but if it will make you happy I'll find Ashmon and I won't go on patrol until he trains me.”

Dumat calmed down. “Thank you.” She said.

They talked for a bit about nothing important until a grime covered dwarf pushed the door open. He wordlessly kicked Dumats bed.
“You aren't awaiting any treatments.” He informed her. “Back to work.” He ordered.

The Arrowstockades medical system was apparently not particularly big on aftercare. She wasn't offered a crutch or help getting up or even a kind word. She struggled to her feet and tried to conceal the pain in her eyes while she went to find Ashmon.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 13, 2013, 06:14:05 pm

So if you've been following the story you probably noticed the updates suddenly stopped. I wrote about fifty pages over one lazy weekend and parceled them out several times a day. Now that it's back to work for me I'll be updating more conservatively, once a day probably, and I'll continue that until I reach the end of the story. I've also divided it up into chapters to make it a little easier to read. Just to reiterate, the updates will continue.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: CaptainLambcake on April 13, 2013, 07:38:26 pm

i love it

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: laularukyrumo on April 13, 2013, 08:02:39 pm

I cried a little when she got stabbed. No lie.

You offer a truly personal look into the life of a migrant. In Dumat's honor, I'm going to play a fortress without changing labors. Ever. Let them do the job they were trained to do, and make it work.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Cwivers of dubious quality
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 14, 2013, 09:42:45 am

Now that Ashmon was free to help finding bones was fairly simple. He wandered out into the woods and came back a few minutes later with a dead beaver plucked fresh from the river. When it was processed Dumat had her bones and her material list was finished. Her time in the hospital meant she didn't have as much time to work as she'd hoped but she should still have a day to work.

   Forming the body of the quiver wasn't easy but she had obsessed over the design day and night and had a pretty good idea of where to start. She wrapped the leather around a plank of wood and sewed it together with one of the heavier threads available on the table. She went on softening dying polishing and painting in certain places until it looked like a proper quiver. When she was satisfied she used the specialized tools to carve simple designs into the straps and central to the side that would face the body she added an image of a great steeloak, the symbol of the dwarven civilization.

   The beavers bones were delicate but when polished they had a nice shine. She spent hours shaping the bones into desirable forms trying to replicate the elegant and feminine curves of the bonework on the model quiver. She made a few mistakes but she was quick to correct them and shape down other pieces to make it all symmetrical. She took some of the scrap material and created cameo cut bone cabochons mixing techniques that Dastot the Jewler and Sulus the bonecarver showed her. When she was done her fingers ached and her hands were covered in fine white powder. She surveyed her work and was rather pleased with the symmetry and evenness of the bands and spikes. Her images of the Baroness laboring to create the settlement may have been a bit but she should find it flattering nonetheless.
   The silk gave her a bit more trouble. She stitched and stitched and managed to affix a pre-cut piece of cloth to the quiver. She made a few simple designs and shapes and when she was satisfied she worked more into the fittings. The silk thread was used to reinforce the stitching and make the quiver more comfortable on it's user.
   With great care she cut the green glass into a few rough gems and then proceeded to cut them down. She experimented with a few different cuts making a few pear and trillon cuts until deciding cushion cuts looked the best and set them all over with a few of her odd cuts in strategic positions. When she'd finished she took a big piece and created a nice cameo cut referencing Feb One-Eye's appointment to Captain of the Guard.

   Her hands badly cramped and her eyes sore from focus she held up the quiver with tears in her eyes. The stitching wasn't perfect and keen eyes may detect some discrepancy in the sizes of the gems and designs. Compared to the model it looked like something a child made but many of the artisans of Arrowstockades had done nothing but practice their respective crafts for over one hundred years. It wasn't a masterwork but it was hers. She'd made every piece herself and the baroness should appreciate that.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Cwivers of dubious quality
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 14, 2013, 11:59:44 am

Dumat caught a glimpse of her own reflection in a puddle and discovered that she had at some unknown point joined the ranks of the filthy, dirt-caked dwarves that populated Arrowstockades. She was clearly in no condition to deliver the quivers to the baroness so she went down to the river and washed. Her clothes had become filthy as well but rather than wash them Ashmon informed her she qualified for a new set.
   She went through the various bins to find something she could wear but ran into a few problems. As it turned out the bins were not labled with convenience in mind. “Finished Goods- Stockpile 27” was as descriptive as they came. It prevented her from rooting around in a bin filled with gems or spools of cloth but “Finished Goods” didn't distinguish between pants and shirts or shirts and golden scepters or golden scepters and iron chains. She picked out a few pieces she liked and thought about what would work best.

Her job was fairly rugged so leather seemed like a logical choice. But the weather was bitter in the winter so she considered taking something wool. The summers were scorching so a good suit of cotton clothes would may be nice. But cotton might not be tough enough for her work, silk seemed like a nice compromise. In the end she decided on a fancy silk shirt dyed blue and green in different places, a pair of blue pants made from lightweight cotton, a vest made from lamellar leather, a pair of boots fashioned from sturdy, ivory decorated, leather, and a warm pair of woolen socks. The gloves Ashmon gave her were the only thing she didn't replace as they seemed to be holding up just fine and seemed to be as tough as anything available. She almost felt guilty about taking such fine things from the pile but Ashmon informed her that there was no shortage of exceptional clothing and that taking the best for yourself was more or less standard policy. And besides, she thought, it wasn't like she hadn't earned a little opulence.
   When she was clean and well dressed she began practicing. She'd learned a lot about the importance of patience and care and if she was going to meet a baroness she wasn't going to do it without a plan of attack. She would bow first, or maybe prostrate herself? And then she would introduce herself as Dumat Stakepondered (hopefully ending all of this Dumplin business) with the quivers extended in her arms. She would address the Baroness as “Your Highness” or perhaps just as “Baroness” she didn't quite know how titles worked but she consulted the guard to the Nobles quarters and he said either would work. She would present the quivers and thank her for the honor of receiving the assignment.
    When she was finally ready she rubbed a bit of rose oil behind her ears and went to find Feb to arrange the meeting. The guard wouldn't let her passed without permission and Feb seemed like the best candidate to deliver that.
“Hello,” she said. “I've made three quivers.”

He didn't turn toward her. “Knock em' in a bin.” He replied.

“These are from a special order.” She explained.

“Knock em in a bin.” He repeated.

“These are for the baroness.” She clarified.

“Eh?” He finally turned and looked her over with his good eye. “What's yer name?”

“Dumat Stakepondered.” She said.

“No jobs for any Dumat or for any Stakepondered.” He said flipping through a small leather bound booklet.

“Dumplin Lakewanders.” She said with a sigh.

“Oh, Oh!” He said with understanding. He pointed to the stockpile “Knock em in a bin.”

Dumat tried to think of how she could be clearer. “The Baroness ordered me to make three quivers. These quivers are for her. If you could take me to see her I'll give them to her.”

“Well the quivers aren't for her.” Feb said.

“What?” Dumat asked.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Cwivers of dubious quality
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 14, 2013, 01:09:20 pm

“She doesn't want the quivers.” Said Feb. “She just wanted someone to make them. The manager assigned the job to you so the professionals wouldn't have to stop working on armor.”

“If she doesn't want them why did I make them?” Dumat asked stupefied.

“She just wanted them made.” He shrugged. “Maybe she just feels better knowing we've got them.”

“I've spent a week working on this order, the Baroness has to know that I did this!” She yelled. Feb just snarled at her. She made a note to adjust her tone when addressing the One-Eyed War-God of Arrowstockades.

“Wait,” he paused and flipped back through the list. “One week?”

“Yes.” She said. “I've worked very hard. Please, just let her see the good quiver once and let her know I made it.”

“One week?” He flipped through the list a bit more. “You had six days.” Feb said. He waved Ashmon over and spoke. “Dumplin Lakewanders you are in breach of a production order issued lawfully by the Manager of this fortress on the orders of our Baroness and I am hereby placing you under arrest.”

“What?” Dumat asked.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 14, 2013, 01:13:55 pm

This is the end of Chapter II. Chapter III, Dumplin Lakewanders and the Dwarven Justice System is next and after that I have the story more or less plotted out now. Unless something inspires me to change the direction of the story after that comes Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons and then the final chapter Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf In the World.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Dwarven Justice System
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 15, 2013, 07:02:58 am

Dumat was not offered a clearer explanation she was instead escorted down to the black stone corridor and lead through the iron decorated doors by Ashmon. Down the hall there were dozens of doors and faint yells came from behind each when the door audibly opened. She begged and plead and ranted to Ashmon to release her.

“I was in the hospital!” She exclaimed still keeping close to Ashmon. She wasn't shackled for the journey and she didn't need to be. She was quite aware that he could easily outrun and overpower her and there was no need to exacerbate the trouble she was in.

“You didn't need to fight any Kobolds,” Ashmon said. “You made two quivers in a few minutes, you could have made the last one that first night and gone back to hauling.”

“I wanted to make it special!” She plead.

“You made it late.” Ashmon shrugged. “The crime is on the books, you've been sentenced to thirty days and even Feb can't change that.”

“Well who can!?” She ask-laimed.

“Not me.” Ashmon shrugged again. He stopped at one of the doors and unlocked it revealing an iron cage as large as the room. He motioned for her to enter it and locked the cage behind her. “I'm sorry Dumplin I think you'll just have to serve your sentence.”

“Dumat!” She yelled.

“Bless you.” He said shutting the door.

And so Dumat was confined to a cage in a pitch black room.
   She counted the days by the brief moments when the door would open and a dwarf would come to replace the empty water bucket and the empty food bowl with full ones. Sitting and waiting gave way to thinking which gave way to more thinking.
   Arrowstockades was not as advertised. The rules were arbitrary and the customs were insane. The work was still just as hard and the food was still just as bad. The medical care was appalling and the justice system was broken. Neither the dining hall nor the dormitories could accommodate the needs of the fortress and the military was a band of unwashed thugs.
   But she would not be broken. This period of incarceration was just a break from hauling. In fact it would probably be good for her to have a bit of rest while her wounds healed. In thirty days she would be released and she would emerge a completely healed woman prepared to take on whatever came next.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Dwarven Justice System
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 15, 2013, 05:47:54 pm

On day 72 the door opened and in the doorframe stood Ashmon.
“Hello Dumplin!” He said cheerfully.
Her eyes creaked open and adjusted to the light. Her voice was weak from thirst, they'd forgot to bring her water yesterday.
“It's Dumat-”
“Thank you.”
“I was supposed to be released weeks ago.” She said.
“We didn't get the order to release you until today.” Ashmon replied opening the cage. “We've been kind of busy lately, the orders probably got pushed back.”
“I need water.” She said.
“You have ale privileges back, let's get a drink in the dining hall.” He said leading her down the hall. Dumat took a mug full of strong ale and a plate full of Tallow Lumps which consisted of minced tallow, finely minced tallow, well minced tallow, and a handful of acorns.
Dumat sulked into her mug. “That sentence was terrible.”

“You should avoid being in jail if you can avoid it.” Ashmon said.

“That sentence was equally terrible.” Dumat replied.

“At least you're well rested.” He said. “The woodcutters are back to work and almost everyone is either hauling or splitting wood ,the Overseer had two more farmers workshops constructed to process more animals and we have to step up the milking, shearing, cheesemaking, and weaving, the miners hit a big vein of gold ore and goblet production has tripled, the militia's are on an order to train nonstop for the next three months, and that's not even mentioning the King and all his lords have started issuing production mandates. Everyone in the fortress has been working around the clock.”

“How's Asen doing?” She asked. “He gets short of breath easilly.”

“He's well rested too,” Ashmon said. “He's been in the hospital all month.”

“What!?” She ask-laimed.

“He was in a sparring accident, someone threw him off the roof.”

“I need to go see him!” She ordered.

“But you're on stone hauling duty.” Ashmon said. “If you don't show up for work you'll taken right back to jail.”

“Can I see Asen after I've finished?” She asked.

“Sure if you don't loiter.” Ashmon said. “The Overseer doesn't like it when people just stand around in the hospital.”

She finished her ale in one gulp and gulped down the rest of her tallow lumps. “Then let's get to work.”

Dumat followed Ashmon into the depths of the cavern. Just like he had the first day he patted one of the orderly piles of stone and told her to haul it.

Looking at the pile she slapped her forehead and admonished herself for being so forgetful.
“We didn't get a wheelbarrow” She said. “I'll have to climb all the way back up and fetch one.”

“No need.” Ashmon said happily. “Raccoons stole a wheelbarrow.”

“How and why would that happen?”

“Since we're one wheelbarrow down you'll just have to carry it.”

“What?” Dumat asked.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Dwarven Justice System
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 16, 2013, 11:48:08 am

“Raccoons stole a wheelbarrow.” He reiterated. “Just haul it the old fashioned way.”

“Ashmon,” She began. “These stones weigh hundreds, sometimes thousands of pounds. I could hardly lift one for a moment much less climb up fifty flights of stairs with one.”

“You can't skip work Dumat.” Ashmon said. “If you don't do your job you'll get locked up again or worse.”

Dumat snapped. “Ashmon I've been stabbed and jailed and worked near to death and fed glop and kicked out of a hospital and I've had to sleep on a dirty floor every day since I got here. My knees will probably never recover, I think I developed a stress disorder from living in that cage, and I definitely have a serious dietary deficiency. I don't think there's much more they can do to me.”

“They can make you live in the caverns.” Ashmon said.

“What?” Dumat asked again.

Ashmon pointed over to a series of workshops being staffed by the filthiest, palest, most sickly looking dwarves she'd ever seen. Moss grew on their clothes and in their hair and beards. Scars and strange rashes adorned every inch of their exposed flesh. Their sad eyes were pale and empty and their sad frowns sat low on their sagging faces.
“They're the dwarves who can't do real work.” He said. “They organize the stone gems and webs into these piles. They drink cavern water and they eat cavern bugs and they sleep on cavern floors until they get killed by cavern monsters. They don't know day from night, most haven't seen the sun in years. I saw one step outside and start uncontrollably vomiting because the light made him sick. They can come back into the fortress when the alarm is sounded but they don't all make it back in time. When they die they get thrown into the deep pools and a slab is engraved in their honor”

Dumat fought back tears. “That's horrible.” Was all she could get out without cracking.

“It's pretty bad.” Ashmon said. “But the jobs need to be done and there's nothing else they can do. You need to haul the stone Dumplin-”

“Dumat.”

“That's very funny but this is serious- If you don't then they might make you live down here.”

With Asen in such poor health sleeping in the dank and dangerous caverns would be a death sentence. She steeled herself, straightened her gloves, and picked the most even looking boulder she could find. She squatted down, tightly gripped it's sides, and with a mighty push extended her knees.
   The pops and groans of her joints communicated the very clear message “stop this funny business immediately.” With a yell she threw one foot forward and very narrowly avoided toppling over. She delicately slid her plant foot forward to meet her lead foot and tried to regain a stable position again. Failing that she tried to fall off to the side so she didn't land squarely on the rock. Failing that she tried not to let Ashmon see how badly she was hurt. Failing that she tried to keep the vomit off of her clothes.
   Still rattled by the blow to her stomach she analyzed the situation. She determined nothing. She knew to use her legs and not her back but other than that there didn't seem to be much technique to this picking up and putting down boulders business. She regained her grip and tried again.
   One step, this time more steady. Two steps, she began to develop a technique. Three, she was building a rhythm. Four, the task was beginning to seem more achievable. Five, She fell again.
   Wiping more vomit from her shirt she gripped the stone for a third time. To fall a third time would mean failure and to fail would mean exile to the caverns. She felt the fear grip her heart. The fortress didn't care about garbage dwarves. Her body would be thrown into a deep pool and her possessions would be torn from her still warm body as the malnourished dwarves of the caverns sought to replace their own threadbare clothes. But that was all that could happen. Nothing else would be sufficient. She didn't give up when she faced the grand staircase, she didn't falter when an impossible order was handed down, she didn't flinch when she faced down the kobold thief, she didn't leave when she realized she'd be eating glop and sleeping in the dirt, and she wouldn't run from this awful place or it's awful caverns. The dread left her body and she drew upon her inner strength. Her knees may buckle and her back may break but she would not surrender to defeat. If she failed this test of her mettle it would not be for lack of trying.

Arrowstockades may kill her, but it would never break her will.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Dwarven Justice System
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 16, 2013, 06:42:37 pm

She remembered how impossible the task of hauling gold in a wheelbarrow seemed on her first day and how mundane that activity had become. Her muscles were atrophied from her time in the cage and her work on the quiver but she was still stronger than she gave herself credit for.
   With a primal yell she straightened up and balanced herself as steady as she could. She couldn't get her arms around the massive boulder and she could scarcely see over top of it. She let it slide down a bit clear her line of sight but then it prevented her from moving her legs. She could either hazard the grand staircase blind or set the rock down and surrender was no longer an option.
   Her body strained under the weight and her muscles popped and groaned. One step. Then two. Then three. Slowly plodding along. She stopped on step five when the pain became too much to bear. Her back refused to straighten out and her arms fell limp at her sides. Standing still gave her muscles time to relax and she felt them rapidly begin to jellify. Resolute to continue before it got any harder she gripped the stone once more and took another step.
   The pressure built behind her eyes and her joints screamed out in pain. She ignored the blaring messages on all fronts announcing that her body was tearing itself apart and pushed forward with her eyes tightly shut. One step, two steps, three steps, four, they started to blend together and after a certain point it just wasn't possible for the pain to get any worse.
   She felt blood trickling from her nose and her stomach began to turn as her body started to reject the hard labor. Finally she stopped and began alternating between gasping for breath and howling pain. The horrible pain made time drag on but it wasn't as though it needed help. Hours passed climbing the stairwell. Occasionally she could fire out a leg and ascend a stair before she realized how impossible and miserable the task was but other times she spent several minutes on a single step.

Any delusions she had about it being impossible to suffer more disintegrated when she missed a step and felt the muscles of her back begin to tear. Letting loose a howl of pain she released the stone. Unable to straighten out or pick the stone back up she stopped dead. The task began to seem more and more impossible. Her body was just incapable of going any further. Sunrise and sunset had passed while she struggled with the boulder. Apart from being near collapse with exhaustion and pain she was growing very hungry and desperately thirsty.
"I will reach the top of these stairs" She thought to herself. "And then I will fall over dead."
the longer she paused the worse it became and after a few moments her legs began to fail. Balancing the stone delicately on the stairs she leaned on the stone and struggled to find her balance. The stone was gray, two more flights to go.
   To fail this close to her goal was unacceptable. She had suffered unimaginable pain already, if she gave up now it was all for nothing. And not just braving the stairs, everything she gave up to reach the fortress, every basic necessity she had did without for the sake of making it through another day, and every injustice she took on the chin to keep the peace would be rendered completely pointless if she couldn't suck it up and make it up two more flights of stairs.

The light that burned inside her had dimmed but it had not yet burned out. Propped up only by her own inner glow she gripped the stone tightly and lifted once more. “One more step.” She told herself. "Just one more." That was all there was to do. “One more step,” she repeated and repeated until eventually there were only a few more steps to go. The smell of the burning coal and molten metal greeted her nose and the ethereal chorus of hammers striking anvils told her she was very near the end of her journey. The top of the stairs was in sight now, she could drop the stone once she reached it, roll it over to the stockpiles, and then visit Asen before she could sit on a comfortable chair with all the ale she could drink. She wouldn't even bother to leave the dining hall, she would sleep there and gods save anyone who tried to move her.

Three more steps remained. “One more step.” She told herself. “No.” her knees replied. Her body pushed beyond it's limits finally gave out and she fell backwards. There was a loud crack as the boulder landed squarely on her chest.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Dwarven Justice System
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 17, 2013, 11:00:21 am

Sternum Bone Dented
Back Bone Dented
Head Bone Dented
Left Forearm Bone Fractured, Immobilized

“No treatment pending, back to work.” The sentence was punctuated by a kick to the bed. Apparently there wasn't anything for a fracture except a splint and a dented bone could only be treated with time. Time ,she was to understand, did not necessarily mean time in bed as she was again thrust into the world badly injured. What was worse Asen was nowhere to be found.
   When she stood she realized how badly carrying the stone had injured her. Barely able to stay upright she found she was quite incapable of raising her legs. With a slight turn of her hips she slid her right foot a few inches in front of her left foot and then reversed and repeated the motion bringing her a few inches forward. She made sure there was nothing in the hospital she wanted, she could go down the stairs to the fortress but there was no way for her to get back up of her own volition.

   She caught the friendly Jeweler Bim discarding one of his cats 'presents' in the trash pile. After a brief conversation he informed her that Asen had been released while she was still climbing the stairs. It had been seventy three days since she'd seen Asen and she was determined not to wait another. She had no way of knowing where Asen was patrolling She hobbled her way to the main gates but stopped dead when she passed through the first set of doors.

   The technically indoor Enclave that housed tall grasses, pastured animals, and the crematorium was separated from outside proper by a long tunnel leading to a room protected by a raisable bridge. That long tunnel she had once crossed unimpeded now menaced with all manner of traps. The entrance was clearly a decoy, what kind of mad man would expect civilians to navigate a sea of deadly traps just to do their jobs?
   She sought out the real entrance for several hours until coming to collapse exactly where she started in front of the main gate. On her rapid descent her foot twisted into decidedly unnatural angle and began rapidly swelling. The pain was bad but it was duller than the pain in her knees, arms, back and chest it was scarcely worth noticing.
“We should stand.” Her mind told her body.
“We will not.” Her body replied.
“Asen must miss us.” Her mind told her body.
“Asen can find us.” Her body replied.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Dwarven Justice System
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 17, 2013, 03:56:29 pm

Where her body didn't ache it stung or burned. She'd been waiting since her first day in Arrowstockades but her initial suppositions were vindicated, stairs had ruined her. Her body was shattered and her will was frayed, with nothing substantive left in her she was little more than a breathing corpse. Dwarves stepped over her body, none apparently thinking her predicament was worthy of another trip to the hospital, and went about their business.

Her time in the cage had taught her to cope with having nothing to do so she sat and sat and sat as minutes and hours began to bleed together. She was brought a meal and a drink from passersby but nobody had any interest in getting her medical help. The next morning she was greeted by a familiar face.
“Hello Dumplin!” Ashmon said.
“Dumat.” She replied.
“Well for now, it'll probably rain later though.” Ashmon said.
“What do you want Ashmon?” She asked.
“Good news!” He said. “I convinced the manager you were so unbelievably incompetent you were a danger to yourself and everyone around you.”
“That's the opposite of good news.” She said.

“Well the manager wasn't about to let you haul stone if you were going to keep dropping it on down the stairs. He's switching you to lighter work.”
“I don't think I can stand.” She said.
“It's not that light.” Ashmon replied. “But you should be able to do it in about an hour and then spend the rest of the day in your quarters.”
“I can't stand Ashmon.” Dumat said. “Besides, there are never any beds in the quarters. There's no difference between the dirt here and the dirt there.”

“Didn't you hear the good news?” Ashmon asked. “One of the militia captains went insane with depression and murdered a farmer in the middle of the dining hall.”

“That's the opposite of good news.” Dumat replied.

“Asen was promoted to captain of his squad.” Ashmon explained. “You have your own room now.”

“That's wonderful.” She said mustering what little enthusiasm remained in her body. She persuaded herself that the effort expended in hauling for one more day was just a roundabout way of walking towards a warm bed. She struggled to her feet.
“Where's my work assignment?” She asked.

Traders had come to Arrowstockades and it now fell on Dumat and a few other garbage dwarves to carry the Fortresses precious treasures to the trade depot. She was initially optimistic about earning a reputation as a shrewd trader by haggling with them but that hope was extinguished fairly quickly. Trading was very centralized, as one of her fellow garbagedwarves explained, the manager would tell the broker what he was allowed to offer, the garbagedwarves would haul those offerings, and the broker would make deals at his discretion for things the fortress needed.
“You aren't special.” She reminded herself. “You pick things up and put them down elsewhere.”
She was assigned to carry bin #149 from Finished Goods Stockpile #27 to the trade depot. Unfortunately Finished Goods was apparently bureaucrat for “One hunderd pounds of assorted metal trinkets.” She couldn't lift it so instead elected to push, pull, and slide the bin from the stockpile to the main entrance. She reached the trap corridor and stopped.
To her surprise her peers were deftly maneuvering around the various traps and didn't appear to be slowed by them in the least.
“How do I get through?” She asked one of the other haulers.

“Don't step on a trigger.” The filthy dwarf replied stepping around the traps.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: CognitiveDissonance on April 17, 2013, 04:09:35 pm

That poor dwarf...

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Dwarven Justice System
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 18, 2013, 09:23:37 am

She examined the traps in front of her and identified the mechanisms. She need only brush up against the trigger to send five iron spikes directly into her soft tissues. She carefully raised her foot. She was still physically exhausted from hauling the boulder and her leg felt as if it were of lead. She stepped down as gingerly as she could safely away from the malicious trigger. Bringing her other foot to meet her first she steadied herself on the island of safety. When that was done she leaned over and slid the bin passed as well.
“118 more to go.” She thought to herself.

Three hours later she slid her bin to the depot. The broker, a greasy looking dwarf had no real interest in her presence and without a simple “thanks” waved her off. After navigating the traps again she went to the dining room and waited for Asen. This would surely be his first destination. Having neglected to ask Ashmon which of the forty bedrooms she'd been assigned and resistant to the idea of checking each one she had nothing to do but wait. She waited and waited as the daylight faded away.

She was injured and tired and any feeling of safety she had inside the fortress was eradicated when she realized the mad men running this asylum thought that “security” consisted of turning a major thoroughfare into a death trap. The only rest she'd gotten in an Arrowstockades bed was precipitated by being stabbed or crushed. Her muscles would likely never recover from the hell that the grand staircase had wrought on her body and the scar that ran the breadth of her stomach would be a permanent reminder of just how terrible this place could be. Every meal she'd eaten had been some combination of animal fat and acorns and had come at the cost of strenuous labor over the course of impossible hours. She'd been jailed for trying to to take pride in her work and for daring to think she could be anything more than a garbagedwarf. But she had won.

She'd lost a thousand battles in pursuit of a higher victory but it had all been worth it. She won. She would have a room to sleep in and her first objective would be complete. As sad as it was that a farmer had been cut down in his prime there was now a job opening for someone with her skill set. There was nothing easy about working fields but it wouldn't kill her like hauling was sure to. She would have a room and a job and soon enough a child and she would learn the rules of staying safe and staying sane in Arrowstockades and she would finally be happy.

“Dumplin Lakewanders!” Barked a familiar monocular dwarf forcing his way into the dining room. She'd come to learn useless dwarves often received mandates so the tradesmen wouldn't have to waste their precious time with them.
“Yes?” She didn't bother correcting him about her name.

“You are under arrest for violating an export ban!” Feb snarled.

“What?” Dumat didn't bother to ask.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: CaptainLambcake on April 18, 2013, 02:37:50 pm

fucking feb

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Dwarven Justice System
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 18, 2013, 06:17:09 pm

“Make quivers.” The Baroness tells the manager.
“Make quivers.” The manager tells Dumat.
Dumat makes the quivers.
“Don't export quivers.” The Baroness says.
“Bring me a quiver” the broker says to the manager.
“Take him a quiver” the manager says to Dumat.
Dumat takes him a quiver.
“You can have this quiver” the broker tells the traders.
The traders leave with the quiver.
“You broke the law” the Guard Captain tells Dumat. Dumat goes to jail.
These dwarves had a very loose understanding of what “exporting” actually entailed.

It occurred that she could resist arrest but it also occurred that Feb One-Eye tended to enter rooms with his sword drawn and was perfectly capable of bisecting a fully armored Orc. As hopeless as reason seemed to be with these dwarves violence was no more serviceable an option. She had once again been hauled off to jail despite her protests and she had once again sealed in an iron cage.

   Sentenced to 60 days she was released only ninety seven days later. This time she was freed by a dwarf she'd never met, Ashmon was apparently off having his wounds washed again. This guardsmen , who she didn't bother familiarizing herself with, gave her a new work assignment bringing in the tools, clothes, and ammunition that wood cutters and hunters tended to leave lying around. She was able to walk normally again but she was still badly hurt. The soft tissue injuries ,she expected, were likely to pain her for quite some time. The emotional scars would likely follow her to her grave.
   Find Asen was her first priority. She'd spent the vast majority of her time in Arrowstockades in prison and it had been over 160 days since she'd last seen her husband. She couldn't handle another stay in prison. Of course if Asen was in their room she still had no idea where that was and if he was on patrol she didn't know where she could intercept him. If Ashmon could lay out the patrol routes for her she would know the best spot to work very slowly and wait for Asen to pass. And so, 'Find Ashmon' became her new priority.
   The few flights of stairs were significantly more difficult than she remembered and she ultimately had to stop halfway. Luckilly Ashmon was just leaving the hospital and returning to the fortress. She held back her vomit when the hatch opened and let in the blinding light of the sun.

“Hello Dumplin!” Ashmon said happily.
“Dumat.” She corrected.
“Oh right, I guess I do.” He said sadly. With a very sad rotation of his hips Ashmon kicked her squarely in the chest.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 19, 2013, 12:24:23 pm

She tumbled down the stairs and came to rest against the door frame with a thud. She struggled to her feet and moved into the enclave in the hopes that the number of witnesses would deter this unprovoked assault. Those hopes were quickly dashed when Ashmon barreled through the doors and with a strong punch knocked her off her feet.
“What's wrong with you?” Dumat asked coughing heavily.
“A horse bit my elbow.” Ashmon said. “Feb told me I should move up my appointment to get it looked at.”

“I meant why are you hitting me.” Whatever spurred his violent outburst an aggressive tone would likely encourage it. She remained calm and level and rather unsurprised that a random outburst of violence didn't seem to be worth notice.
“A child was murdered.” Ashmon said. “The Overseer says you're a vampire.”
Ashmon punched her in the ribs.
“I couldn't kill anyone!” Dumat exclaimed.
“Of course not.” Ashmon replied. “I don't believe for a minute you're capable of killing a sleeping child.”
“Well that's a relief.” Dumat said.
“You don't have the upper body strength.” Ashmon said with another punch.
“I was in jail!” She said trying to stand back up only to be knocked down with another punch.
“Well it takes months to track down a vampire Dumplin.”
“Dumat.” She said with a wheeze.
“I know right?” Ashmon said with a chuckle and a punch. “But anyway people feel safer knowing the culprit is punished so sometimes the overseer just accuses someone at random. You were probably a good pick because of your extensive criminal history.”
“You're going to beat me to death for not being a vampire?” She attempted to ask-laim but her lung capacity was diminished.
“Well probably not to death.” Ashmon said. “I'm the hammerer but they never gave me a hammer so I just named my fists the hammers and I'm just going to punch you fifty times. Vampires are way to tough to die from punching, or even a proper hammering. Forty five to go by the way.”
“You're not counting the kick?” She asked.
“My feet aren't hammers.” He said with a punch.
“So if I were a vampire you would beat me up--” She was interrupted by another punch.“--Then immediately let me go to murder more children?”
“No,” Ashmon said. “When we catch the actual vampire we'll just execute him.”
“So this is pointless?” She asked yet another punch caught her square.
“No,” Ashmon said. “It makes people feel better.” Ashmon punched her again. “Except you.”
She went on to point out the flaws inherent in the system in between crying out in pain and vomiting. Ashmon went on punching. The only topic on her mind was to remain conscious, Ashmosn hands were instruments of death and if she was hit by a punch she couldn't brace for she may not survive. After a few minutes of failed negotiations and attempts to defend herself Ashmon landed punch number 50, dusted her off, scooped her up, and took her to the hospital.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Liber celi on April 19, 2013, 02:47:17 pm

Good that the pulp mechanics aren't implemented yet...

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Catsup on April 19, 2013, 03:05:10 pm

my god, my fort is never like this, what a horrifying story. My captain of the guard is in his lone squad, he is the weakest dwarf, and dual wields wooden training swords so he cant even use his fists. There are also no jails at all in my fort, no hammerer either, and i am ultimately the one who decides actual punishment should any laws be broken. The mayor's mandates are broken at will, he has his royal throne room/dining room/bedroom to offset his minor happiness loss.

my fort is also designed around security and safety, so dwarves almost never engage any hostiles. This goes for the military too, who are only marksdwarves. Mining, wood cutting, and plant gathering in the caverns are stopped as soon as any hostile creature is dangerously close to the working area, before any potential encounters. I think the food in this story is portrayed too negatively too. I mean typical food in my fort usually is 256 (stack) masterwork forgotten beast roast with masterfully minced cheese and valley herbs and dwarven syrup.

my fort however, has other horrifying aspects like liberally atom-smashing and slabbing children/popular dwarves that are otherwise useless. They are slabbed though so no ghost appears, and my dwarves just accept this as a regular normal occurrence of being spirited away.

this is a interesting story though, i hope to see asen going insane/being zombified and dumat tearfully putting him down. I want to see all her innocence get washed away in blood and tears and see her become a hardened soldier, her emotions and values a husk of what she used to be.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Meme on April 19, 2013, 07:22:22 pm

Just to say I think I found a mistake
“Ashmon was promoted to captain of his squad.” Ashmon explained. “You have your own room now.”

On the other hand great story! Can't wait for more!

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Dwarven Justice System
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 19, 2013, 08:35:20 pm

Skull, Bone Dented
Jaw, Bone Dented
Left Back Teeth, Tooth Fractured
Nose, Cartilage Torn
Left Eye, Tissue Bruised
Left True Ribs, Bone Bruised
Left False Ribs, Bone Dented
Right False Ribs, Bone Dented
Left Arm, Bone Dented
Left Forearm, Bone Dented
Left Hand, Bone Dented
Right Hand, Bone dented
Right Forearm, Bone dented
Liver Tissue, Bruised
Left Kidney, Tissue Bruised
Right Kidney, Tissue Bruised
Guts, Tissue Bruised

“No treatment pending,” The doctor kicked the bed. “Back to work.”
Dumat returned to the hospital three times after collapsing from the pain and each time the doctor looked at her with a sneer, gave the bed a kick, and told her to get back to work.
   She now had two thoughts. The first was kill everyone. The second was find Asen. She focused on the second one. Finding her husband in the sprawling fortress would be difficult. Ashmon didn't seem to understand social norms so talking to him immediately may give him the idea that there was nothing wrong with beating someone half to death. She could ask Feb One-Eye but Feb One-Eye was easily the most terrible dwarf she'd ever met. She knew Bim the Jeweler and a few of the other artisans who she consulted on her quiver project.
   She decided to get advice from the nearest non-jerk she could, the gold plated dwarf guarding the nobles quarters. He didn't know Asen but he knew Bim and directed her to the caverns. After a long grueling trudge down the grand staircase she saw amongst the cavern dwelling garbagedwarves a tragically familiar face. His gray beard filled with moss and his kind eyes dull with sadness Bim had joined the ranks of the subterranean web-collecting, gem sorting, stone piling exiles.
   “Bim.” She said sadly.
   “Hello.” He replied weakly. He busied himself stacking hunks of gold ore into an orderly pile to be later hauled in a wheelbarrow. “I didn't know you'd been released.”

She struggled to think of the most considerate way to ask but ultimately failed and opted for a direct, “Why are you down here?”

“New migrants,” he said focusing on his ore. “There are three jewelers workshops and seven legendary jewelers. Six of them can cut gems as well as they set them. I'm the seventh. I'm an expert setter but I'm only an average cutter. With three dwarves working and three resting the workshops work at full capacity around the clock. Keeping me in the rotation would just slow us down.”

“But...” she had to pause to think of a but. “But you could learn to cut gems.”

“It took me eighty years to set gems as well as I do. Even if I dedicated the rest of my life to cutting gems by the time I was at the necessary skill level I'd be in my final years and it still wouldn't justify hollowing out another workspace and building a workshop. They cut and set gems just as fast as the miners and glassmakers can acquire them, bringing me back in would cause work stoppages. No, I think this is my life now.”

Bim was the promise of Arrowstockades. A respected professional who never wanted for anything and enjoyed all of the fortresses luxuries. If those precious things could be taken away then her dream was very hollow indeed.
“There has to be something else you can do.” She plead with tears in her eyes.

“I can stack rocks.” He replied desolately. “I had a good life, the memories will comfort me.”

“Bim...” She had no words.

“There's nothing to be sad about.” He said unconvincingly. “There's no need for me to waste a room when more deserving dwarves abound. But you didn't come here to see me.”

She steadied herself. “I was wondering if you knew where I could find my husband.”

“I'm not kept abreast of the goings-on of the fortress.” Bim said. “But you could probably ask the mayor, at the very least she'll have some idea of someone who may know. Just tell the guard you want to meet with the mayor and he'll see to it you find him.”

“Thank you Bim, I'll be sure to visit.” Dumat said.

“Goodbye Dumplin.” He replied.

“Goodbye Bim.” She didn't correct him.

She climbed back up the grand staircase. This was the first time she'd walked up the Grand Staircase without being burdened by hundreds of pounds of stone. It was also the hardest climb she'd ever made.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 19, 2013, 08:36:23 pm

Quote from: Meme on April 19, 2013, 07:22:22 pm

Just to say I think I found a mistake
“Ashmon was promoted to captain of his squad.” Ashmon explained. “You have your own room now.”

On the other hand great story! Can't wait for more!

I hate. Dwarven. Names. I've done that literally dozens of times, every time I read through I find another.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Thormgrim on April 20, 2013, 12:17:56 am

keep 'em coming, please!

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Dwarven Justice System
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 20, 2013, 09:36:20 am

When she met with the guard he didn't seem to be particularly surprised. While entrance to the nobles quarters was restricted visiting with the mayor was the exception. He led her through the prestigious platinum decorated doors that bore the images of each of the seven founders and above them the king. The long hall contained six sets of double doors on either side and another pair at the end of the hall. She was lead into the first set of doors on the left and there in a spacious and well furnished office sat the Gusil Boatrakes Mayor of Arrowstockades.
   Every so often an election was held and the most popular and competent dwarf was selected to be the new mayor. A few minutes later the Overseer cast his vote, the only one that mattered, and the new mayor was replaced once again by Gusil. Gusil was an unlikable and incompetent dwarf whose accolades consisted entirely of being fairly good at chopping trees and being on one occasion being bitten by a monkey. In her every retelling of the event the monkey became an increasingly terrible creature which at last check was a fully grown Roc. Nobody in the fortress had ever voted for her, not even by accident.

“Hello!” Gusil said gleefully.
“Hello.” Dumat replied. “I was wondering--”
“Oh no problem!” Gusil replied. Her speech was slightly slurred. “I always make time for the little people.”
“That's nice, I just-”
“You know people don't often meet with me.” Gusil went on.
“I'm sure that's just-”
“Well it's because of how well run the fortress is.” Gusil interrupted. “And it must be just so intimidating to come into the nobles quarters and speak with me of all people.”
“Well-”
“No worries, I'm not all high and mighty like the rest of the founders ,I founded the fortress you see, I'm just as grounded and levelheaded as any other dwarf.”
“Ms. Mayor-”
“You know I used to cut trees? Me, a humble woodcutter.”
“Ms. Mayor-”
“But with hard work and dedication I rose to my current office.”
“Ms. Mayor-”
“Wounded in the line of duty even! A Hill Giant burst through the trees, scooped me up, and bit me right in the chest. Would you like to see the scar?”
“Please no-”
“I managed to fend it off with my axe and miraculously recovered. Doctors had to suture up my heart and everything.”
“Please-”
“Now I'm sure your problems seem insignificant by comparison , bitten nearly in half by a giant and all.”
“Ms. Mayor!”
“But you were having some kind of problem?”
Dumat cracked. “Problem?” she asked calmly. “Yes, I do suppose I have a problem. This fortress is horrible.”
“I don't think I understand deary-”
“The rules are arbitrary, the food is disgusting, there aren't enough beds, the Guard Captain is a half blind psychopath who I am fairly certain is going deaf, the Dwarf responsible for writing every work order in the fortress can't read or write, and the labor is back breaking- literally. I broke my back laboring, and then I went to the hospital.
   And I went again and again in various states of disrepair. And each time I was given the bare minimum of care and told to suck it up. And no matter how hard I work, no matter how diligently and without complaint I destroy my body and sacrifice my happiness for the good of this fortress every time I stop to eat, drink, sleep, take a break- or gods forbid take a few minutes after my battery of medical procedures to rest- everyone acts like I'm lazy!”

For the first time in a long time Dumat Stakepondered was truly and wholly angry. Her tirade was picking up too much steam to stop now.

“And every time I figure out how this mad house works the rug is pulled out from underneath me! And I haven't seen my husband in half a year because every time I violate one of these stupid, arbitrary rules I'm sent to jail!
   “And even though I work harder and longer than any dwarf in this fortress I am a garbage dwarf, I am expendable! And apparently even if I reach the mountain top, even if I become one of the most respected dwarves in Arrowstockades I'll be cast aside as useless if someone better comes along! There's no loyalty, there's no logic, there's no respect for the inherent value of Dwarven Life!
    “There's only the whims of unqualified lunatics who claim supreme authority based solely on the fact that they happened to found the fortress- which by the way isn't that impressive when you consider that all of the REAL labor happened after migrants started showing up. You made a small clearing and slept in the dirt until the people you look down on as inferior actually created everything you recognize as Arrowstockades!
   “And above all else, NONE OF YOU LOONS WILL CALL ME BY MY NAME! I have put up with this lunacy for months and I am DONE! I WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS!” Her final statement was punctuated by an armorstand toppling to the ground. The mayor was white with fear. They stood in silence for a few moments before the noble cried out, “Tantrum!”

“No,” Dumat replied much calmer now. “I have very legitimate grievances and I would like substantive remedies.”
“You vandal!” The Mayor shrieked. “I'll have you hauled off for destruction of property!”
“It's made of stone.” Dumat said levelly. “It's not even scratched, it just needs to be set upright about a foot to where it now lies.”
“Guards!” The Mayor yelled.
“Seriously, I'll set it up now.” Dumat began setting the armorstand back up but was stopped by a pair of powerful hands grabbing her from behind.

“Dumplin Lakewanders you are under arrest for vandalism!” Came Feb's familiar voice.

She was hauled down the familiar haul and sentenced to thirty days. Ample time, she thought, to plan her next move. She had no paper but she had plenty of time to think. Her time would be divided into plotting and exercise. This time she would leave the cell stronger, not weaker. She would leave prepared, not confused. Whatever was waiting for her when that door swung open she would be ready.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Catsup on April 20, 2013, 09:59:04 am

this fort is kinda tragic after thinking about it more, why the hell would the overseer force his dwarves to make fancy goods for export when not all of his dwarves even have their own room yet? in my current fort im busy outfitting each dwarve's rooms, be it peasant or legendary armorer, with masterwork beds, green glass cabinets, green glass doors, and green glass boxes (all masterworks). And exporting the exceptional and lower crap as my "golden goblets encrusted with gems".

I have a great engraver in training to becoming a legendary engraver so he can turn everyone's decent bedrooms into great or royal bedrooms. My dwarves also eat masterwork roasts, not tallow slop and stones are never hauled unless the stone stockpile has 3 wheelbarrows (i set unlink it until it has 3). There are 2 separate 2x2 stairways so there is almost no traffic jam.

The jails are rooms with a artifact chain or masterwork steel chain encrusted with crystal glass and studded with gold. that has 3 stockpile squares next to it as food, 3 as drink, 1 as masterwork bed, and 1 as masterwork chair. So they have everything they need (they dont need to actually reach the table to use it, just the chair), in addition to 2 masterwork statues beside the masterwork table for them to admire. Unhappy dwarves are also burrowed inside the jail rooms for rehabilitation until they feel better.

EDIT: for clarification purposes when i mentioned i had no jails in my first post, i have no jails ENABLED in my fort most of the time, and just let my unquestionably weak captain of the guard beat on dwarves with his featherwood training swords, jail time is wasted labor. I do have rooms i can set as jails right away though, if a particular dwarf is being violent and needs isolation.

EDIT2: this story makes me feel happy in the way i run my fort, as the starting 7 are treated no different than any other dwarves. (and in fact, i look down on them with contempt because they are all friends with each other, and are tantrum fodder; most of my other dwarves only have their spouse or have no one). In fact, of my starting 7, 6 of them are still just peasants, with 1 becoming one of my legendary miners. I neglected to become a barony to spare my dwarves the grief of additional mandates, and the life of a dwarf that would have became the baron; my mayor is chosen from the dwarf with the most easily crafted preference: barrels, which i need anyway for food storage in my fort.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 20, 2013, 12:29:14 pm

Quote from: Catsup on April 20, 2013, 09:59:04 am

this fort is kinda tragic after thinking about it more, why the hell would the overseer force his dwarves to make fancy goods for export when not all of his dwarves even have their own room yet? in my current fort im busy outfitting each dwarve's rooms, be it peasant or legendary armorer, with masterwork beds, green glass cabinets, green glass doors, and green glass boxes (all masterworks). And exporting the exceptional and lower crap as my "golden goblets encrusted with gems".

I have a great engraver in training to becoming a legendary engraver so he can turn everyone's decent bedrooms into great or royal bedrooms. My dwarves also eat masterwork roasts, not tallow slop and stones are never hauled unless the stone stockpile has 3 wheelbarrows (i set unlink it until it has 3). There are 2 separate 2x2 stairways so there is almost no traffic jam.

The jails are rooms with a artifact chain or masterwork steel chain encrusted with crystal glass and studded with gold. that has 3 stockpile squares next to it as food, 3 as drink, 1 as masterwork bed, and 1 as masterwork chair. So they have everything they need (they dont need to actually reach the table to use it, just the chair), in addition to 2 masterwork statues beside the masterwork table for them to admire. Unhappy dwarves are also burrowed inside the jail rooms for rehabilitation until they feel better.

EDIT: for clarification purposes when i mentioned i had no jails in my first post, i have no jails ENABLED in my fort most of the time, and just let my unquestionably weak captain of the guard beat on dwarves with his featherwood training swords, jail time is wasted labor. I do have rooms i can set as jails right away though, if a particular dwarf is being violent and needs isolation.

EDIT2: this story makes me feel happy in the way i run my fort, as the starting 7 are treated no different than any other dwarves. (and in fact, i look down on them with contempt because they are all friends with each other, and are tantrum fodder; most of my other dwarves only have their spouse or have no one). In fact, of my starting 7, 6 of them are still just peasants, with 1 becoming one of my legendary miners. I neglected to become a barony to spare my dwarves the grief of additional mandates, and the life of a dwarf that would have became the baron; my mayor is chosen from the dwarf with the most easily crafted preference: barrels, which i need anyway for food storage in my fort.

Most of this stuff will be explained if not justified in Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World but some of it is inherent to my playstyle. The original 7 tend to be the only useful dwarves for the first year or so and I tend to reward them with better rooms and elevate them to nobility even if they aren't very competent. As for the rooms,

This is Arrowstockades (http://mkv25.net/dfma/map-11647-arrowstockades)
There are 193 ecstatic dwarves in Arrowstockades, 21 happy dwarves, 34 content dwarves (most of whom are babies and therefore not able to get many happy thoughts), and 1 fine dwarf (badly injured, watched brother die.) No dwarf is unhappy in the entire fortress.

The fortress is grand and most Dwarves get their own beds but the design is modular and labor intensive. Even though that design can hold almost every dwarf in the fortress there are always a few who end up sleeping in the dirt. Building more rooms would break the design of the fortress and since everything is so fancy dwarves are usually ecstatic even if they're homeless.

I have plenty of masterwork prepared meals worth more wealth than all of the goblets combined but I also have a sea of tallow from butchering animals and enormous piles of acorns from smoothing wood. To get rid of them I make them into meals. Valuable meals get traded since their valuable and the low level tallow and acorn meals usually end up being what sits in the fortress.

Arrowstockades is a dwarven paradise but Dumat looks at the fortress objectively. Her frustration isn't outweighed by a nice dining room and she she gets upset by things that most dwarves don't even notice. Dwarves don't usually care that they have to haul 2000 pounds of gold ore up 33 flights of stairs in a 12 pound wheelbarrow, they don't mind the rows of deadly traps that dot the fortress, they don't think there's anything odd about working nonstop for days on end, it doesn't bother them that their names can be changed on a whim, they don't think it's a big deal that their democratically elected mayor is routinely ousted and replaced by the despotic overseer, and they don't get negative thoughts from eating animal fat and acorns.

The story is all about the little things we do as overseers without considering what our dwarves must think about it.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Catsup on April 20, 2013, 03:03:23 pm

wait wait wait wait, so you trade the good stuff away and leave crap for your dwarves? why do that? i end up trading the worst stuff away, which are mostly green glass furniture worth 100 each and i managed to buy the dwarven caravan. I supplement my crap with masterwork silver and steel serrated discs which are worth 17k and 45k each apiece undecorated if im a little short on allowed weight/crap. IMO prepared food isnt really worth trading, and if you're trading it you might as well just give the elves the tallow to eat and produce more food overall so you can have enough good non-tallow food to overfeed your fortress. I didnt really keep count, but last i checked about 95% of my dwarves were ecstatic with the remaining being mainly ones who detest common vermin like flies.

as for dumat, cutest lil dwarf i've ever read about, i'd wanna hug her if i could and rescue her from that hell (no offense lol, just going along with the story) and let her live in paradise at cherishedshades! (where only about 70% of the land animates the dead) though i think she might be miserable here too, for other reasons, or at least appalled and horrified.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 20, 2013, 04:24:39 pm

Quote from: Catsup on April 20, 2013, 03:03:23 pm

wait wait wait wait, so you trade the good stuff away and leave crap for your dwarves? why do that? i end up trading the worst stuff away, which are mostly green glass furniture worth 100 each and i managed to buy the dwarven caravan. I supplement my crap with masterwork silver and steel serrated discs which are worth 17k and 45k each apiece undecorated if im a little short on allowed weight/crap. IMO prepared food isnt really worth trading, and if you're trading it you might as well just give the elves the tallow to eat and produce more food overall so you can have enough good non-tallow food to overfeed your fortress. I didnt really keep count, but last i checked about 95% of my dwarves were ecstatic with the remaining being mainly ones who detest common vermin like flies.

as for dumat, cutest lil dwarf i've ever read about, i'd wanna hug her if i could and rescue her from that hell (no offense lol, just going along with the story) and let her live in paradise at cherishedshades! (where only about 70% of the land animates the dead) though i think she might be miserable here too, for other reasons, or at least appalled and horrified.

Because one stack of good food can be worth 50,000 dwarfbucks while a barrel full of tallow cakes is worth less than one hundred, can't be traded to elves, and would be happily eaten by dwarves. 91.6% of the adult population of Arrowstockades is ecstatic and there isn't an unhappy dwarf in the whole shebang.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Catsup on April 20, 2013, 06:25:29 pm

Quote from: Broseph Stalin on April 20, 2013, 04:24:39 pm

Because one stack of good food can be worth 50,000 dwarfbucks while a barrel full of tallow cakes is worth less than one hundred, can't be traded to elves, and would be happily eaten by dwarves. 91.6% of the adult population of Arrowstockades is ecstatic and there isn't an unhappy dwarf in the whole shebang.

barrels? what barrels? you should be using stoneware large pots since those are created practically free if you have a magma forging system up and running and has twice the capacity of barrels. In my biome i dont have the luxury of excess wood, and the little wood that do accumulate on the surface are guarded by the dead and huskifying weather.

anyway, you should be able to trade the tallow slop to elves, just dont try to sell them the barrel and you'll be fine. My fort doesnt use barrels for food at all tbh, just a quantum stockpile in a small room in the middle of the dining room that accepts only prepared foods. Remember, your just trying to get rid of bad food by selling the tallows, if you need valuables to supplement it producing more food works too, add in some high value ones after all the tallows are in the depot and ready to be traded.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 20, 2013, 06:40:16 pm

Okay, so I have good news and bad news. The bad news is there won't be a second update tonight. The good news is I'm tossing around the idea of creating a TITTD sprite comic. Here's my prototype.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Dwarven Justice System
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 21, 2013, 08:59:33 am

Released only Seventy Seven days into her thirty day sentence Dumplin had thoroughly plotted out the rest of her life in Arrowstockades. Any cynicism and frustration that had leached into her from the madness of fortress life had been violently expelled when she unloaded on the mayor. For all her suffering she finally stood on the precipice of total victory. It was Ashmon who released her and she made sure to get a very clear description of where exactly her quarters were before leaving him to his own devices.

   She would be reunited with her husband, she would sleep in a warm bed, and she would finally be able to raise a child in the security of the fortress. Her joints still ached at times but by spending a large portion of her time doing simple exercises she had not allowed her muscles to atrophy. Even if by some odd chance she'd been reassigned to stone hauling she would preform the labor easilly. Hauling stones up stairs may be difficult but provided there were no more wheelbarrow shortages she would soon be making the trip up the Grand Staircase with ease.

   It was unfortunate that Bim was in such a poor state but there wasn't much to do about that. She made a promise to herself that she would bring him clean water and what passed for food as often as she could. She had during her incarceration thought up plans to create a simple wooden water bucket and a simple blanket and pillow from whatever the tailors had no use for. She recognized that she was a garbage dwarf and neither special nor valuable in any way but if she could make sure a down-on-his-luck old dwarf could go to bed with a modicum of cleanliness, warmth, and comfort then that was fine all the same.

   She would also endeavor to improve the psychological health of the dwarves she routinely interacted with. The Fortress Guard seemed to be the go between for the nobility and the commoners and that precious conduit was less than perfect. Feb seemed to lack certain social graces and Ashmon was ,well, Ashmon. As she understood the Guard did not make the rules of the fortress and expecting them to change or disobey them was unrealistic. Instead she would work towards teaching them to communicate clearly, authoritatively, and politely. It would also be nice if Ashmon's obsession with the undead could be brought down to a less detrimental level.

   She would most importantly organize the dwarves of the fortress. They would learn which of the many technically edible things in the world needn't be eaten. She would show them how to walk passed one another rather than stepping on each other. There would be long and comprehensive discussions about exactly how much blood and vomit ,none, that may acceptably cover ones body at any given time. She would persuade them to use her newly drafted sleep schedule that divided the day into four sections so that everyone managed to get to a bed. And on day fifty of her thirty day sentence she decided it may be wise to post a list of current occupants on the doors to the jails just so dwarves remembered to free, water, and feed the incarcerated.

   But before all that she was off to see her husband. After nearly a year of apart the two embraced in the splendor of their quarters. And when they emerged from their wooden palace to survey the world theydid so with the knowledge that it was theirs to conquer.

   Dumat now understood that the trials of the fortress were not detriments to her happiness but the more exciting parts of her harrowing journey to true fulfillment. Surely there was more work to be done but she knew the rules now and only a very sad story would end with no mountains left to climb. Yes, after nearly a year Dumat Stakepondered had finally settled in. Ready for whatever came next, her story finally had a happy ending.

If you stop reading now.

How happy an ending is is contingent on when you stop reading and when you stop reading is entirely up to you. There is nothing stopping you from accepting this as the end of the tale of Dumplin but should you choose to follow this story to it's terminus no promises can be made of how happy an ending you'll find. Continue reading at your own peril and with the knowledge that nothing stays very good for very long.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Liber celi on April 21, 2013, 10:43:51 am

I have stared into the abyss for a long time. No need to stop now.

Title: Re: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Dwarven Justice System
Post by: Catsup on April 21, 2013, 11:20:01 am

Quote from: Broseph Stalin on April 21, 2013, 08:59:33 am

Yes, after nearly a year Dumat Stakepondered had finally settled in. Ready for whatever came next, her story finally had a happy ending.

no way.... no way!! why end it now?
what happened to the bloody goblin ambush that gets asen killed? or the mixed goblin/undead siege that wipes out the fort? or dumat being pushed to the edge of insanity as everyone died around her, but despite the fact that she is a garbage dwarf, she somehow manages to survive and rebuild?

dammit i feel the more appropriate ending for this story is dumat as the sole survivor, she becomes hardened and alot stronger and cleans up and buries everyone. A few migrants arrive to help her and she begins to recover. Then when the fort is mostly re-established dumat becomes a wise and competent leader that is able to lead the military into battle, and despite all shes been through she keeps hold of her values of equality and happiness for her people. She then sees a familiar migrant that reminds her of herself, a little dwarfette that is struggling with the basic labors and wonders if she'll ever be noticed, dumat looks at her and smiles sadly, but smiles none-the-less, because her greatest loss: her innocence, is never going to be coming back to her.

Title: Re: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Dwarven Justice System
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 21, 2013, 11:26:48 am

Quote from: Catsup on April 21, 2013, 11:20:01 am

Quote from: Broseph Stalin on April 21, 2013, 08:59:33 am
Yes, after nearly a year Dumat Stakepondered had finally settled in. Ready for whatever came next, her story finally had a happy ending.

no way.... no way!! why end it now?
what happened to the bloody goblin ambush that gets asen killed? or the mixed goblin/undead siege that wipes out the fort? or dumat being pushed to the edge of insanity as everyone died around her, but despite the fact that she is a garbage dwarf, she somehow manages to survive and rebuild?

dammit i feel the more appropriate ending for this story is dumat as the sole survivor, she becomes hardened and alot stronger and cleans up and buries everyone. A few migrants arrive to help her and she begins to recover. Then when the fort is mostly re-established dumat becomes a wise and competent leader that is able to lead the military into battle, and despite all shes been through she keeps hold of her values of equality and happiness for her people. She then sees a familiar migrant that reminds her of herself, a little dwarfette that is struggling with the basic labors and wonders if she'll ever be noticed, dumat looks at her and smiles sadly, but smiles none-the-less, because her greatest loss: her innocence, is never going to be coming back to her.

Keep reading. This is the end if you stop reading now. That was a warning that if you wanted a happy ending you shouldn't read the next two chapters.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 21, 2013, 04:24:44 pm

Dumplin Lakewanders had enjoyed four years of relative prosperity. She welcomed her newborn son Obok Handletunnels into the world just a month ago and now her life finally felt complete. She was still deemed dangerously incompetent by the illiterate manager and therefore relegated to light work. She spent her days hauling bins very short distances from the workshops to the stockpiles, hauling wood from clearcut areas to the woodpile, and occasionally picking up things left outdoors.

When the days work was done she could always budget time to spend with her husband after he finished his practice and patrols. They would sit down to a meal that was often ,but not always, some combination of animal fat and acorns and a nice stiff drink. Before the day was done she would make an excursion to the caverns and bring Bim a drink and a meal.

There was no sign that today would be unusual. She'd arisen, fed Obok, and reported for work just as she always did. She walked through the forest with young Obok sitting atop her shoulder, just like she always did. She went along picking up bolts and other things the hunters and woodcutters lost track of, just like she always did. She'd just set her bin down down to pick up a dented iron shield. When the militia learned a nicer piece of armor was available they just threw their old gear on the ground and went off to grab it. That wasn't particularly unusual either. What was very unusual was the fell cry from the watchtower.
“Ambush!” The warning split the air.
“Ambush!” Came a second call and a third before soon all about the warnings echoed throughout the grounds. Dumat had just enough time to see a goblin tear through the brush sword in hand.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: laxori666 on April 21, 2013, 10:40:08 pm

Oh man. At first this was hilarious, then it quickly got to horrifying/utterly depressing as I realized just what a horrible life we make our dorfs lead. But I can't stop now.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 22, 2013, 09:12:08 am

“Block.” There was no second thought, an ancient part of her dwarven brain remembered the weight of the shield and with a natural grace she threw the shield in front of herself blocking the deadly blow and sending the goblin staggering back. Not expecting to work for this kill he was surprised by her sudden defense. Another strike fell but again rebounded against Dumat's shield. Thrown from her feet by the ferocity of the attack she landed hard on her back. Only an unconscious drive to protect her son kept Obok from leaving her grasp.
   “Survive.” Something primal inside her had awoken. Seeing her helpless state the goblin redoubled it's attack. There was a chorus of clangs and frustrated screams interspersed with the crying of a dwarven child as each ferocious attack found only iron. She scrambled to her feet but another stroke landed flush on her shield sending her back to the ground. This time she slid back a fair distance and Obok landed nearly a foot away from her crying.
   “Protect Obok.” There was no logic to it. A simple dwarven drive compelled her to roll in between the goblin and her son and lash out with all her might. A sickening crunch accompanied a fell scream he edge of the shield collided with the goblins jaw. Staggered by the impact and drunk with pain the foe had no opportunity to dodge when Dumat's shield flew through the air and struck him flush in the knee. There was a loud crunch as goblin curses filled the air.
   “Kill.” The ancient fury boiled in her dwarven blood. Without thought or warning she charged the prone goblin and brought a fist down against his skull. The goblin couldn't find a good angle but his impotent flailing was able to inflict a shallow cut along her collar bone deadly close to her throat.
   In a flash she remembered Ashmon's dual with the cougar. “Wrestle.” She obeyed the simple command and achieved a grip on cross guard of the blade. She was unable to seize the weapon with such a weak grip but neither could the goblin use the blade while she held onto it.
   She sought a punch to the goblins fractured jaw but it shot out it's free hand and tightly gripped her forearm. She used her hand to do the same. The goblins gripped her left forearm with his right hand while she gripped his right forearm with her left hand preventing either from securing any sort of lock. In a pile of writhing limbs and the most severe curses their mortal tongues could muster the two remained pitched in a fight to the death.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 22, 2013, 04:44:24 pm

   Whenever she repositioned to allow a solid kick goblin siezed the opportunity to drive the ball of his heel into her in the stomach. Whenever the goblin tried to lean back for a another kick her foot would find his ribs. Neither could gain any ground. The goblin was a warrior, trained from birth to kill he'd spilled much blood and was more fearsome than Dumat could hope to be. Dumat was a survivor, five years in hell had hardened her body and she was by far mightier than any goblin raider. This was combat in it's purest form between two souls determined to exist one more day. But Dumat had one more advantage. Her son. Her son would not die in this clearing, not this day.

   She was indefatigable and as the goblin began to tire of this stalemate she found an opening. She sunk her teeth into the goblins right hand forcing him to release her left arm. Now free of the Goblins grip she shot out her hand and wrapped it around the goblins throat. The goblin tried desperately to claw at her face but she tightly squeezed it's windpipe. Soon she felt her foes grip on the sword slacken and with a jerk freed the blade. With one clean motion she reared back and drove the blade through her enemies ribcage cleanly pierced his heart. With a quiver and a gasp it fell still.

   She found her feet and scooped up Obok once again. When she turned she found herself facing nine goblin warriors of various armament. Without a word she reclaimed the sword and shield. She remembered the foot of the grand staircase. She may die, that may be unavoidable, but it would not be because she didn't fight. Dumat steeled herself and prepared to slaughter the first greenskin who dared to step forward.

AN: Posts will get longer after finals.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: laxori666 on April 22, 2013, 09:10:17 pm

Hey Broseph,

I wanted to read this in the subway w/ no internet so I ended up making a word document & turning it into an eBook. (If anyone wants it I can upload it somewhere.) In any case, I know where Chapter I and Chapter III start, but I couldn't find a mention of where Chapter II starts... where would that be? I also take it that the post ending in "nothing stays very good for very long." is the end of Chapter III and we're now into Chapter IV?

Fun stuff! Looking forward to see how increasingly tragic this tale can indeed get.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 22, 2013, 09:47:44 pm

Quote from: laxori666 on April 22, 2013, 09:10:17 pm

Hey Broseph,

I wanted to read this in the subway w/ no internet so I ended up making a word document & turning it into an eBook. (If anyone wants it I can upload it somewhere.) In any case, I know where Chapter I and Chapter III start, but I couldn't find a mention of where Chapter II starts... where would that be? I also take it that the post ending in "nothing stays very good for very long." is the end of Chapter III and we're now into Chapter IV?

Fun stuff! Looking forward to see how increasingly tragic this tale can indeed get.

Dumplin Lakewanders and the Daily Grind Begins and ends on the first page with
"Soon today would just be a fun story to tell, soon the great staircase would be a leisurely stroll, soon Arrowstockades would be home."

Dumplin Lakewanders and the Cwivers of Dubious Quality begins on the first page with
"Sure enough the next day was easier"

Dumplin Lakewanders and the Dwarven Justice System begins on the second page
Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons begins on page 4

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Eastep on April 23, 2013, 02:03:36 am

This has to be one of my new favorite stories to read here. I keep coming back for more of it!
Excellent writing, a solid story, and such a depressing way of showing off dwarven life.
I just don't like how randomly crazy Ashmon is... Everyone else is great, except crazy Ashmon.
Please though!
MOOOOOOOAAAAAAAR!

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: laxori666 on April 23, 2013, 09:18:34 am

Quote from: Eastep on April 23, 2013, 02:03:36 am

This has to be one of my new favorite stories to read here. I keep coming back for more of it!
Excellent writing, a solid story, and such a depressing way of showing off dwarven life.
I just don't like how randomly crazy Ashmon is... Everyone else is great, except crazy Ashmon.
Please though!
MOOOOOOOAAAAAAAR!

I actually really enjoy Ashmon. An ecstatic dwarf that doesn't care about anything and remains cheery while pummeling an obviously innocent dwarf for a silly reason... how else would you realistically portray that?

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Eastep on April 23, 2013, 02:18:28 pm

I was thinking more uncaring and like, "Shrug. I don't make the rules." than bonafide crazy. That's just my preference though. I read the story regardless and like it!

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Kirbypowered on April 23, 2013, 06:07:29 pm

Suppose I'll throw my own opinion in.

Loving the story so far, and I'm sure I'll continue to love it as it dives off the depressing tragedy end (the point where you're carefully edging your way along, and then unexpectedly plunge to your death). I like how it's a bit of a realistic look at the way a dwarf fortress tends to be run, going beyond the dwarves' ecstatic nature. =p

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 23, 2013, 06:49:50 pm

As Dumat prepared to make her final stand the earth split open and it's most fearsome demon crawled forth to walk the earth bringing and end to the empires of mortals. That was the nearest explanation she could fathom when a terrifying howl tore through the woods. A blur pushed passed her, she had just enough time to see the terror in the lead goblin's eyes before his head flew through the air. The wraith struck out with his incandescent blade and a spray of gore filled the air. Their armor provided them no protection. Their shields delayed the inevitable but their mail may as well have been paper. Dumat looked on shocked as body parts were let loose from their bindings and sent sailing into trees.

   Soon the wraith was joined by more of his ilk she recognized among them Feb One Eye and Ashmon. The goblin forces were reinvigorated by reinforcements but where the armies of Arrowstockades walked hell followed. Axes, swords, maces, and even a few picks all lashed out hungry for goblin flesh.

   Dumat froze like a frightened hare. To flee in any direction, even towards the fortress may mean stumbling upon more goblins. To stay may see her caught up in the battle. She tried to position herself as near the defenders as possible without warranting the attention of the goblin menace or falling victim to an errant swing of a friendly blade. She held Obok tightly and watched on in horror.

   The zest for combat left the invaders quickly. They sought the treasures of Arrowstockades but they'd earned it's ire. Now that they saw the true face of terror and they fled. But when they realized their foolish mistake they fled into the woods to no avail. Their pursuers were fleet of foot and fierce of temper. Overrun by the counteroffensive they were cut down to the last man. When the last enemy had been destroyed all that remained were the warriors of Arrowstockades with a few cuts and scrapes but wholly victorious.

   Their leader, the demon, was an enormous dwarf lapped in brilliant aquamarine armor decorated with spikes, bands, and rings of various metals, gems of all cuts and colors, and a generous spatter of goblin blood. In his left hand he held a shield as tall and wide as a fully grown dwarf and in his right hand he held an incandescent blade nearly six feet long. The bane of mortal men, the legendary Prowler of Rasps. An iridium zweihander menacing with spikes of fine black stone and hematite and on it's hilt three wildflowers carved from bone. The blade and it's keeper had taken fifty two lives and neither seemed interested in resting on their laurels. The being standing before her like the wrath of an angry god was no other than Cerol Sabershaft, The Oily Eviscerations.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 24, 2013, 07:43:18 pm

Once the last foe lied dead it was back to business and the militia either milled about lightly chatting or ran off to their work assignments. Sickened by the horrors of war Dumat stood paralyzed for a few moments but trauma was no acceptable reason for work stoppages in the eyes of the fortress. Today in particular all hands would see labor. Today began the festivities of her least favorite time of year.
   This bloodbath marked the beginning of Goblin Christmas. The origin of the name was wholly unknown and wholly undwarven, but every year when winter fell goblins laid siege to the fortress and every year their wholesale mass slaughter meant a joyous celebration and an exponential increase in the number of work orders for the haulers. The battlefield would become a free for all of filthy dwarves scrabbling in the muck for what remained of the siege. No matter how many perfectly fine suits of clothing resided in the stockpiles no dwarf could resist celebrating Goblin Christmas.
    Anything made of cloth or leather would be scooped up by dwarves eager to replace their threadbare rags. Anything made of metal was melted down to be re-purposed for use within the fortress. Anything made of goblin was to be burned to ash and would become a reagent in the production of crystal glass.
   With a black glee and blatant disrespect for the dead they would all gaily sing while they picked the decaying corpses clean of all valuables. All through the fortress there would be rejoicing while the special casks of Sunshine were cracked open and lavish meals crafted with the rarest ingredients were trotted out in celebration.
   What all this meant for Dumat was long days of the most unpleasant labor Arrowstockades had to offer. The bodies would putrefy quickly in the sun and the smell would result in the laborers inevitably vomiting. The slurry of blood, bile, muck and dwarf vomit would become slippery and soon there would be a pile of filth covered dwarves falling over one another trying respectively to sort and organize the weapons and armor and to loot the clothing of the dead. And after several days or weeks ,depending on the size of the invasion force, there would be a few bars of ash and metal, a bevy of dwarves with nice new clothes, and no evidence that a siege had ever taken place.
   This was not her first Goblin Christmas but it the first time she'd witnessed ,much less participated in, the actual killing. Uninterested in being party to what came next Dumat announced she was taking a break. Unlike the foolish dwarves who would throughout the year spend weeks at a time resting Dumat went on break for only a day or two when the caravans came through. She found that by being judicious with her breaks she could avoid the caravans and thereby ensure she would never be arrested for violating an export ban. Staving off the emotional hell that was Goblin Christmas was well worth the cost of one of her break days.
    However, as she was leaving a low, hollow voice called out “Hold.”
She turned slowly. Cerol eyed her through his helmet.
“This one,” he said in his cold voice. “Sixth Rangers.”

“What?” Dumat asked.

Title: Re: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Catsup on April 25, 2013, 12:39:12 pm

Quote from: Broseph Stalin on April 23, 2013, 06:49:50 pm

The being standing before her like the wrath of an angry god was no other than Cerol Sabershaft, The Oily Eviscerations.

dam...all my hero dwarves who got named only did so because they had luck and got the headshots on the most forgotten beasts/invaders while sitting safely behind fortifications. None of them could really spearhead an attack or even hold their own without getting seriously injuried/killed against more than 1 armed enemy. But then again my military are all marksdwarves...

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Urist Mc Dwarf on April 26, 2013, 01:08:45 pm

I have a "tragic" dwarf named Blackheart(by me)

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: CaptainLambcake on April 26, 2013, 10:24:39 pm

dumat's being drafted!

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Catsup on April 27, 2013, 11:48:06 pm

Quote from: CaptainLambcake on April 26, 2013, 10:24:39 pm

dumat's being drafted!

hopefully she gets danger-room trained soon so they can bury her baby (or turn it into ash and slab it). That should harden her up a lil.

Quote from: Catsup on April 25, 2013, 12:39:12 pm

dam...all my hero dwarves who got named only did so because they had luck and got the headshots on the most forgotten beasts/invaders while sitting safely behind fortifications. None of them could really spearhead an attack or even hold their own without getting seriously injuried/killed against more than 1 armed enemy. But then again my military are all marksdwarves...

on second thought there is 1 or 2 of the named ones that are really strong, at least in attributes. This one guy i have called "Kikrost Spearboats the Charcoal Dominion of Visions" is my strongest. He has legendary marksdwarf and archer, novice shield user and hammerdwarf, and great dodger (not danger room trained yet, he came with it). He is virtually never sick, strong, tough, and agile. He has an unbreakable focus and a lot of willpower.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 30, 2013, 12:42:44 pm

Wrapping up exams, updates will continue tomorrow or tonight if time allows.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: laxori666 on May 01, 2013, 09:53:36 am

Quote from: Broseph Stalin on April 30, 2013, 12:42:44 pm

Wrapping up exams, updates will continue tomorrow or tonight if time allows.

Exciting! Good luck w/ the exams

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Reudh on May 01, 2013, 10:37:41 am

Posting to watch. This is a brilliant story and has gotten me back into the game.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on May 03, 2013, 08:16:30 am

Cerol Sabershaft did not explain himself to garbage dwarves. Dumat was sent back into the fortress and away from the battlefield. She had no idea what conscription would mean for her life in Arrowstockades but it couldn't be worse than Goblin Christmas. “Find Captain Degel,” was all she had in the way of orders.
The barracks, she thought, would be as likely a place as any to find a militia captain. She went upstairs to the roof, as though she was headed to the hospital, but this time she went directly forward into a medium sized rotunda where dwarves lapped in different qualities of armor there were a few protected by the same brilliant and ornately decorated aquamarine armor that Cerol wore. Others wore armor she recognized as nearly impenetrable welded mithril, most wore common but high quality steel, and pair of dwarves in oppressively heavy and not spectacularly tough bronze armor. One of the least impressive dwarves was sleeping on the ground, grumbling a bit when he an errant boot struck him, and the other sat trying ineffectually to load his crossbow without a left hand. Knowing her place in Arrowstockades far too well she had no delusions about which of the many dwarves in the barracks were her new squadmates.
“Hello,” she said. “Which one of you is Captain Degel?”

AN: So, exams have ended but with my new free time I've suffered a relapse and have begun injecting Skyrim directly into my veins. I'm going to schedule a little writing time each day so I can get back to the twice a day updates.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on May 03, 2013, 04:59:33 pm

The one handed dwarf kicked the sleeping dwarf. He groggily muttered and sat up.
“Captain Degel Steelycrew,” he said with drool drying on his chin. “Who're you?”
“Dumplin Lakewanders,” Dumat Stakepondered replied. It was easier to go by the name she'd been given than to go through the confusion again. “Cerol told me to join your squad.”
“Oh dear,” Said Degel rising to his feet. “I guess he was serious about finding conscripts for my squad. I was supposed to find nine dwarves but so far only Inod was willing to join.”
The one handed dwarf she took to be Inod had his feet on either arm of his crossbow and was trying to draw the string and succeeded in sending the crossbow flying back into his face.
“This isn't working, you'll have to do it for me!”
“No Inod I'm talking!”
“You can just reload it and hand it back when we're shooting at goblins!”
“No Inod I'm talking!”
“Excuse me.” Dumplin said. “Do you have any orders?”
“Um...” Degel paused. “Find some equipment. You'll need metal boots, greaves, gauntlets, mail, a breastplate, and a helmet. There should be plenty down in the stockpiles.”
It was at that point a warm thought struck her. Without another word she ran, down the stairs and through the halls deftly dodging passersby until she reached the finished goods stockpile wholly out of breath. She rifled through bin after bin sifting through priceless golden trinkets, tattered socks, coils of rope, flasks, garishly decorated skull totems and unsealed jugs full of honey, before she finally found what she was looking for. The quality was too poor to be of interest for anyone else and it's valuable was so negligible that selling it to the merchants was not worth while. It was deemed beneath sale or acquisition and so it had sat unloved for nearly five years. Inlaid with bone, decorated with glass, carved ornately, and the interior padded with lovingly stitched silk it was her masterpiece. She slung the strap over her shoulder and stood proudly with the quiver at her hip.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: laularukyrumo on May 04, 2013, 07:13:19 am

Awww. Now that's sweet.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Onyxjew944 on May 05, 2013, 01:42:27 pm

Great story, I'm really inspired to get back into DF. It's been far too long since I made a haul-slave and generated an unofficial master-race of super-dwarves.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on May 07, 2013, 11:33:11 pm

So five consecutive days of Skyrim have finally satisfied my hunger and I'm once again prepared to start keeping my schedule. I've already got tomorrows updates done and I'm starting work on a buffer in case I get distracted by a shiny object.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on May 08, 2013, 10:28:07 am

For five years Dumplin had passed through different levels of hell and she'd learned to adapt. Even in the madness of Arrowstockades there were patterns and where there were patterns technique could be refined. With practice and dedication even a city born dwarf like Dumat was more than capable of learning to survive. But now, now the days of posturing and rolling with the punches seemed to be over. She was no longer pretending and no longer surviving. Now that she walked the halls of Arrowstockades appearing quite imperial clad in bronze armor, crossbow at rest, Obok on her shoulder, and a quiver of her own design bristling with bolts on her hip she was in control. The nervousness she felt at the thought of becoming a warrior, the sickness she felt from slaying the goblin, and the sense of unease inherent to walking the halls of Arrowstockades all burned away in the face of her raw excitement. No force on heaven or earth could intimidate her today.

She marched triumphantly, if awkwardly due to her inexperience with armor, back to the barracks. She stood proudly for a moment hoping to catch the eye and earn the praise of one of her peers but she quickly remembered that as the most junior dwarf of the most useless squad she was the least impressive dwarf in the entire military. Degel sat stroking his beard and Inod was wholly inverted, feet planted on either arm of his crossbow, and his back against the wall trying desperately to draw back his crossbow string.

“I have my equipment.” Dumplin said.

“That's good,” Degel replied. “You're a full fledged member of the Hairless Baboons now.”

“Why do they call us the Hairless Baboons?” Dumplin asked.

“I don't know.” Degel replied.

“We keep asking them to stop.” Inod said.

“Now that you have equipment you should carry some paper and charcoal to write down where you leave it.”

“Leave what?” Dumplin asked.

“Your equipment,” Degel said matter of factly. “If you drop it on the ground you'll be able to remember where you left it when it's your turn to train.”

“Why would I drop my equipment on the ground?” Dumplin asked.

“Well sometimes when it's hot I just take off a piece and leave it on the ground and come back to it when I get orders. Then if it's still hot I drop another and another, sometimes I leave pieces laying around in the barracks or in my room or in the dining hall and then when it's time to train or mobilize I forget where some of it is and I show up without any bolts, or without my quiver. Heck, last time we received orders I forgot my crossbow so I just cheered for the other archers until they asked me to leave.”

“Maybe you should keep your armor on, or store it in the armory until you need it.” Dumplin suggested.

“That sounds complicated.” Degel said apprehensively.

“It's easier than dropping it all over the fortress.” Dumplin replied.

“No, I think my ways better.” Degel insisted. “Besides, if I write down where I keep my armor on the front of the paper I can write down potential squad members on the back.”

“You could still carry the paper-”

“I'm having trouble finding new squad mates.” Degel explained. “I keep asking but nobody wants to join because everyone hates me.”

“It's true.” Inod said inadvertently launching his crossbow into the air. “Everyone hates him because he's secretly an elf.”

“I'm not an elf!”

“That doesn't stop him from fondling them.”

“I don't fondle elves!”

“He's even a flower picker.”

“I'm an herbalist!”

“He drank too much mead and said he wants to marry an elf.”

“I do not want to marry an elf I just admire them for their marital bonds.”

“See, he likes elf bondage. I saw him eying a naked elf prisoner once.”

“First of all that's not what that means and second of all it was in the middle of the dining hall, it was hard not to notice!”

“He's an elf fondler.”

“I'm not an elf fondler!”

“Now,” Dumplin began quickly cutting off the pairs discussion. “Being a soldier is a big commitment. They probably just aren't cut out for it, I'm sure they don't think you fondle elves.” Dumat assured.

“No.” Degel said. “When they say no they always say it's because they hate me for being an elf fondler. They're very specific.”

Dumplin had nothing to say that wouldn't be incredibly sad so she settled on prolonged awkward silence. While she waited for Degel to say some other horrible thing a thought struck her.

“I think I know where you can find plenty of willing participants.”

Title: Re: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: CognitiveDissonance on May 08, 2013, 10:34:28 am

Quote from: Broseph Stalin on May 08, 2013, 10:28:07 am

“I think I know where you can find plenty of willing participants.”

Oh no...

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: CaptainLambcake on May 08, 2013, 02:36:22 pm

hooray feb is joining the squad

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on May 08, 2013, 07:43:36 pm

Dumplin Lakewanders came to a rest at the foot of the grand staircase and Degel Steelycrew clambered down to meet her .
“You know,” he wheezed. “When you said willing participants I thought you meant elves to fondle.”

“I know.” Dumplin replied.

“Not because I fondle elves.” Degel clarified. “Just because of the way you phrased it.”

“I know.” Dumplin replied.

“There are too many stairs here!” Inod whined lagging far behind.

“The cavern dwarves should be eager to find a way to return to the fortress.”

“And they won't accuse me of fondling elves?”

“Not if you don't give them a reason to. Don't just start denying you fondle elves, it makes you sound guilty.”

“There had better be a faster way back up!” Inod threatened, laboring down the remaining stairs.

“How could there be a faster way up?” Degel asked. “Do you think there's another path that covers the same distance with fewer stairs?”

“Maybe there's a waterfal we can swim up.”

“That's so much more difficult than climbing stairs!”

“No it isn't.”

“Yes it is you would get tired and drown.”

“I would just hold my head outside the water.”

“If your head isn't under the water the gravity will pull you down.”

“Don't tell me how heavy my head is.”

“Maybe we should go recruiting now.” Dumplin interrupted.

“You're right.” Said Degel. With a sharp exhale he pushed open the doors.

A few hundred feet away from where the stone, ore, silk., and gems were stacked was the small encampment where the most reviled dwarves of the entire fortress resided. These poor souls were denigrated to the most menial of labor, robbed of all security and community, and forced to survive on the little nourishment the caverns could offer. Spread out around a large central bonfire dwarves

“Hello!” Degel said. The dirty congregation stared at him. “I fondle elves!”

Dumplin quickly pulled him off to the side. “I should have been clearer.” She apologized. “When I said don't deny you fondle elves I meant stop saying that you don't fondle elves, not to start saying you fondle elves.”

“Oh.” Degel turned back to the crowd. “I will not confirm nor deny that I fondle elves!”

“That wasn't better.” Dumplin said.

“I'm looking for new members to join my squad, the hairless baboons.”

The response was a long period of silence followed by a call of “Elf Fondler” and a series of jeers.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: CaptainLambcake on May 09, 2013, 09:01:31 pm

i love this story

i also love you broseph

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: CaptainLambcake on May 15, 2013, 08:07:12 pm

this and likot soap eater are so dead

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Reudh on May 15, 2013, 08:46:11 pm

Quote from: CaptainLambcake on May 15, 2013, 08:07:12 pm

this and likot soap eater are so dead

Not really. Some of the other forumites have lots of other things to do with their time- work, uni, family, etc. It's possible Broseph is just taking a break.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on May 15, 2013, 10:42:21 pm

So if you've ever followed a community story, webcomic, blog etc. you've probably noticed a pattern that eventually the author starts apologizing for not posting more often than they post and then it dies forever.

That is not happening.

I've had some stuff to sort through and I got addicted to Unreal World so I did get behind with my posts but I repeat:

This is not dead.

I have the story clearly plotted out from right now until the end, I am not just going to forget about this. I will be posting at least one update tomorrow and I should get back to regularly updating very shortly. On my dwarven honor this story will be told.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on May 16, 2013, 09:40:15 am

Despite his desperate efforts to rebuff his own indictments Degel failed to persuade the mob that he did not in fact fondle elves. The chuckling and hollering went on until a voice called out from the back.

“Hold!” Cried a filthy dwarf. Moss thick in his beard and his elegant clothes in rags the speaker was the shell of the Jeweler Bim. In the caverns simple amenities were precious treasures and Dumats gifts to Bim had made him very wealthy. His bucket meant he held a source of fresh water that could be accessed without treading near the treacherous pools. His pillow meant when he laid his head down at night it would rest comfortably off of the damp moss and he would rise comfortable and dry. His blanket meant precious warmth when one had the misfortune to be too far from the central fire. He used these precious things to ensure his own comfort and on occasion loaned them to others in exchange for favors. Bim was as low as any garbage dwarf could ever be but in the caverns he was king.

“I know one of these dwarves,” he motioned to Dumplin. “I'm certain that if she's cast her lot in with this elf-fondler--”

“I won't confirm or deny—”

“Hush you!” Bim snapped. “I'm certain that it mustn’t be as bad as it sounds.”

“He only fondles elves on the weekends.” Inod added.

“You hush too.” Bim snapped.

“It is a very big decision.” Dumplin said. “You would have to patrol every other month, train occasionally, and you wouldn't be able to live in the burrow anymore.”

She had their rapt attention now.

“You wouldn't be able to wear your old clothes either. You'd have to wear a uniform that includes a full suit of padded leather clothes. It's a very regimented life, you'd be expected to live in the barracks, that means no sleeping wherever you please, and you'd have to eat and drink rations instead of just drinking out of puddles and eating mushrooms whenever you feel like it. You may never see the caverns again. Now is anyone still ready to sign on?”

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: laxori666 on May 16, 2013, 10:35:35 am

Oh man. She is so likable! Yet horrible things surely await...

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: CaptainLambcake on May 16, 2013, 02:18:41 pm

fondle elves

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on May 21, 2013, 04:04:02 pm

Over the next few minutes moss covered dwarves alternated between pursuing the new opportunity and pursuing the chance to loot the possessions of everyone who signed on until finally a few prospective dwarves stood before them. Degel being militia captain and therefore in charge of the entire operation stood beside Dumplin while she took care of interviewing the candidates. Dumplin sat on a stone and the first prospect sat on a mushroom stump in front of her.
She was a small dwarf with dark hair and big round eyes. She smiled a great, goofy, Ashmon-like smile.
“Hello.” Dumplin said.
“Hello.” The dwarf said. “My name is Athel.”
“So you want to be a soldier?”
“Yes!” Athel replied. “Even though my work here is important I want to help the fortress more.”
“Your work is important?” Dumplin asked.
“Yes!” Athel replied. “Everything needs to be stacked.”
“Okay.” Dumplin said. “Have you ever used a crossbow.”
“No,” Athel answered. “I'm super excited to learn though!”
“Have you ever done any soldiering at all?” Dumplin asked.
“No,” Athel answered. “But I'm very good at walking and carrying things.”
“We'll get back to you.” Dumplin said.

Athel was replaced by another dwarf. The familiar graying Bim took Athels seat and rested his hands on his knees.
“I was in front of her.” Bim said. “But she started crying because she was afraid you would run out of spots before she got a turn. Enthusiastic that one.”
“Well Bim do you have any qualifications?” Dumplin asked.
“Well nothings killed me yet.” Bim replied. “I could help keep the others in line but honestly I've never used a crossbow or worn heavy armor. I'm desperate to return to the fortress, if that's worth anything.”
“We really need experienced soldiers Bim,” Dumplin replied sadly. “But if there's any way to get you a spot for you in the squad I promise I'll find it.”
“That's all I can ask Dumpin.” Bim stood up and walked off to be replaced by another dwarf. This was a much younger dwarf with a great, long beard.

“Stodir.” He said introducing himself. “I cut wood for many years in the caverns and above ground. Wild beasts and a few invaders have felt the bite of my axe.”
“Have you ever used a crossbow?”
“I can't say I have.” Stodir replied. “I've never worn any armor either. Never did any proper soldiering but when you're caught out in a siege with a weapon in your hand you get sort of a sense for combat and that you can't teach”
“We'll see if we can make you fit.” Dumplin said.

Stodir gave up his seat to the next dwarf in line. This dwarf was a woman with long scraggly hair framing her face.
“My name is Angzak and I want to fight!”
“Okay.” Said Dumplin. “That's a good attitude. Do you have any experience?”
“I punched a bunch of people down here! Ask anyone, I'll punch someone right now if you don't believe me!”
“That won't be necessary.”
“So do I get a sword or a warhammer?”
“We use crossbows and that's a little premature.”
“Which ones are crossbows?”
“There these things we're carrying.”
“I thought those were future-picks.”
“How long have you been down here?”
“I'm not sure it's hard to tell time when you eat these mushrooms.”
“We'll get back to you.” Dumplin said.

The dwarf who replaced her had flaxen hair in which grew several varieties of mushrooms.
“My name is Tath, I don't really want to fight but I need to leave the caverns.”
“That's as good a motivation as any.” Dumplin replied.
“People keep trying to eat my hair mushrooms.”
“That's not necessarily as good a motivation.”
“These dwarves don't respect plants, they run around shoveling everything into their greedy mouths and ruining the ecosystem. I only eat the mushrooms that I farm on my hair to protect the environment.”
“Okay.” Dumplin replied. “I don't suppose you have any combat experience?”
“Well I fight for plant rights.”
“We'll keep that in mind, next please.”

The dwarf who took Tath's place had a long thin beard, scraggly black hair, and slightly mad gray eyes.
“I can murder people if I'm a soldier right?” The strange dwarf asked.
“Well you wouldn't be murdering them you would be-”
“I could still watch them die?” The dwarf interrupted.
“Yes I guess you could-”
“I would like to be a soldier. My name is Iral. Please give me a crossbow.”
“Have you ever used a crossbow?” Dumplin Asked.
“I'm a fast learner.” He replied.
“Have you ever done any soldiering?”
“No.” He replied. “I make cannibal soap.”
“What's cannibal soap?”
“It's when you use an invaders ashes and fat to make soap. They asked me to make other kinds of soap but I told them I had too much artistic integrity.”
“Please leave.” Dumplin said.

The next dwarf was a woman with auburn hair and a torn strip of cloth wrapped around her eyes.
“Hello,” She said. “I'm Vakun.”
“Do you have any experience with soldiering?”
“I've fought in four battles and killed seventeen Drow.”
“Have you ever used a crossbow?”
“I've only used a crossbow.” Vakun replied. “I used to be an instructor.”
“I notice you wear a bandage over your eyes.”
“Well I wear it on my head, I don't have eyes anymore.”
“What?”
“I lost my eyes in combat.”
“But you want to join the militia? To use a crossbow?”
“Well I could still teach.”
“We don't need any cripples!” Inod snapped.
“You only have one hand.” Degel pointed out.
“Well you need eyes to fire a crossbow.” Inod replied.
“You need two hands to reload a crossbow.” Degel said.
“We'll keep you in mind but I don't think we have a position for another dwarf who can't use their weapon.”
Vakun got up rather sadly and joined the other rejects. No dwarf took her place.

“Weren't there more?” Dumplin asked.
“Iral started staring at them.” Bim said. “They left pretty quickly after that.”
“Well we have seven losers.” Inod said. “That's enough for a squad.”
Dumplin rested her head in her hands and stood up.

“Okay,” She began. “None of you are really qualified but we don't have much of a choice. Everyone whose been interviewed has a position on the squad. Let's all find you some equipment”

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Onyxjew944 on May 22, 2013, 04:41:20 pm

Heh, recruiting at its finest.

Quote

"Do you have any skill with a weapon?"
"No, I make cheese. Legendary cheese."
"That's the spirit! Here, have this training spear. It'll serve you well enough while you act as the champion marksdwarves' meatshields."

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on May 23, 2013, 01:06:58 pm

Fully armed and armored ten dwarves marched proudly up the grand staircase and burst through the doors to the rooftop. They stood proudly beneath the midday sun and the entire fortress , a full-fledged squad of Arrowstockades warriors. And then they started puking. Puking and puking and puking the cavern dwarves gazed at the light and immediately voided the contents of their stomachs onto the ground. And then came the slipping. Their own vomit became too thick on the ground to confer solid footing and they began falling. Eventually rolling in the vomit caused them to vomit more and soon they began writhing and struggling and clambering for their feet with vomit covering their freshly shined armor.
By the time they found their way to the barracks their entrance was less than spectacular. The pale, vomit slathered, motely crew did not look like Arrowstockades warriors, for a group of hairless baboons however they were completely adequate. They tried and failed to look impressive as they proceeded to the archery targets.
Degel as the leader of the squad and sole individual in charge of organizing the group stood beside Dumplin as she addressed the new recruits.

“Okay," she began. "we should probably start by getting everyone to fighting form. Inod can't reload his crossbow and Vakun can't see to aim, how do we fix that?”

“We could take the cloth off her eyes!” Athel suggested easilly.

“She's blind.” Dumplin pointed out. “If we took the cloth off she still wouldn't be able to see.”

“But it could still help.” Athel replied.

“But we'd have to look at her skull holes though.” Inod said.

“She could spot trolls before anyone else because of her hearing.” Bim interrupted. “We could use that.”
Dumplin turned to Vakun.“Could you hit a target by sound?”

“Probably.” She replied. “I can hear very well and I'm a master with the crossbow.”

“Good,” Dumplin said. “We'll teach her to aim for the sound of an armored invader.”

Degel being militia captain and head dwarf in charge of all of the militias activities ,at Dumplin's request, hauled a set of heavy armor back to the training ground. With a little doing they rigged the armor to dangle just above the archery target and balanced it so even the mild wind caused it to clang together. Vakun was spun around three times and told to locate and fire at the target using only the sound of the armor plates rubbing together.

She held her weapon at the ready and slowly rotated around zeroing in on the distant sound. She stopped and smiled. Her target located she fired and the bronze bolt screamed forward imbedding itself into Inod's leg. He hit hit the ground with a cry and began wailing and thrashing.

“Did I hit it?” Vakun asked.

Dumplin pressed a hand to her forehead. “Goblin armor.” She said to herself. “We should have taught her to aim at Goblin armor.”

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on June 03, 2013, 10:34:43 am

After having a squad mate rushed to the infirmary following a failed attempt to train a blind woman as a marksman the group decided it was best to start fresh tomorrow. Degel as leader of the squad and dwarf solely responsible for it's management fetched Dumplin some paper and charcoal so she could spend the rest of the night working on plans. Fresh and fighting fit the group assembled once again the next morning. When all were present at the archery targets Dumplin presented her new training program.

“This is Inod's custom crossbow.” Dumplin held her machination over her head.
“What's new about it?” Vakun asked.
“Will it stop him from getting shot in the leg-meat?” Iral asked.
“Will it stop him from being a crybaby?” Bim asked.
“I affixed a wooden piece to the front so he can step on it with both feet and a string to make it easier to re-cock it with one hand.”

Inod greedily and without warning snatched away the weapon and eagerly tried to make it work. After several minutes of grunting and cursing he abandoned the project and sat on the ground with a huff.

“You'll have to build up some more strength in that arm. Luckily I anticipated this.” Dumplin lifted from her feet a rather large tree stump with a small area dug out into a sort of makeshift handle. “While the rest of us train you can just lift this until you get tired. Eventually you'll be strong enough to draw the crossbow.”

Inod gripped the stump and with a great yell brought it up to chest level before dropping it once more.
“This is heavy and I hate it, give me a smaller one.”
“If it was smaller it would defeat the purpose.” Degel pointed out.
“This isn't an elf in need of a good fondling what would you know about it?”
“I'm not an elf-fondler!”
“AND!” Dumplin interrupted. “I also created a device to hone Vakun's hearing.” Dumplin went behind the archery targets and returned with two goats. One was saddled with a makeshift network of pillaged goblin armor and the other was similarly outfitted with armor of dwarven design.
“Vakun, you need to chase the goat with goblin armor and not the goat with dwarven armor. When you get used to differentiating between the two we'll go back to aiming by sound. As for the rest of us, we'll start by firing ten shots at the targets. Whoever gets the most on target will lead the archery demonstrations.”

The group of eight able bodied dwarves lined up opposite the targets, took aim and fired. Eight bolts whizzed passed their marks and continued on landing out in the fields eliciting a cry of “tuck tail!” from below. It was at this point Dumplin realized that an inexperienced group of archers firing at targets that used a very busy work site as a backdrop would not be the highlight of a haulers day.

“All of you should be punished!” The hauler yelled plucking the bolts from the dirt.

“We're sorry!” Cried Dumplin.
“One away!” Cried Iral firing another bolt soon followed by a second volley from the other marksdwarves. “Let's get him before he moves!”

“We aren't trying to hit him!” Dumplin exclaimed.
“Not with that attitude.” Iral replied loading another bolt.
“Captain, get his crossbow!” Dumplin ordered.
“You heard the lieutenant!” Degel cried gripping the weapon.
“Let me go you elf-fondling bastard!” Iral cried jamming his fingers into Degel's nose.

A fracas quickly broke out as the anti-murder dwarves attempted to assist Degel and the anti-fondling dwarves attempted to rescue Iral. In the midst of the fray Vakun continued to chase a terrified goat and Inod continued lifting his stump. It was at this point that Ashmon reached the training area.

“Oh hello Ashmon, we were just training.” Dumplin said.

“I'm not sure you were.” Ashmon replied.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on June 11, 2013, 12:02:48 pm

“Well I know it looks a bit odd but this is all very important.” Dumplin said.

“No,” Ashmon replied. “You're not even in the right area.”

“What?” Dumplin asked.

“Your squad trains in the barracks not on the range.”

“Why would archers train in melee combat?” She asked.

“They usually don't.” Ashmon said. “Every other archery squad except trains up here.”

“That sounds like a clerical error.” Dumplin pointed out.

“Nope.” Ashmon replied. “Cerol gets his orders directly from the overseer and those orders say all the archery squads except yours are supposed to be up here firing at the targets. Yours is supposed to be bashing each other with your crossbows.”

“That sounds fun.” Iral replied.

“It sounds like a clerical error.” Dumplin repeated. “The overseer must have mistaken us for a melee squad when he assigned us to sparring duty.”

“We don't really question the overseer Dumplin.”

“Couldn't you just ask him if he's sure he didn't make a mistake?”

“We really don't question the overseer Dumplin.”

“Well if you received orders to strip naked and drop your weapon before you ran into combat would you?”

“Do you remember how we met?”

Dumplin paused. “Oh right you were naked, unarmed, and pitched in combat.”

“Well I had a sock.”

“We don't need to talk about the sock. So no matter how insane or suicidal following an order is fortress dwarves always carry it out without question?”

“Always.” Ashmon replied.

“Okay.” She relented. “I'm sure the Overseer will realize his mistake eventually and have us treated as a proper ranged squad. Until then maybe having sparring practice on top of our eventual archery training will give us an edge over the other squads.”

“That's the spirit!” Ashmon replied. “But you aren't sparring quite yet. First you need to practice in the danger room.”

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Liber celi on June 11, 2013, 02:14:24 pm

Reminds me of my Crossbowdwarf training back from 40d: Everybody entering the map got a hammer and a wooden shield. Whoever was crippled when trying to become a Hammerdwarf got a crossbow and a dog leather quiver.

...it's been far to long since I recruited a really huge army.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Meme on June 18, 2013, 08:32:15 pm

I've been loving this but there haven't been any in a week. You there Stalin?

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on June 19, 2013, 10:50:46 am

Quote from: Meme on June 18, 2013, 08:32:15 pm

I've been loving this but there haven't been any in a week. You there Stalin?

Been a little busy. I expect to have an update tonight and I'll get back to a MWF or T/TR schedule.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on June 19, 2013, 06:09:00 pm

Ashmon lead the group down the stairs to the enclave and deeper still into the fortress finally stopping at a small door leading to a small room. The room was an unimpressive and square shaped room and was as far as unimpressive and square shaped rooms go completely fine. Ashmon insisted that the room was excellent for training but unless there was something particularly conducive to aggressive exercise about unimpressive and square shaped rooms this Danger Room seemed no better or more dangerous than any other room.
The danger perhaps stemmed from the difficulty of getting all the dwarves inside. For an inordinate amount of time they took turns pushing past one another, standing in the doorway, and lingering just outside of the room until finally all ten dwarves were squished together inside. When this had been achieved Ashmon shut and locked the door. For a few tense moments everything was still and then the alarm rang out. There was a long tense period of anxiousness and the exchanging of confused whispers in the dark.
After a few uncomfortable minutes the door swung open. “All hands to the caverns!” a strange dwarf yelled from outside. “We need reinforcements!”

The Hairless Baboons assembled and with terrifying precision marched down the stairs like a wave, their metallic footfalls echoing throughout the stairwell. Foul cries of pain and terror sounded from behind the door to the first cavern level. Dumplin set her jaw and with a great strike from her boot the doors flung open. Her eyes widened and her stomach dropped, with her knuckles white she gazed upon the great, skinless, pulsating, dimetredon Bandrims.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 15, 2013, 04:54:23 pm

Terror. Gripping, paralyzing, frantic terror. Dumplin was surrounded on all sides by dwarves dead and dying and racked with deadly wounded who had failed to slay the fearsome beast. Cries of pain terror and anger bled into the background as her mind locked up. As she slipped away one sound held her tethered. The cry that drowned out all others belonged to the precious child on her shoulder.

    Protect Obok. The compulsion transcended rationality and without thinking she adopted a fighters stance placing herself in front of her son. She regained her composure and prepared for war. Bandrims gave a deep and awful roar shaking the caverns to their very foundations as bolts peppered his flesh. Facing a target so large at such a range even the Baboons , even Vakun, couldn't miss.

“Stop!” She called. A strategy was already forming. “Circle him! Iral, Tath, circle behind him! The rest of you space out evenly!”
   The Baboons obeyed and adopted a circular formation. Quite accustomed to dwarves charging directly at him or grouping up in a large mass Bandrims was unprepared for any semblance of a plan. He turned and charged lashing out with his claws as Iral fired but turned to attack Degel as he fired a bolt into the great skinless back. Regardless of where he turned his attention Bandrims could never face more than one of his attackers. The frustration overcoming him the beast lashed out in unrelenting pursuit of a kill.
   It was Stodir who faced the misfortune of being the last to fire and he had no opportunity to defend himself when the massive claw struck his chest. There was a sound of metal crumpling as he flew through the air and rebounded against a cavern wall. The Babboons fired another volley but their bolts were scarcely splinters to the monstrosity. Without thinking Dumplin charged.

   Time dilated as she sprinted to Stodirs side. Chunks of earth followed her footfalls as her bronze boots ripped up the damp moss. The acrid smell of the beasts blood mingled with the musty smell of the caverns. The twang of strings lingered in the air. The heft of her crossbow dissipated as it became an extension of her body. She took aim. And fired. Blood spurted against her armor as the bolt buried itself in the great beasts eye from point blank range.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 17, 2013, 06:11:42 pm

   There was a pause as the beasts terrible mind struggled to comprehend what had just happened.And then came the roar. High and piercing the deafening roar told an ancient tale of pain, of hate. But beneath the fury and agony was something else. The scream concealed fear. Since time began the monster had gone more or less unchallenged, any who stood against it succeeded only in making themselves slightly easier to eat. But now it's eye put out the beast felt for the first time in it's ancient existence true terror.

   Block. An entirely involuntary reflex bred of ancient instinct Dumplin threw up her crossbow just in time to redirect a bit of the energy. Pushing herself slightly to the side prevented the worst of the impact. She wasn't flung across the caverns but she was still sent staggering back and into a pile of stones. She didn't have time to knock another bolt before the beasts terrible jaws set upon her.
Dumplin scrabbled backwards into a crevice. The fearsome snapping jaws pursued her tirelessly but she kept herself just inches from ruin. It's enormous dripped blood as they scraped the stone and it's constant pushing shook loose rocks. If more stones came loose she would be crushed, Obok along with her. If she was going to be killed she wouldn't take her son with her. She laid Obok down in the back of the crevice. She paused. She had nothing profound to say and little time to waste.

   She dropped her crossbow and plucked an iron bolt from her quiver. She turned. With a great lunger she propelled herself onto the great beasts nose. It thrashed and shook and struggled in vain against the grip of her left hand on it's nose. It's violent bucking threatened at any moment to fling her to her death but years of carrying bins barrels and stones had made her strong. Hanging on tight was second nature to her now. Digging in with her legs she found a stable position and stabbed down into it's skull. The shaking did not abate. Once more she brought the bolt down and felt the crunch as she chipped skull. Again, and again, and again. Flinging blood and skull fragments as she withdrew she stabbed over and over and over twisting and pulling when the bolt became stuck. But the beast went on thrashing and bucking and churning in a fierce and fitful dance until it's great head collided with the stone. Perhaps the beast was distracted by the pain or perhaps it was a last ditch effort to squash Dumplin but the beast had slammed it's head into the cavern wall. Dumplin's grip finally gave out and she was smashed against the stones. Her armor badly dented and her body broken she pushed to her feet.

She dropped the blood stained bolt and stared. The great beast had fallen still.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Thormgrim on July 18, 2013, 03:20:40 pm

is she going to name the crossbow bolt now? ;D

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Gazza_m on July 19, 2013, 03:26:43 pm

Just wow this is incredible.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 19, 2013, 04:37:48 pm

The caverns were silent. Even the wounded dwarves ceased their groaning as the gravity of what had just occurred dawned on them. Dumplin Lakewanders, garbage dwarf and short order goblin fodder had just killed one of the most fearsome foes that had ever besieged Arrowstockades. Even Cerol seemed impressed ,in his own silently indifferent way. The veteran warriors had come to inspect the battlefield now that the killing was done. (Obviously they wouldn't risk injury by actually helping in any capacity.)

Dumplin limped forward. Either her Poleyn or her knee had been badly crushed and her leg suffered a limited range of mobility. Nevertheless she stood proudly. Feb One-Eye looked her over, from now on she would demand respect. She had proven her resilience countless times over the years and she was now twice proven as a capable warrior. This particular achievement would not go unnoticed.
Dwarves gathered around to stare at the great fallen body. To delight in the macabre spectacle of the monsters twisted, broken form. Tath had begun hugging the beasts snout and caressing it's nose. “This could be devastating for the cavern ecosystem,” she explained.

“You!” barked Feb pointing to a gawing cavern dwarf. “Get this big bastard to the butchers shop.”
The dwarf looked at the monster and then at Feb with an incredulous stare.
“Now!” Feb clarified.
The poor dwarf gripped the tip of the huge skinless tail as tightly as he could and pulled with all his might towards the grand staircase. (Dumplin took a moment to appreciate how easy she'd gotten off hauling stone.) At first the huge corpse didn't budge but the dwarf pulled with all of his might and it slid slightly in the soft earth. With another great pull the carcass jerked towards the stairs and with a third it jerked straight up and with a low gurgling splat spit a glob of silvery awfulness all over Tath.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 19, 2013, 04:48:42 pm

You know how I keep saying I'm going to get my shit together? I finally did. I've made an effort and I worked out enough time in the weak to plan or write as the situation requires without compromising my obligations and I'm comfortable saying you can expect updates Monday Wednesday and Friday. Expect the updates to get a little bigger too.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 20, 2013, 10:45:23 am

There were cries of panic for a moment before Feb with a casual motion hacked almost completely through the monster's neck. With another chop for good measure the creatures head and body became two distinct objects and it was most assuredly properly dead. Dumplin rushed to Tath's aid but found herself stopped by a long, razor-sharp, incandescent blade resting against her chest. Cerol's eyes issued a mortal threat to Dumat but he spoke only to Tath.

“Can you stand?” He asked. There was a curiosity in his voice but no shred of empathy.

“I can stand.” She replied.

“How do you feel?” He asked. Again he was curious but most certainly did not care about her health.

“My arm tingles.” She replied. Her left side had taken the worst of it and her left arm in particular was covered in the foul smelling silvery fluid.

“Take the carcass to the butchery.” Cerol said in his low gravelly voice. “Leave the head, touch nothing else. The Overseer will want the area flooded and sterilized. The wounded will report to the hospital unassisted. The rest of you return to your duties.” With that Cerol left and the warriors of Gemclod closely followed. Dumplin reclaimed Obok and led the Hairless Baboons ,sans Tath, to the barracks to spar.

After a long day of work dwarves flocked to the newly refurbished dining hall to relax and unwind.The Hall was filled with music and laughter as the bard played a freshly written song chronicling the defeat of Bandrims. The addition of a “tavern” to the dining hall saw a sharp increase in gambling, music playing, fighting, and general dwarven zest for life. The warm golden candle light reflected off the brilliant black stone of the walls and furniture giving the entire hall an inviting silvery sheen. Friends gathered around to to enjoy a plate of odd but hearty fare and a frothy mug of strong ale. In the midst of all this happiness Dumplin felt quite out of place.

Yes, Dumplin Lakewanders was feeling very upset with herself. She was concerned for Tath's well-being, for all her experience she was still a City Dwarf at heart with no understanding of the subtleties of fortress life. Though she hadn't thought to ask her squadmates judging by Cerol's concern it was clearly not an errant sneeze that struck Tath. She was concerned about what would happen to Obok if the next time she stared down death it didn't blink. Asen was a fine man but he was too absent minded and truth be told too self absorbed to raise a child in this madhouse. She was concerned for her squad mates, other than Inod and Degel she'd manipulated them all into doing exceptionally dangerous work and she was beginning to realize she couldn't be responsible for their safety. But what she was most concerned with, and the reason she was so upset with herself, was the news that Feb One-Eye had heroically slain the forgotten beast Bandrims.

Feb One-Eye hadn't rushed to the aid of the cavern dwarves despite being woefully untrained and under equipped. Feb One-Eye hadn't made his peace with the gods and hung on like death while an ancient monster tried to smash him into a pulp. Feb One-Eye hadn't gripped a tiny piece of metal in his hands and jammed it into the giant thrashing skull. Feb One Eye helped himself to extra rations and light conversation with the other important dwarves while all hands rushed to the caverns. Feb One-Eye had encountered the monster entirely by accident after presuming it to be dead. Feb One-Eye had expended only the effort necessary for two strikes after finding the monster nine tenths deceased and himself directly beside it's throat. But no, the technically correct story that was told was of Feb One-Eye killing a monster older than time with two strokes of his blade and never suffering a scratch. Of all her other concerns Dumplin was focused intently on her hatred for Feb One-Eye and she was upset about how petty that felt.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 20, 2013, 10:57:12 am

Boom! Bonus update.

Title: Re: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Liber celi on July 22, 2013, 07:51:01 am

Quote from: Broseph Stalin on July 20, 2013, 10:57:12 am

Boom! Bonus update.

Sweet!

Man, don't we all hate killstealers?

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 22, 2013, 01:31:25 pm

   Their danger room training had been pushed back so the Baboons entered the Barracks to spar. Dumat was surprised to find that Tath would be joining them. Apparently the doctor had taken a look at her deemed her fine and after a thorough cleaning cleared her to return to work. The panic, she explained, had been due to the nature of the syndromes associated with forgotten beast spew. It could apparently cause permanent blindness, spontaneous bleeding, or instantaneous death and the contaminants maintained their virulence indefinitely and at very small doses. Had she gotten a particularly nasty syndrome and had it spread to the fortress it may have been catastrophic. She was very lucky that it had caused only temporary numbness, an unpleasant itching sensation, and ,she choked back tears, the death of her hair mushrooms. Dumplin assured her that there was no greater honor for a mushroom than to die in combat.

   Degel as the captain of the Baboons and sole dwarf in charge of overseeing their training listened carefully while Dumplin explained what they would be doing today. If they had no choice but do useless training they would at least make it practical. She had constructed a series of drills to simulate defending yourself if you were charged by an enemy and didn't have time to knock another bolt. One dwarf would play the invader and charge from twenty paces. The defender would try to draw their crossbow, strike the aggressor using their own momentum to knock them down, and prepare a bolt to fire again. They would also be practicing basic strikes and parries with the crossbow that could buy life saving seconds if the archer was caught without ammunition.

   The Baboons were bolstered by their victory against Bandrims and quickly picked up on the simpler techniques. Athel in particular took well to close quarters combat. She was always eager to learn and practice and that spirit made her a formidable opponent. She spent most of the morning bludgeoning the much larger and much more vicious Iral while he curled up into a ball and protected his beard. Stodir discovered that by using his unusual height to strike down at an opponent he could follow up with a nigh unblockable knee strike before their guard could be redirected. Even Vakun quickly learned to identify the general location of an attacker by sound and to strike quickly and viciously near where their head should be. Angzak most of all was tenacious and spirited, by the time the sun found the horizon she had essentially invented a new form of combat. The Baboons were finally functioning as a unit.

The group was quite proud of themselves when Cerol arrived. Some of the Baboons deluded themselves into expecting some kind of praise but he wordlessly surveyed the training groups as always. Degel had over the course of the day developed a very unhealthy sense of his own importance and found it acceptable to address Cerol.

“Sir,” Degel began. “I believe now that my squad has established itself as true warriors new armor is appropriate.”

Cerol did not respond.

“I can appreciate that there's a limited supply but I'm sure one of the less veteran squads could make due with our old equipment.”

“Warriors?” Cerol asked.

Degel was confused for a moment. “While we didn't strike the deadly blow we tasted combat and we did hold our own against a very powerful enemy.”

“Warriors?” Cerol asked again.

There was silence as dwarves stopped training to watch.

“Follow.” Cerol said.

There was a panic in Degel's eyes as he and the Baboons followed the metallic footfalls up the stairs to the archery targets.

“Disperse.” He said. The marksdwarves quickly gathered their equipment and fled down the stairs as the Baboons maintained a cluster behind the wraith they called Commander.

“Stay here.” He said. Cerol disappeared downstairs and did not return for some time.
Dumplin noted the dread growing in Degel's face as he came to realize exactly how poor of a decision he'd made in challenging the most dangerous entity on the planet. The Baboons stood paralyzed with fear as the sound of metal boots on hardwood drew closer once more.

'Perhaps we could defeat him as a group,' Dumplin thought to herself.

The footsteps drew louder and closer.

'Perhaps we could convince him it was an honest mistake,' Dumplin thought to herself.

Cerols head appeared at the top of the stairs.

'Perhaps if we stand in a row he won't be able to cut through all of us.' Dumplin thought to herself.

The footfalls stopped.

'I think we're about to die.' Dumplin thought to herself.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 24, 2013, 06:28:14 pm

Cerol carried in his arms a few miscellaneous objects and approached an archery target. For now the Baboons were beneath his interest. He stood up a long staff and placed on top of it a stuffed shirt and a sack and with a few adjustments created a simple scarecrow. In front of one of the targets.

“This is Urist.” He said straightening the scarecrow. A few of the Baboons chuckled nervously.
“Urist is a very bad person.” He affixed a charcoal sketch of an angry face to the sack. The chuckling evolved into more confident laughter.
“Urist will kill you if you let him.” Cerol Tied a sleeve into a knot around a training sword.
“Urist has a family.” There was no laughter this time.
“Urist has a wife who is very angry at him. She doesn't want him to be a soldier. She wants him to stay at home and find a good safe job. She doesn't like him being away from home. She doesn't like raising their son alone. Urist is very angry at his wife. He can't find a good job in the city. He doesn't want to sweep up a shop while the other men are off fighting for honor and gold and defending their kingdom against the murderous dwarves of Arrowstockades. He doesn't want to raise a son who can't respect him. They had a fight before he left. She usually prepares him a few snacks to enjoy when he's marching. She didn't give him anything this time. But his son did.”
Cerol produced a small wooden tchotchke and tucked it into a pouch suspended from the shirt.
“A small wooden wolf. It's his second most favorite toy. He gave it to his father so it could protect him. If Urist does not return home his wife will forever lament the snack she didn't make him. She will wonder if his last thoughts of her were ill. His son will always question whether he loved his father enough to give him his most favorite toy. If perhaps had he offered him the small wooden bear for protection he would have survived. They will both question whether he suffered. Whether he died quickly or rotted away in a cage. Whether he fought valiantly or whether he was dragged into the depths of a dwarven stronghold to die screaming. His family will resent his wife for not keeping him at home. Their relationship will not mend. His friends will wonder if they could have helped him. They will grow distant from each other.His son will go hungry for many nights until his wife can bring herself to sell his belongings and the town will look down on her when she does. Every memory you have, every ordeal you've overcome, every person you've come to love- Urist has just as many.”
The silence hung thick in the air. As Cerol strafed back and forth in front of them. Finally he stopped, turned towards them and stared through the empty slits in his helmet.
“Fire captain.” Cerol said.
Degel aimed his crossbow but his hands began to tremble and he paused. Without a word he brought his weapon to rest and looked down.

Cerol approached. “A boy wearing his fathers clothes is not a man.” He said. “A soft dwarf clad in mail is not a warrior. You are just a foolish boy playing games. When you are ready for the appellation of a warrior then claim that title and not a moment sooner.” Cerol turned and walked away.

The goblin had a name. It had a family. It had a cause it deemed worthy of killing for, worthy of dying for. She did not feel remorse when she killed it because she did not appreciate the depth of her actions. She saw an invader, not a person. She had taken a life. She had looked at a soul with as many reasons to live she had and she had made the conscious decision to destroy it. She had to confront her true nature. If she had stopped to think, if she had known that the goblin had a life and a family and dreams and ambitions would she still have killed it? Even if it was the only option could she bring herself to take a life?

Cerol turned and walked away. Degel remained with his weapon at rest staring at his boots.

Not everyone was cut out to be a warrior. After all, the dwarves of Arrowstockades weren't always the industrious, put-upon, innocent souls. When the traders wanted a better deal than the broker was prepared to offer they just raided the entire caravan. Dumplin recalled a young fresh faced elven woman who asked that the fortress stop clear cutting the surrounding forest. She was refused and as she was leaving ten dwarves with knuckle dusters, clubs, and sharp knives broke her arms and legs, knocked out all of her teeth, and nearly disemboweled her as a message to elven homelands. Sure the dwarves were often attacked without provocation but they were just as likely to have earned whatever they got.
If it hadn't been a goblin raider, if it had been an elf or a human or a soldier of some other civilization trying to bring justice to the murderous dwarves of Arrowstockades what would she have done?

Protect Obok her instincts answered. There was a twang and the metallic footfalls ceased. A bolt protruded from the sack. Dumplins crossbow rested empty in her hands. Though she didn't turn to acknowledge him she could feel that from behind his great winged helmet the Cerol Sabershaft was smiling.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Lalasa on July 24, 2013, 09:19:26 pm

Just posting to say this story is awesome and I am watching this. You do a great job of adding a realistic backdrop to the ASCII workings of our fortresses, and I love it.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: ShadowHammer on July 24, 2013, 09:36:49 pm

That was deep, man.
Love the story, it's very dwarfy but at the same time, not dwarfy.
If that makes any sense.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 26, 2013, 03:07:47 pm

Dumplin found herself sitting in the dining hall once more. The jovial atmosphere somehow made her feel so very alone. Killing Urist was a conscious decision, she wasn't divorced from the experience like she was when she killed the goblin raider. Even if he was a scare crow, and she had renounced part of her soul to do it. The enemies of the fortress were her enemies now, right or wrong she was a soldier of Arrowstockades. She understood her place in the fortress now and she understood that she wasn't the person she thought she was.

“Dumplin!” The greeting disturbed her wallowing. She looked up to see Asen standing over her with a smile. “I have terrific news!”
“I could you use some terrific news.” Dumplin said.
“We've been invited to a party!”

Dumplin sank. “I don't think a party would cheer me up.”

In the fortress “party” meant “let's hang around in the dining hall like we always do.”

“A proper party!” Asen said happily. “The nobility are having a private party to mark the end of Goblin Christmas and the start of the new year and I was told we're invited!”

“Well that is terrific!” Dumplin exclaimed.
Perhaps if she discussed the slaying of Bandrims with the higher ups the REAL story would stick. She would finally be recognized for her accomplishments. She could never take back what she'd given up but making Feb look foolish and enjoying a fancy party might just lift her spirits. Dumplin took another bite of slop. The situation suddenly looked a bit brighter

The next day Dumplin was informed by Feb One Eye that something had prompted a new excavation of adamantine and so the veteran squads traded up and the squads beneath them received their hand me downs. Rather than plodding around in heavy, ineffectual bronze armor Dumplin would now have a suit of Welded Mithril.. Just in time too, the Poleyn that joined the armor on her shins to the armor on her thighs had in fact been damaged and she could not move properly in her old set. It was brilliant and and silvery and light and strong and all around spectacular. She felt weightless in it, she felt dangerous in it, she was a real warrior now.

Their training was much more spirited now. The Baboons now recognized Dumplin as a true warrior who had in some small capacity earned Cerol's respect. They followed her orders without question. For almost a week the Baboons honed their skills until they were as capable with a crossbow as some dwarves were with a sword. As she eased into a stable routine Dumplin began looking forward to the party. Tomorrow night she and Asen would rub elbows with the nobles and Cerol would tell them all that she was a true warrior and she would tell them that Feb One-Eye was a lying weenie. These happy thoughts were interrupted by an overwhelming sense of doom and terror.

Cerol was coming. It was death that was his career, it was death that was his passion, it was death that was his one purpose in life and it was death that followed him. His appearance, his demeanor, even his scent carried the frightful tension of those long and nerve fraying seconds before an ambush. She hadn't noticed before but wherever Cerol went death followed. He did not address them, he simply stared and with a beckoning finger directed them to follow. He stepped his long death filled steps in perfect rhythm and perfect silence and led them out into the dense forest. Finally he came to a rest at a break in the trees and instructed them to go enter the clearing.

Dumplin felt the blood leave her face. In the center of the large clearing stood a nude goblin woman tied to a post.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: frostilicus on July 26, 2013, 04:22:16 pm

I'm guessing you meant Feb in the second-to-last sentence? Not to be a douche, but...?

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 26, 2013, 06:33:53 pm

Quote from: frostilicus on July 26, 2013, 04:22:16 pm

I'm guessing you meant Feb in the second-to-last sentence? Not to be a douche, but...?

Where exactly? Cerol is the one they're following if that's what you mean.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: frostilicus on July 26, 2013, 07:01:44 pm

Now I feel dumb. I was thinking Feb was the dwarf who dragged them all to the scarecrow demonstration.
Once Feb beheaded the FB they melded into one in my brain.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 26, 2013, 08:17:37 pm

Quote from: frostilicus on July 26, 2013, 07:01:44 pm

Now I feel dumb. I was thinking Feb was the dwarf who dragged them all to the scarecrow demonstration.
Once Feb beheaded the FB they melded into one in my brain.

The easiest way to keep them separate is to remember Cerol is the literal manifestation of fear and death and Feb is a giant wobbly dick.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: frostilicus on July 26, 2013, 08:20:36 pm

Quote from: Broseph Stalin on July 26, 2013, 08:17:37 pm

Quote from: frostilicus on July 26, 2013, 07:01:44 pm
Now I feel dumb. I was thinking Feb was the dwarf who dragged them all to the scarecrow demonstration.
Once Feb beheaded the FB they melded into one in my brain.

The easiest way to keep them separate is to remember Cerol is the literal manifestation of fear and death and Feb is a giant wobbly dick.

Haha. Not that I would forget after that, though.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Meph on July 27, 2013, 06:56:34 am

Would you mind if this, once it is finished, would be bundled up neatly in a pdf or html file and included in the MasterworkDF download?

I know that there is not much MasterworkDF related in this, but I have included links to boatmurdered/syrupleaf /headshoots and added the highest rated stories from a story collection. The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin easily surpasses their quality level.

I would add it to the manual section that has the stories and wallpapers. On a personal note, I really, really like this, and made me think about a culinary kitchen and cocktail bar, because no one should have to eat tallow-cake all day.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 27, 2013, 12:04:46 pm

Quote from: Meph on July 27, 2013, 06:56:34 am

Would you mind if this, once it is finished, would be bundled up neatly in a pdf or html file and included in the MasterworkDF download?

I know that there is not much MasterworkDF related in this, but I have included links to boatmurdered/syrupleaf /headshoots and added the highest rated stories from a story collection. The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin easily surpasses their quality level.

I would add it to the manual section that has the stories and wallpapers. On a personal note, I really, really like this, and made me think about a culinary kitchen and cocktail bar, because no one should have to eat tallow-cake all day.

That would be awesome. After I finish I plan on going back and making a day of cleaning it up a little first though. My tone bounces around sometimes, I make frequent grammatical and typographical errors, and while I was having trouble staying interested I didn't do a very good job of setting the scene. If this is going to be attached to Masterwork I want it to be worthy of Masterwork.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Aseaheru on July 28, 2013, 06:55:44 am

Well, this looks like fun.

But really, am I the only one who never loots the caravans?
Well, except the first dwarf one. But hey, you never know if they will return anyways.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Grim Portent on July 28, 2013, 02:13:51 pm

This is a fantastic read. You've done a very good job writing this, it's as fun as reading Boatmurdered but with less fire and more emotion. You have to love the system we players have subjected the dwarfs to. It's that or cry after all.

Quote from: Aseaheru on July 28, 2013, 06:55:44 am

But really, am I the only one who never loots the caravans?
Well, except the first dwarf one. But hey, you never know if they will return anyways.

I never loot caravans, I just kill them with my shiny adamantine weapons and take what I want after dumping the traders corpses to rot in the sun.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Meph on July 29, 2013, 12:55:32 pm

I wrote a little something into the mod, hope you like the easter egg. :)

Spoiler: Screenshot (click to show/hide)

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 29, 2013, 01:00:29 pm

That. Is. Metal.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 29, 2013, 02:12:39 pm

“I was very ignorant.” Cerol began. “How can I expect any of you to earn the mantle of warrior when I do not permit you to do so? You have my apologies.” He paused for a fitful second.

“ I imagine,” Cerol began again in his hollow baritone. “That for many of you this is your first sight of a goblin. The goblin is dangerous, it is as strong and as capable as a dwarf. Do not underestimate the goblin. There is no adequate simulation for the taking of a life and today you shall learn that skill as intimately as possible. This goblin attempted with it's kin to destroy your home. To take your belongings. To kill your friends. Had you sought it you would have found no mercy at the hands of a goblin siege, offer it the same courtesy now. Hairless Baboons, attack.”

There was silence. It was entirely true that the goblin had once sought to kill them but now it stood before them naked and terrified. It's red eyes darted between them from behind it's matted black locks as it fled as far as the thick rope would allow it.

“Hairless Baboons,” Cerol called more sternly this time. “Attack.”

There was a twang and a clanging as a bolt flew past the goblin, ricocheted off a large stone, and tumbled end over end before burying itself in the soft ground. Degel shot first and though he missed gave the others permission to fire. More bolts flew. None struck. The goblin began frantically screaming and cursing in it's tongue, tugging savagely at the leash ineffectually trying to loose it from it's bonds. Another volley, more misses. The Baboons weren't aiming.

“Kill!” Dumplin cringed like a dog in a lightning storm. Cerols wicked command burst from his throat like an icicle piercing infant flesh, cold, sharp, and savage.

“If she falls to my brothers I promise you she will suffer!”Cerol demanded blood and he would have it.

'This goblin would have killed Obok.' Dumplin reminded herself. She called on the ancient and powerful part of her mind that guided her in combat. Her instincts did not respond. There was no primordial command like before. No matter how she justified it she was not in combat, she wasn't facing an adversary she was committing cold blooded murder. 'Destroy the enemy' she told herself. The goblin wanted to harm, wanted to kill Obok. 'Destroy the enemy' she told herself again. But the goblin wasn't her enemy. Her blood froze as a dark thought crossed her mind. There was only one being responsible for them all being here.

   Nobody could dodge a crossbow bolt at such close range, not even Cerol. She could thread the needle and put an iron bolt right through the eyes of his helmet. He was still a dwarf, no matter how dangerous he was he was still just a dwarf. A crossbow bolt to the head would kill him just like anyone else. But he was fast, he was brutal, he was experienced. If she twitched her weapon even an inch towards him there was a very real possibility his glimmering blade would flash in a bright arc and she would keel over in two distinct pieces. Even if she could kill him it would end her. Even if a the nobles believed it was an accident they would destroy her. Her choices were murder or murder and suicide.
“It's not your choice”
“It's an act of mercy”
“It's her own fault”
None of the excuses meant anything. She aimed with her shaking hands, fought back tears, and fired. Without relying on any kind of instinct she was painfully aware of the experience. She felt her hand depress the lever. She felt the buck as the bolt flew with ungodly speed. She heard the visceral thud and the cries of pain and horror as the missile found it's mark.
   There was a wild howl as the bolt buried itself in the Goblin's guts. She struggled for a moment tentatively and fearfully attempting to pull out the bolt but the pain was too much so she redoubled her efforts to free herself of the rope. There was a chorus of twangs and wet smacks followed by more screams of agony as the baboons found flesh. Dumplin had given them permission to kill. Dark blood poured from the numerous wounds as the goblin collapsed bristling with bolts. Cerol stepped forward.
   He walked to the center of the clearing and stood beside the dying goblin as her mouth impotently opened and closed like a dying fish. He cocked his head and stared for a moment. Wordlessly he raised his brilliant cyan boot and stepped on the goblin's head with a wet crunch. Pulped brain matter and skull fragments clung to his foot as he walked back towards them.
“You are dismissed.” He said.

Dumplin walked back to her quarters. She felt sick. She felt unclean. She didn't feel much like a warrior.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Reudh on July 29, 2013, 08:53:29 pm

I do so love when people examine the psychological side of combat. Good on you, Broseph Stalin, keep up the brilliant work!

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Meph on July 29, 2013, 11:41:29 pm

"she would kill over in two distinct pieces" kill=fall.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Reudh on July 30, 2013, 12:02:34 am

Heh. I could do some proofreading for you, Broseph and Meph, if you like.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 30, 2013, 12:14:06 am

Please do, I applaud everyone who catches one of my many many mistakes.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Ora_the_Owlish on July 30, 2013, 01:16:39 am

My word, this is brilliant! I mean, your writing is phenomenal (and kudos for it), but what astounds me is that Dumplin's story is so believable. Do you mind me sigging the thread? It's given me a whole new appreciation for my substandard migrants.

I can't wait to see how this turns out!

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Meph on July 30, 2013, 03:32:59 am

I assume that it will turn out increasingly tragic.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Reudh on July 30, 2013, 04:15:55 am

Quote from: Meph on July 30, 2013, 03:32:59 am

I assume that it will turn out increasingly tragic.

One would hope so.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 30, 2013, 10:45:42 am

Quote from: Ora_the_Owlish on July 30, 2013, 01:16:39 am

My word, this is brilliant! I mean, your writing is phenomenal (and kudos for it), but what astounds me is that Dumplin's story is so believable. Do you mind me sigging the thread? It's given me a whole new appreciation for my substandard migrants.

I can't wait to see how this turns out!

Thank you. My goal was to look at fortress life from the perspective of someone who didn't really fit in a fortress. Someone who doesn't accept that eating in a nice dining room moments after having your legs torn off should make you ecstatic.

Sig away.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 31, 2013, 01:00:19 pm

A tiny circle of crimson sat squarely beneath the large central glass gem. The small drop of blood had the effect of making the entire quiver somehow ugly. The alabaster bones looked yellow, the flawless glass looked cloudy, the perfect silk felt rough, the polished leather looked dull. Blood had touched it and now it was inescapably wrong. Her masterpiece was tainted now and it was no longer hers.

   Dumplin Lakewanders prepared herself for a party. Killing a trapped goblin had killed a part of her. She felt somehow hollow, even her plot to embarrass the One-Eyed demon of Arrowstockades didn't raise her spirits. There was a frantic sickness inside of her that she couldn't quell, the turmoil in her heart was maddening. She went through the motions repeatedly and obsessively, she would appear to be as composed and proud as ever no matter how tightly panic gripped her heart. It would be better for her life in Arrowstockades if Cerol still believed she was a cold blooded killer.

   As the legitimate and sole authority of the Hairless Baboons Captain Degel was her second in command and she instructed him to oversee training in her stead. She spent the day polishing her armor to a brilliant shine, working thick braids into her hair, obsessively washing up, and practicing her manners. Asen's preparations consisted of washing his face before they left.

   They were lead into the noble corridor by the gold clad guard and down a flight of stairs. This area of the fortress was completely alien to her. She realized how little she knew of the actual layout of her home. The party area was a rectangular space about the size of the dining hall and comprised of the same high quality polished black stone. Unlike the dining hall where the tables were arranged in two long rows here they were in small intimate clusters and the statuary was more aesthetically placed. On the side opposite of the doors was a parapet overlooking a large dome. It looked like some sort of arena.

   Dumplin was shocked at it's size. The fortress must be significantly larger than the parts she had seen, the dome alone was larger than the entire above ground fortress. She wondered what purpose it would serve. The word “excess” failed to describe the opulence and decadence of Arrowstockades. A party for nobles would no doubt have some form of entertainment worthy of nobles who vastly overestimated their own worth. Perhaps they would have a circus, elves and men and drow and gnomes all preforming exotic acts and playing exotic music. For a moment at least she forgot the horrors of the fortress and focused on the positives.

   She turned to her fellow party goers and began to mingle. The nobles and “celebrities” of the fortress were all there. The Mayor was telling the story of how a Minotaur had latched onto her arms with one of its heads and her feet with the other and ripped her in half where she then had to be sewn back together. Feb One-Eye was menacing a few of the lords and ladys whose rank stemmed solely from sort of knowing the king. Cerol was standing statue still with his arms crossed in the corner while he was badgered by the Psychiatrist. (The psychiatrist, as she understood it was the fourth dwarf to hold that job that year. The dwarves who took that position had a tendency to accidentally walk out of sessions and fall into the river.) The bookkeeper, a pale and distracted looking dwarf, sat by himself tallying off every time someone finished a drink or a plate of food. The greasy looking broker entertained himself playing table games with Chief Medical Dwarf and the legendary craftsmen. Ashmon, who she remembered had achieved the rank of hammerer, was listing for the manager the best kind of punches and the manager in turn was drinking heavily. And at the center of the madness sat the king, flanked by his wife and his favored children he sat jovially telling stories of dubious provenance and enjoying all the excesses that the fortress had to offer.

Interspersed with the nobles and the craftsmen were the dwarves who had in some capacity or another gained renonwed. Some of them had made a particularly impressive artifact, Cog Brass-God for example forged Cerol's magnificent incandescent sword. Others had slain great beasts, Tholtig Warfighter had bisected a dragon with a steel axe meant for woodcutting. Others still had slightly stranger accolades. Bemul Sheep-Shearer had pitched in the construction of the barracks and in some strange accident was struck by a wheel of cheese which somehow broke his spine. Every dwarf who had ever done anything worth notice was there drinking and laughing and cursing and lying.

This was the Arrowstockades of legend. Every dwarf wore glorious garments of rare silks and wools, dyed brilliant and rich colors and adorned with intricate designs and ornaments of precious metals, fine jewels, and ivory. The glorious black stone held a beautiful silvery shine as the pools of bubbling magma segregated into a channel surrounding the room gave warmth and light to the room. The fine food and fine drink looked immaculate arranged perfectly to accentuate the splendor of each dish. Here there were no boulders to haul upstairs, there were no insane jail sentences, there was no blood on anyone's hands. Dumplin allowed herself to forget ,for a moment at least, how wretched she felt inside. She chatted with the nobles and the craftsmen and the warriors occasionally working into conversation that she had stabbed Bandrims in the brain with a crossbow bolt while Feb munched on cakes in the dining hall. Her claims seemed out of place amongst the other absurd stories only because they were true.

   Dumplin made an effort to enjoy herself and when the alcohol had taken hold she'd begun to succeed. Allowing herself to become dead inside because of the things she'd done seemed like the first step towards becoming someone like Feb or Cerol. She chatted with Ashmon and lost a few coins to the broker and even laughed at the Mayors stupid, blatant lies. She sampled each of the many ales and wines offered and enjoyed her first proper meal in ages. Sausages and breads and cheeses and vegetables and sweet candies and foods fried in fatty oil.

For the occasion a special kitchen was constructed and stocked with fresh vegetables, fruits, herbs, and the finest cuts of meat. This new kitchen was staffed by three legendary chefs and three legendary brewers who labored for days preparing the finest and most decadent of feasts on the entire continent. She ate herself full and drank herself giddy and reveled in the excess and good company. She felt truly and properly at home. But all good times come to an end and sure enough hers ended when the deadly cold voice of Cerol Sabershaft spoke to the air “It Begins.”

Title: Re: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: frostilicus on August 02, 2013, 10:57:21 am

Quote from: Broseph Stalin on July 31, 2013, 01:00:19 pm

"It begins."

What? What begins? WHAT BEGIIIIINS?

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Meph on August 02, 2013, 11:16:47 am

The showfight would be my best guess. Arena. :)

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: frostilicus on August 02, 2013, 01:41:10 pm

Quote from: Meph on August 02, 2013, 11:16:47 am

The showfight would be my best guess. Arena. :)

I know. It's just going on hr 48 with no update and I feel like I have to make that known.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 02, 2013, 02:36:08 pm

In the center of the arena a dwarf of unusual height and width bowed to the assembled nobility. Theref were cheers and whistles, and applause apparently this man was known to put on a good show. The dwarf was quite large, with big thick arms and big thick legs stuck to his big thick torso and perched atop it all was a big thick neck. His hair had apparently all migrated south as his shiny bald head terminated in a long, bushy, gray streaked, beard. He did a few stretches and walked back towards the door he'd apparently entered from before turning to face the center of the room. There was a bang as a bridge raised behind him. The king stood and clapped three times. A great creak and a dull thud announced a goblin dropping from the roof. Dumplin sank as she understood the purpose of the arena.

   The fortress bristled with traps. The entire area was protected by a dense web of deadly traps but intermingled with those were cage traps. These cage traps brought in tons upon tons of meat but they also brought in tons upon tons of prisoners. Goblins, Kobolds, Drow, Humans, Animal Men, and Elves. To celebrate the end of Goblin Christmas the captured invaders of the past year were being disposed of in the most entertaining and inhumane way possible.

   The dwarf charged the staggered goblin and as it regained its composure he launched a powerful kick into its leg buckling its knees. With a haymaker he ended what the kick started and the goblin landed flat on the ground. Loud, wet smacks came next. Dumplin had a good idea what was happening but she covered her eyes nonetheless. When the wet sounds stopped there were cheers and applause.
   Dumplin opened her eyes again to see a pair of cave crocodiles being dragged into the arena. The king stood and clapped thee times. She had to watch. Cerol was standing by the balcony and he would notice if she wasn't watching. She was a heartless cold blooded murderer in his eyes and it was in her best interest that his opinion did not change. There was another creak and another thud and then came screams of unimaginable pain a helpless and terrified sentient being was ripped limb from limb by savage monsters. This would be a long night.

   What the Dwarves of Arrowstockades lacked in mercy and basic decency they made up for in creativity. Several hours and at least twenty five brutal slayings later the arena was covered in an ever expanding pool of blood and a spectacle had not repeated once. Dumplin was sure they would be running out of ideas.
The enormous pugilist dwarf came out occasionally to fight increasing numbers of enemies all without aid of any weapon or armor. A squad of squad was sent against goblin horde. A tigerman was pitted against a pair of dwarves with knives and it only became more elaborate and more sickening from there. A giant was unleashed against a small mob of elves was then killed by a team of dwarves with spears. Five dwarves none more than thirteen years old were given daggers and sent to kill a bear. After deciding that a child being gutted by a grizzly for the entertainment of the rich and famous was the worst thing she'd ever see a group of children too young to work were pushed unarmed into the arena and set upon by badgers and raccons. On one occasion a team of mechanists flooded the arena, assembled a series of deadly traps, had terrified prisoners attempt to navigate them, and when the killing was done removed them just as fast. Every time Dumplin assured herself that the depravity would stop soon Arrowstockades had another twisted idea.
    Bodies were strewn all over the arena in ragged pieces, weapons were left broken where they dropped, and the infirmary was filled to capacity with wounded. The killing lasted long into the night as perhaps a hundred men were slaughtered to thunderous applause. She hadn't stuck out by covering her eyes occasionally, several of the softer lords and ladies had done the same. “Dainty” they thought she was. It wouldn't help her warrior image but it shouldn't destroy it either. She made a promise to watch the rest of the events in their entirety. An armored hand rested on her shoulder.

“Come.” Said the hollow voice.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: ShadowHammer on August 04, 2013, 03:10:12 pm

Very good update. It is making me rethink my trap design and soldier training strategy.

Title: Re: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Onyxjew944 on August 04, 2013, 06:53:38 pm

Quote from: Broseph Stalin on August 02, 2013, 02:36:08 pm

To celebrate the end of Goblin Christmas the captured invaders of the past year were being disposed of in the most entertaining and inhumane way possible.

Inhumane, yes. But it is almost the single most dorfy way imaginable.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 05, 2013, 02:51:42 pm

She followed Cerol out of the party with a deep fear clutching at her heart. She feared she'd disappointed him by refusing to watch the nastier of the fights. After all it was only because she convinced him she was a warrior that she'd even been invited, if she'd embarrassed him he'd be rather put out. She feared she'd upset him but worse she feared she was not being escorted out of the party. She was paralyzed by the idea that Cerol Sabershaft was about to kill her in front of an audience of screaming dwarves.

She pondered apologizing and insisting she planned to watch the next fight and swearing that she'd explain to the nobles that she was in fact the murderous cold hearted dwarf he'd promised. but speaking to Cerol out of turn violated everything her body understood about self-preservation.

“Where are we going?” It was difficult but she managed to hide the fear in her voice.
“To feed the flames.” He replied.
'I'm about to be killed.' She thought to herself.
“All of your friends are going to die.” Cerol said.
'Okay so it's worse than I thought.'
“A warrior's strength does not come from his skill with a weapon. It comes from his familiarity with death. His relationship with pain. Any dwarf can be a soldier, only one who embraces death as a comrade can ever truly be a warrior. To have grown accustomed to tragedy, to no longer care about the trivialities of life. That is the mark of the warrior. That is the price he pays. To fail that test is to remain one of the faceless mob that falls in droves to the invading horde. Your friends may be soldiers but they are not warriors and they will all die. You are different.”

“Why.” She managed to choke out.

“Because you are not easilly broken. Feb One-Eye became Captain of the Guard when as my lieutenant he charged into a goblin ambush and through a hail of arrows ,one of which buried itself in his eye socket. He did not flinch. He cut down three greenskins that day. Others were not so bold. They suffered minor injuries and fearing for their lives broke rank and fled. None of them live today. I have been watching you Dumat Stakepondered and I've been impressed. You've seen enough of your own blood to hold your ground when the occasion crops up again. You've shown prowess as a life taker and I believe you'll make captain when Degel falls. Construction has begun on a new dormitory for the more impressive soldiers. It is not dissimilar from that of the nobility. If you continue down this road you will have my recommendation.”

The direction this conversation was taking made her death at Cerol's hands slightly less likely. She screwed her courage.
“How do you kill people?” She asked.
“Remember they deserve to die. Not for any higher purpose. I do not kill to protect Arrowstockades, I do not kill to preserve my life, I kill because I desire the deaths of my foes. They stand against me, and so I kill them. Nothing else will do. See your enemy and kill them for no reason except that they are your enemy. Your strength comes from reprisal against the arrogant ones who thought themselves your better, let the fire of revenge fuel your heart. Let it consume your enemies. But first, you must feed the flames.”

Cerol stopped at a pair of double doors and pushed them open. She mustered all her nerve. The arena awaited.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 07, 2013, 03:38:41 pm

The terrible rhythm of her heart slowed when she realized Cerol was not to be her opponent. She asked what was about to happen and his reply was short and empty.

“A gift.” He said. That was all he said, afterwards he shut the door taking her crossbow with him. His words lingered in her head. The Goblin raider and the Goblin prisoner had both tried to kill her. The only difference was the amount of time that elapsed between them finding justice. She would take no pleasure from this but it was wholly fair and she would not hesitate to slay the goblin they brought before her.

    She walked to the center of the arena to cheers and whistles and one “that's my wife!” When Cerol had rejoined the assembled nobles the king stood and clapped three times. There was a creak and a hatch opened above. An orange blur fell from the roof and landed on the ground in front of her. A kobold, naked and unarmed stood terrified in front of her. 'A gift.' What kind of gift would Cerol Sabershat give? Revenge of course. She was here to feed the flames hate.

   Something inside her broke. She did not resignedly accept that the Kobold deserved punishment and it may as well be her to met it out. There was anger. She remembered every injustice she'd suffered within the confines of Arrowstockades and the hate came pouring out. Every step of the grand staircase, every plateful of tallow and acorns, every hour spent in a cell, every order she had to blindly follow, every wrong that she had ever allowed to roll off of her demanded reprisal.

   There was a spark of anger as her hand instinctively went for the scar on her stomach. She had not dwelled after the fact on how closely she'd come to death. Had the kobold that stabbed her had it's way she would not have survived her first year in Arrowstockades. Her husband would have never survived without her. Her son would have never been born. She would have been stripped of all valuables and tossed into a box with a plaque that read “Dumplin Lakewanders United With Garbage.”

    Kill. There was no familiar ancient compulsion of her boiling dwarven blood but from somewhere deep inside her came a command high, empty, and cold as the blackest void. She became aware that she was now charging like a savage animal with her mail clad hands curling into claws.

   Kill. After planning and plotting just to survive each day in Arrowstockades the desire felt so natural and simple. The Kobold was an obstacle and she was more than capable of handling it with the simplest possible solution. There would be no conspiring to discredit it like Feb, no trying to avoid it like the prison, and no suffering through it like the grand staircase.

   Kill. There were raucous calls for death and blood while she chased the flighty thief. Countering it's agility with her superior mind she began hemming her quarry into a corner. A weight was lifted from her shoulders as the justifications and rationalizations for slaying the chained goblin became vestigial.

   Kill. She recognized and accepted that even in the most frightful and dire of circumstances she'd taken a modicum of joy in slaughter. It was noble to kill an enemy, it was fun. Living in a city had suppressed her instincts and made her feel guilty about the entirely natural activity of destroying a foe. And so she had soldiered on through absurd challenges and ridiculous hardships trying to find the bright side all the while. If Cerol was wronged there would be no stiff upper lip, there would be a flick of the wrist, a flash of brilliant light, and a spray of blood.

   Kill. She wasn't particularly good with faces and Kobolds all looked the same, but there was an insignificant chance that after it's first failed theft the kobold that attacked her had tried again and been captured. In fact it was possible that it had been caught shortly after and had since lingered, suffering malnourished and alone in a cage. Cerol had after all taken notice of her shortly after her arrival apparently, he may have been planning this for a long time. Even if it wasn't the Kobold that had attacked her it would be fun to pretend.

   Kill. It had happened so casually. Murdering a dwarf was just part of it's schedule for the day. Her injuries had made childbirth difficult, she'd nearly lost her son because a kobold just didn't care about her life.She feinted left and ran right managing to touch the creature this time. Felt her lips contort into a smile as the end drew near.

   Kill. She lunged, missing with her strike but knocking the kobold off its feet. It was cornered now. It's great wide eyes flicked back and forth looking in vain for a way out. She touched the scar again. What kind of mindless, wicked, creature would try to kill something just because it was there? You. A warm voice said. She paused. She remembered Urist.

   The kobold was trying to rob Arrowstockades. The total wealth of Arrowstockades lost to thieves consisted of a handful of grapes stolen by a monkey half an hour after the first expedition arrived. Even if it wasn't particularly intelligent it had to know that wouldn't be easy, that's why it ran instead of trying to get in anyway after it was discovered. Why? Because it had no other option. Kobolds weren't very clever or very industrious so what they couldn't forage they stole. How desperate does something have to be to target a dwarven stronghold? If she had yelled for the guards it would have left, it hadn't come to murder her it struck in self defense and as she lie helpless on the ground it spared her. She wasn't satisfied with scaring it off, she wanted to bash it's head in with a stone just because it happened to exist nearby.

Kill! The tiny Cerol in her head demanded.

Dumplin snatched the frightened kobold up with both arms. It struggled slightly but she was it's better and it quickly fell limp. It looked at her with confusion and apprehension but she embraced it tightly.

“I forgive you.” She whispered. “And I'm sorry.”

The jeers and shouts split the air as what was initially presumed to be some sort of stranglehold was clearly identified by Feb One-Eye “a bleedin' hug!” Soon Dumplin found herself being pelted with food scraps and bits of silverware. She didn't break the embrace until she felt armored hands pulling her away. The kobold looked around confused for a moment before picking up a scrap of thrown meat and nibbling at it. It waved to Dumplin as she was lead away.

She had officially ruined her warrior image. It didn't matter. Dumplin Lakewanders did not want to be a warrior.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Grim Portent on August 07, 2013, 05:34:25 pm

We appear to have an elf here lads! Kill it with tallow biscuits and poor healthcare plans!

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Thormgrim on August 07, 2013, 05:55:05 pm

"Her husband would have never been born. "

I think you meant "her son"

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 07, 2013, 05:58:22 pm

Quote from: Thormgrim on August 07, 2013, 05:55:05 pm

"Her husband would have never been born. "

I think you meant "her son"

Read this four times before I posted it and I didn't catch that.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 09, 2013, 04:59:59 pm

   She didn't talk to Cerol after that. He probably justified it as being because she had disappointed him and she was once more beneath his interest. But that was a lie. She confused Cerol. He saw strength in her and he presumed to know that strength as death, the love of death and the commitment to death and the hardness that comes from being touched by death. He thought she was prepared to renounce all dwarvenity, everything warm and real and happy in order to become truly powerful. And he was wrong.
   Cerol Sabreshaft was an inch wide and a mile deep. His understanding of the world was terrifyingly limited. He saw of the world only pain and death and he gave to the world only pain and death and because of that pain and death was all it could ever offer him. Dumplin was never strong because she rejected life she was strong because she embraced it.
   It was not hatred for the fortress that propelled her up the grand staircase time and time again. It was not thoughts of revenge that comforted her when she sat alone in a cell. It was not the desire to destroy that led her to slay the goblin raider. It was a love of living. She loved the strange but filling fare that waited in the dining hall. She loved the spirit of community that led the dwarves of the fortress to act as one. She loved the slightly foolish man she married and she loved her perfect baby boy.
   Because Cerol Sabershafts took death as his bride and his one true friend he would never know love like she felt for Asen, he would never know friendship like she felt with the baboons, and he would never know happiness like she found even in this twisted mixed up fortress. Cerol refused to look at Dumplin now not because he was angry but because he was afraid. If he acknowledged her existene then he had to acknowledge that there was strength that did not come from death. If he looked at her he would have to look at himself and he would have to see that rejecting all the beauty of the world hadn't made him strong, only hollow. If she had the power to face death and misery so often and to still abandon hate so effortlessly, to forgive, to live, to love, then she was strong in ways that he had always deemed impossible. If he looked at Dumplin he would have to accept that she wielded true strength and he was a foolish boy playing games. Dumplin Lakewanders proved the emptiness of his existence. There was something stronger than a warrior and it was a Hairless Baboon.

   The Prowler of Rasps which he so effortlessly swung felt heavy in his hands now.
“Fearless” Said one side of the blade. “Peerless” Said the other. He knew the weapon was no longer truly his. Dumplin Lakewanders marked herself as his equal and he was absolutely terrified of her.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: cross33 on August 10, 2013, 01:58:30 am

I'm exhausted. I'm up hours past when I planned to go to sleep, and if there were anymore of this I would spend hours more reading it. You are an amazing writer.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 10, 2013, 10:37:39 am

   Dumplin Lakewanders stood over the jewelers workshop with a piece of charcoal and a scrap of paper. She had selected her tools carefully and was began the long and tedious process of altering the piece of cut glass. The image of Feb being made captain of the guard no longer seemed appropriate to her. She found herself thinking of something profound but she kept coming back to pictures of cheese, references to esoteric historical events, and various things that happened around the fortress. She thought of making it a picture of Obok, Asen, or her arrival to the fortress but it all seemed forced and perhaps tempting fate. Not to mention she wasn't particularly good at gemcutting.
   She considered everything that had an impact on her life in the fortress. She could make a crossbow , but putting a crossbow on a quiver felt a little trite. She could carve the slaying of Bandrims, but it would either reference Feb doing it or be considered inaccurate and conceited by the rest of the fortress. She could carve the grand staircase or a boulder, but she didn't want to be defined by the bad parts of her life. She needed something that encompassed the best parts of her fortress life but ignored the bad. She stopped and smiled.
   Gently and carefully she worked away image of Feb taking up sword and shield and upon her blank canvas began to create anew. Slowly and carefully she ground, scraped, and chipped away small fragments of glass until she was pleased with the form. In the center of the large circular piece of glass was the image of a gem encrusted goblet. She affixed it to her quiver over the small bloodstain. Bim was a bit better than her at sounding profound. With a sharp tool she carved above and below the gem.
   She smiled and surveyed the masterpiece that belonged to her once again. The image of a goblet in green glass was bordered above and below by the words “The Beauty of The Destination Will Justify The Road.” She affixed her quiver to her belt and Dumplin Lakewanders prepared for war. She had humiliated Cerol Sabershaft, made herself a target to the entire community, and offended the most powerful dwarves in the fortress in one fell swoop. This fortress was going to rain hell down on her head. She knew she was ready to take on whatever came next. She was wrong.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and The Worst Dwarf in The World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 10, 2013, 10:40:28 am

Your praise has summoned the ancient power of the bonus weekend update!

This is the last chapter of The Hairless Baboons, on Monday we start The Worst Dwarf in The World.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Rum on August 11, 2013, 02:34:43 pm

good work. keep it coming.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 12, 2013, 02:49:11 pm

Life, like fortress design is an unforgiving thing. Every decision is like a cut into block of marble, great or small every choice limits all future options. Dumplin Lakeponders was not a warrior. She made that decision proudly and she would stand by it for the rest of her life. However, she was still a soldier. Two circumstances warranted the release a dwarf from the Arrowstockades military. Death, and injuries so severe that death is a far fairer alternative.

   The retirees of the fortress military trudged through their miserable existence closer to death than life. Their bodies maimed beyond all recognition and the horrors of war plain upon their faces they went about their business. They were always very happy and very industrious, those retirees. They knew they were blessed to have survived their service and twice blessed to have lived in such a glorious fortress. They were also quite aware that if their work was somehow lacking or they were somewhat less than grateful that the caverns could always swallow one more soul.

   No, though she never had much say in the matter she was a soldier and until she died she would be a soldier. A decision that she did make did regret and could not take back was hugging the kobold rather than crossing her arms and refusing to fight. She was now a bold-snuggler. Dwarves sneered at her in the corridors and laughed when they thought she couldn't hear. They told stories about how she had been forcibly pried from a kobolds passionate embrace, about what exactly she'd done to warrant being stabbed by the thief, and about how in the right light Obok's eyes were a peculiar shade of yellow. These jabs however were the least of her concerns.

   She had spit in the face of the the entire Arrowstockades military tradition and ruined a perfectly fine murder party with a display of affection. The hallowed graves of Arrowstockades swelled with the bodies of dwarves who had perpetrated far less dire slights against far less important institutions. Inferior to goblin ambush or forgotten beast attack but superior to assassins and gnomish revenge attacks “unfortunate accidents” were among the most common causes of death within the fortress.

It wasn't uncommon for a dwarf to accidentally be entombed inside a wall, or to stand in a magma channel that was accidentally dug beneath their feet, or to fall asleep beneath the venomous snake and loose arrow disposal hatch which had accidentally been created over their bed. The idea of an accident occurring in an environment as rigidly managed as a fortress was laughable. If you offended the overseer ,even a little, the best possible outcome was that he made your life hell rather than making it brief. In that sense Dumplin Lakewanders was very very lucky. In every meaningful sense her life was ruined.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: silentdeth on August 13, 2013, 02:50:39 am

Quote

The retirees of the fortress military trudged through life more living than dead.

Did you mean more dead than living?

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 13, 2013, 09:47:57 am

Quote from: silentdeth on August 13, 2013, 02:50:39 am

Quote
The retirees of the fortress military trudged through life more living than dead.

Did you mean more dead than living?

Nice catch

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Liber celi on August 13, 2013, 12:57:25 pm

Quote from: Broseph Stalin on August 13, 2013, 09:47:57 am

Quote from: silentdeth on August 13, 2013, 02:50:39 am
Quote
The retirees of the fortress military trudged through life more living than dead.

Did you mean more dead than living?
Nice catch

I actually thought that was an intentional inversion: as long as they aren't down in the caverns, the veterans are barely more alive than dead.

Anyway, keep up the good work, I admire how much character portrait and development you can milk from the madness that is a well-running dorf fort.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 13, 2013, 01:09:48 pm

Quote from: Liber celi on August 13, 2013, 12:57:25 pm

I actually thought that was an intentional inversion: as long as they aren't down in the caverns, the veterans are barely more alive than dead.

Anyway, keep up the good work, I admire how much character portrait and development you can milk from the madness that is a well-running dorf fort.

1. I fucking love that imagery and I will be including it later in the story.

2.Thank you, I think there's a lot of untapped beauty in Dwarf Fortress that we're all just too busy to notice.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 14, 2013, 03:53:33 pm

   The day following the bold snuggling incident she received a rather large amount of bad news rather quickly. First, the Hairless Baboons were now deemed exactly as useless as initially assumed and Cerol's grand experiment was over. They would no longer train whenever it was convenient and spend the rest of their time however they liked. Positions would rotate daily so that at all times two dwarves would train, two would patrol, two would man watchtowers and the remaining four would function as civilians. Further, every member of the Hairless Baboons was restored to full duty as a laborer. This meant before and after their military duty they would spend each day working leaving no time for recreation and a scarce few hours for sleep. For the cavern dwarves this meant routinely returning to their own personal hell. For Inod this meant long hour of backbreaking labor and nauseating smoke burning remains. For Degel this meant an morning and evening of leisurely flower picking to unwind. For Dumplin this meant she was going to be run into the ground.

   The second bit of bad news that Dumplin received was that she was once again deemed competent to haul stone. Not only was she capable of hard manual labor she was also fit for every other unappreciated, difficult, and unpleasant task in the fortress. She was now an oven operator serving beside Inod shoveling carcasses, a fish cleaner removing and disposing of the inedible bits of the fishermen's bounty, she was even named the new fortress hivekeeper. The position of hivekeeper, she was told, could be held by only one dwarf at a time so as to mitigate the damage done. Hivekeepers you see had a nasty habit of going insane from the neverending series of bee stings, standing in the forest, and waiting to die of thirst. Any time the manager came across a particularly miserable work order he smiled to himself and wrote Fumplin Logbonglers because he was an illiterate but the go-betweens always made sure that they found their way to Dumplin.

After hauling a wheelbarrow full of gold ore to the furances, burning more rat carcasses than a person of character ought to burn, removing the ickier parts of a few dozen fish, being stung several dozen times, and explaining to several dwarves that she was not in fact plotting her next bold snuggling she received her third bit of bad news. Her husband as it turned out as spouse of a bold snuggler was no longer considered important enough to justify his own room. Certainly a simple militia captain, his veteran wife, and their young son should gladly sleep in the dormitories so that Bemul Sheap-Shearer, the dwarf whose sole element of notability came from the fact his back was once broken by a wheel of cheese in a display of bad luck and stupidity, could have a bedroom all his own. As it turned out her sleep schedule for the dormitorieshad gone more or less ignored. After a day of nonstop labor the desire to adhere to an orderly schedule was overridden by the compulsion to collapse into a warm bed. After she was dubbed a bold snuggler the schedule had been outright abandoned and dwarves appeared to be going to bed early just to ensure she had to sleep on the floor. As she lie on one of the softer piles of dust surrounded by the cacophonous snoring of work weary dwarves she sought comfort in her dear husband.

   It was at this point she received bad news number four. Her husband was not particularly pleased that the room he'd earned for them was stripped away, that he was being put back on corpse duty, and that five years of hard work had been undone all because of his wife's unilateral decision making. She tried to lay out the facts but Asen little desire to speak to her and less to hear what she had to say.

Dumplin stared at the ceiling. She'd always been shocked by the cruelty of Arrowstockades but she now understood that was simply the way business was done. The overseer did not work dwarves to death or subject them to immeasurable horrors because he despised them, it was just how he kept the fortress running. She had never actually seen the terrifying might of the dwarven war machine focused on causing her deliberate harm. She only appreciated now that the fortress was very, very large and she was very, very small. The cold, logical, efficiency was now abandoned. The Overseer saw her, the fortress saw her, and they were very angry.

She ran her fingers over her quiver. She had no choice but to hope and pray that the inscription was more than a lie she told herself to feel better. She had to believe that someday she would find something that made all these hardships worth facing. A feeling of illness overcame her as the warmth that drove her onwards left her body. For the first time she sincerely began to regret leaving the city, she lamented coming to the fortress, she began to seriously question whether these were trials to overcome or a series of parallel causes of death. For every dwarf that became a hero against impossible odds there were a thousand who quite in line with the odds accomplished little more than contributing in some small part to the filling of a mass grave. Any happy thoughts she clung to couldn't silence the sound of Feb One-Eye's snarling voice barking “Garbage Dwarf” over and over in her head.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: CaptainLambcake on August 14, 2013, 09:58:32 pm

can i ask what happened to poor kobold

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: snjwffl on August 14, 2013, 11:39:34 pm

Quote from: CaptainLambcake on August 14, 2013, 09:58:32 pm

can i ask what happened to poor kobold

Well, the embrace was broken by armored dwarfs , meaning members of the militia had a Kobold within sight. This has three possible endings: (1) the entire military of Arrowstockades was annihilated, (2) those armored dwarfs are still kicking the Kobold's head, and (3) the Kobold died.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: cross33 on August 15, 2013, 01:29:51 pm

Quote from: snjwffl on August 14, 2013, 11:39:34 pm

Quote from: CaptainLambcake on August 14, 2013, 09:58:32 pm
can i ask what happened to poor kobold
Well, the embrace was broken by armored dwarfs , meaning members of the militia had a Kobold within sight. This has three possible endings: (1) the entire military of Arrowstockades was annihilated, (2) those armored dwarfs are still kicking the Kobold's head, and (3) the Kobold died.

In other words there's a 50/50 shot he's still alive

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 16, 2013, 05:57:08 pm

After a few long days of long labor in the fields, caverns, and forest and silent nights with Asen Dumplin had learned enough of the new routine to prepare her counteroffensive. Captain and sole leader of the Hairless Baboons Degel joined Dumplin at the mandatory meeting she'd scheduled to discuss the groups future. In the few seconds where she wasn't distracted by nonstop labor Dumplin spent her time planning. She was confident that she could survive whatever the fortress brought down but she dragged the baboons into the fray and she would not have their blood on her hands.
Getting the whole group together meant that they had to surrender an hour of precious sleep now that they were being run ragged. Iral was a more dishevelled variety of crazy, Angzak's energetic zeal was sapped, and Tath had apparently neglected her hygiene. Her greatest concern was the new orders to patrol. The patrol outside the walls was one of the most dangerous activities the military regularly engaged in. The patrols kept dangerous beasts from entering the fortress, and dangerous beasts on occasion required significant persuasion to be deterred. They were the ones charged with spotting and chasing off thieves, assassins, and childsnatchers often being injured or killed in the process. They were the ones who spotted marauding werebeasts before they could weak havoc, and their efforts were often repaid with dismemberment. Most fearfully of all they were the ones who spotted ambushes before they could penetrate the fortress defenses.
When an ambush was spotted was immediate cessation of all outside labor and dwarves outside were given a few brief minutes to find their way back before the gates were sealed and the military was rallied. It was not unknown for the soldiers of Arrowstockades to take up more than an hour to assemble and prepare to mobilize as a unit. In that time anyone with the misfortune to be trapped outside was left to flee into the dense wood and hopelessly attempt to survive long enough for cavalry to arrive. If it was a few Baboons who were trapped outside Dumplin expected the military may not be in any rush to save them. If the fortress procedure wouldn't save them then Dumplin would make her own.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: CaptainLambcake on August 16, 2013, 09:58:38 pm

i only read this and likot soapeater because i like the publishers and they are interesting stories. if i may suggest, i love when main character gets a pet.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Lalasa on August 16, 2013, 10:40:51 pm

Quote from: CaptainLambcake on August 16, 2013, 09:58:38 pm

i only read this and likot soapeater because i like the publishers and they are interesting stories. if i may suggest, i love when main character gets a pet.

Dumplin already has a pet silly, we all saw how attached she is to that kobold. :P
But in all seriousness I doubt she's in much of a position to be focusing on a pet right now.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: silentdeth on August 16, 2013, 10:46:16 pm

Quote from: CaptainLambcake on August 16, 2013, 09:58:38 pm

i only read this and likot soapeater because i like the publishers and they are interesting stories. if i may suggest, i love when main character gets a pet.

If she got a pet, she would be forced to kill and eat it at some point.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: CaptainLambcake on August 19, 2013, 08:56:26 am

all the better, food supply if starving. just a little vermin thing, fluffy wambler or a lion tamarin

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 19, 2013, 03:34:38 pm

   Dumplin's procedure to ensure the survival of every member of the hairless baboons on patrol was tailored to each threat.
   Animals and sneaks were not to be engaged. If they encountered a large animal they were to yell twice and if it advanced or failed to retreat they would fire a bolt at its center of mass. Generally a predator would leave as soon as it became apparent the things it wanted to eat were capable of eating it first.

   If they encountered a childsnatcher they were to fire with lethal intent. They were to presume that any childsnatcher near the fortress had already taken a victim and they were not to hesitate in dispatching them. In that same vein any assassin who targeted the fortress would be presumed to be willing to do so again and they would be struck down before they caused harm.

   If they spotted a thief they were to yell twice and only if ignored open fire. Kobolds were pitiful creatures that risked their lives for whatever scraps they could scavenge and so killing them was to be a last resort. Dumplin would also personally assemble a bimonthly care package consisting of a suit of small clothing that the fortress had no use for and no inclination to sell, a few stone tools she would knap in her spare time, and a brick of tallow cake spirited from the dining hall and firmed up with a little cave wheat flour.

   Werebeasts were a deadly threat to even experienced warriors and were impossible to outrun or overpower with a crossbow. Dumplin had fought through debilitating exhaustion in order to stay up late gathering information on werebeasts. She had found a few essays and the odd book but most of her knowledge came from asking elderly dwarves and from reading every surface of the fortress. While dwarves did occasionally write things down the walls, floors, furniture, trinkets, and weapons of the fortress were decorated with the sum of dwarven knowledge. Dumplin discovered that part of the werebeast curse was a weakness to certain metals. She consulted the metalsmiths and studied the properties of the materials and decided the dwarves would carry bolts of different material.

   If they saw a werebeast they were to target it's legs to limit it's mobility and alternate between metals to find it's weakness. Dumplin discovered ancient references to the mystical power of silver so their crossbows were to be loaded on patrol with a silver bolt. If the silver bolt didn't work they were to move on to gold which had ancient associations with wealth and therefore contained other powerful magics. Next they would use copper, copper contained powerful magic as the first metal to be pulled from the earth and forged into weapons of war. Finally they would use steel, steel was the symbol of dwarven might and in the hands of it's dwarven masters may just be strong enough to counteract the werebeast power. If none of that worked the standard cold iron was also associated with destroying magical beings and would comprise the rest of their quiver.

In the event of a siege the Baboons on civilian duty were to report to the entrance (inside so that they couldn't be “accidentally” sealed out) and prepare to defend the area so the baboons on patrol could return safely to the fortress. The dwarves on partrol were to flee in to the deep woods and hope to be more agile than the invaders. The dwarves who were in the watchtowers were to remain where they were and yell out the locations of and the headings of the dwarves who were on patrol so that each baboon was made aware. The dwarves who were training were to circle the parapets looking for additional attackers.

    If the fortress was locked down before the patrollers were safe the civilian labor dwarves were to remain at the entrance but the sentries and the dwarves who had been training were to yell out “lock down” as loudly as they could and move to the eastern wall. If the dwarves who were patrolling were still trapped outside they would head to the eastern wall and hold the position until they were rescued, the siege was broken, or they ran out of ammunition.

   Dumplin Lakewanders did not take any of the numerous threats lightly. If a baboon fell it would not be because she had failed to plan. Now began the waiting game. The overseer's eye was on her now and when his first strike failed to kill or break the baboons the second would be far more serious. She could not quantify his ingenuity, his reach, or the depth of his wickedness and so his next move was impossible to predict. She was incapable of retaliating or retreating and so all that remained was patience, vigilance, and resilience.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Aseaheru on August 19, 2013, 03:41:15 pm

Makes me wonder why we cant do this.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: ShadowHammer on August 19, 2013, 07:32:06 pm

Quote from: CaptainLambcake on August 16, 2013, 09:58:38 pm

i only read this and likot soapeater because i like the publishers and they are interesting stories.

...

Um

Isn't that why most people read stories?

I feel as though I'm missing something...

I agree though, the story is very interesting.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: silentdeth on August 19, 2013, 10:22:49 pm

Yes, I only read this story because it is good too. Personally, I am ashamed of myself.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 21, 2013, 03:25:32 pm

Two weeks of flawless precision went by. The Baboons were being run ragged but with Dumplin's guidance they were persevering and they were alive. They focused on whatever work they had, they followed Dumplin's procedure to the letter, and wherever they went they watched each other's backs. Dumplin had even seen to it that whenever he was available Ashmon would advise the training Baboons.
   The Overseer was involved in every aspect of the daily functioning of the fortress, he could not dedicate a large amount of time to this grudge. If they hung on long enough he would relent and consider the lesson learned. If their labor didn't slow, if their training went as planned, if their patrols were successful then his hatred would ebb. When Dumplin and her squad were once again beneath desire everything would return to normal.
    Patrol was still deadly serious but the odd thief, sneak, and beast could be chased off harmlessly. They had yet to see a werebeast or ,gods forbid, an ambush but if they did they would not panic because had the procedure to fall back on. Kobold spottings had slowed now that Dumplin had begun leaving care packages. Instead of attempting to breach the fortress they would just pick up the goodies she'd left them and leave without having caused any trouble.
   Dumplin herself was deteriorating rapidly. Her workload meant eighteen hours of labor a day, the meager time she was allotted to sleep had to be further divided to accommodate a meal in the dining hall, time to work on tools for the kobold care package, and time to plan different responses for different attacks the overseer might launch. Worse still this morning she woke up starving. The night before a gnomish diplomat having attempted for several days to meet with the nobility to hatch out a trade agreement attempted to catch someone in the dining hall.
   Frustrated by this the noble took the only sane and reasonable course of action and conscripted five patrons to beat him to death with their bare hands. Dumplin left the dining hall without ever sitting down and had gone to bed hungry. The nobility of arrowstockades would sooner declare war on an entire civilization than miss a meal.
   Exhaustion and hunger dulled her mind and she ultimately let her guard down. As she preformed her hauling duties ,finding and disposing of gnome teeth littering the dining hall, she could not achieve her general alertness. In her weakened state she failed to detect the hint of menace with which Feb One-Eye said “Danger Room.”

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Aseaheru on August 21, 2013, 03:39:06 pm

Dun dun DUN!

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: CaptainLambcake on August 21, 2013, 05:14:48 pm

oh god

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Urist Mc Dwarf on August 21, 2013, 07:09:46 pm

This will be interesting.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 23, 2013, 03:43:16 pm

The Danger Room remained a square and unimpressive room having become no less square and no more impressive than it had on her last visit. Once the Baboons had with great difficulty squeezed into the room the door was closed and locked and a flash of lucidity flickered across Dumplin's weary mind.
   Their Danger Room training had been suspended when Cerol was impressed and now that the fortress was at war with her it had been reinstated. She had never considered to ask what exactly danger room training entailed but if she would only be subjected to it when the fortress stood to lose very little from her death it was probably not good.
   “Crossbows at the ready!” Dumplin yelled unnecessarily.
The space was small and her voice was loud enough to cause a bit of pain in her audience. The baboons instinctively spun looking back and forth prepared for an unexpected attack. The focus turned to the door and the Baboons on her orders made a formation. The dwarves in the back stood straight up, the dwarves in front of them took a knee, and the dwarves in front of them were prone and all parties prepared to pepper whatever came through with bolts.
   No. A part of her said. Look for the details.
What Dumplin knew about the Danger room was that it was small and that it was square and it was apparently dangerous.
Why?
The fortress didn't care about conservative understatement. If the dwarves of Arrowstockades were to build a room solely to house dead lice plucked from vagrants beards it would be ten stories tall, heated by magma, and decorated with precious gems. This room was no larger than her old quarters. If they were to be fed to some great beast then why not in the arena? If this room was not made massive then it could not be made massive.

Why couldn't a room be particularly large.

“The walls are going to crush us” filled her with panic but was quickly dismissed. The mechanists of Arrowstockades were incredibly talented and could do impossible things with simple stone mechanisms. Simply squishing a few dwarves seemed somehow beneath them.

“This room will fill with water” came next and her eyes shot to the roof. It appeared to be completely solid and a touch confirmed the walls were cool and dry to the touch. Neither water nor magma were about to spill in.

“There's something wrong with the floor” scarcely materialized before a spear shot into her stomach.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: dresdor on August 23, 2013, 04:23:14 pm

There is absolutely nothing wrong with that floor, it is working as intended

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: CaptainLambcake on August 24, 2013, 02:20:09 pm

another scar

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 26, 2013, 02:57:30 pm

There were gasps of terror and a whir of mechanisms turning as spears shot from tiny slits in the ground. With nearly no time to react nearly a hundred spears flew from various spots on the floor and connected with dwarven armor or dwarven flesh. Dumplin arched her back, leaning into the incoming volley and accepting the brunt of the strikes with her chest and head to ensure she remained between the spears and Obok. They appeared to be primarilly wooden but they moved quite quickly and were more than capable of inflicting deep cuts. Were Obok exposed to them he would surely die.

“Your armor overlaps the most at the chest!” Athel yelled.

   “If you get hit in the side your guts won't take the worst of it!” Stodir added.
   “If you hit them with your crossbow they bend out of the way!” Angzak cried.
The Baboons were rapidly developing tactics to avoid the brunt of the punishment and when possible to avoid spears altogether. It was of little help to Dumplin.
   She could not shift her body in the slightest, should Obok drift a few inches in any direction he may come into the path of a spear. Their armor was of sturdy and thick dwarven design and did a fine job of ensuring blows could not penetrate. However, the spears moved with terrible swiftness driving the welded mithril into their flesh causing painful bruises. Dumplin desperately tried to hold her precarious position and fight back vomit as a flurry of unimpeded blows reduced her organs to mush.
   The Baboons knew suffering and were not easily broken, they were wholly prepared to resist this vicious assault for the first few minutes. However, the mechanisms continued to groan and roar and the command issued by their wicked throats bid the spears to kill. The onslaught did not end after a few minutes nor did it end after half an hour, nor did it end after three.

   Do not collapse.
   Every strike robbed her of her breath. Exhaustion was rapidly overtaking her. The others weren't much better off. Though they were at first quite capable of batting away, blocking, or dodging a few of the spears exhaustion came quickly and while the mechanisms were indefatigable the Baboons were not.

   “I can't keep up with this!” Bim wheezed.
   “Stay on your feet!” Iral puffed. “If you catch a spear wrong it'll end you!”
   “No more!” Vakun screamed.

   The Overseer was not playing fair. This was not an attempt to break her will it was a blatant attempt at murder. They would simply be left here. Beaten mercilessly by his diabolical murder machine for hours, days even. When the fortress finally noticed their absence their pulped and purified corpses would be scraped out of their armor and into a casket.
   Despair and terror clutched at her heart and her right knee imperceptibly buckled. Any militia dwarf worth his salt at wrestling will tell you that the greatest armor cannot prevent your limbs from being bent in directions they ought not to bend. The insignificant twitch of Dumplin's right knee meant that the spear that had previously been content to glanc off of her greaves caught her just above the shin and drove her right foot perpendicular to her body. There was a loud pop as muscles and tendons cried out in agony and Dumplin hit the floor.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: CaptainLambcake on August 26, 2013, 04:03:14 pm

break da spears

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: ShadowHammer on August 26, 2013, 08:47:26 pm

Mithril spears? I'm not familiar with masterwork, but how are they only causing bruises? Isn't mithril supposed to be extremely awesome in general Fantasy?
I like the update, though.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: snjwffl on August 26, 2013, 09:25:49 pm

Quote from: ShadowHammer on August 26, 2013, 08:47:26 pm

Mithril spears? I'm not familiar with masterwork, but how are they only causing bruises? Isn't mithril supposed to be extremely awesome in general Fantasy?
I like the update, though.

I think the armor is made of mithril. The spears are pushing on the metal armor, causing bruises.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 26, 2013, 10:27:51 pm

Quote from: snjwffl on August 26, 2013, 09:25:49 pm

I think the armor is made of mithril. The spears are pushing on the metal armor, causing bruises.

Spot on.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Meph on August 27, 2013, 10:02:13 am

Quote

wooden but the moved quite

the = they. ;)

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: ShadowHammer on August 27, 2013, 01:33:33 pm

Quote from: snjwffl on August 26, 2013, 09:25:49 pm

Quote from: ShadowHammer on August 26, 2013, 08:47:26 pm
Mithril spears? I'm not familiar with masterwork, but how are they only causing bruises? Isn't mithril supposed to be extremely awesome in general Fantasy?
I like the update, though.
I think the armor is made of mithril. The spears are pushing on the metal armor, causing bruises.

Oh.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 27, 2013, 07:14:14 pm

Quote from: Meph on August 27, 2013, 10:02:13 am

Quote
wooden but the moved quite
the = they. ;)

I actually let surprisingly few typos in this section this time.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 28, 2013, 03:00:59 pm

   Dumplin clutched Obok to her chest and fought back tears as the spears struck her back in rapid succession. She listened to the chorus of cracks and pops as the weapons slammed into her beating a terrifying rhythm against her armor and her battered spine. Each volley lifted her just a bit off the ground and brought her head to rebound against the stone floor. A supernatural toughness from years laboring in Arrowstockades was all that preserved her. An ancient instinct to protect her child was all that kept Obok in her grasp. She rebuffed the baboons who came to her aid, it was serendipitous that Obok had not come to harm and if she fell a second time neither she nor he would be so fortunate. Every trial she'd faced seemed like an insurmountable wall she was destined to climb but this was somehow different. This was not a wall put in her path it was a wall she was lined up against for execution. She was not being caged, attacked, or tortured, the overseer had tired of his wicked game and Dumplin was simply being killed. Each time the spears struck her the darkness at the edge of her vision claimed a bit more ground and soon she would give in. Dumplin Lakewanders felt herself dying.

   “I can't take anymore!” Vakun's scream drew her attention.
Unable to see the spears she'd resorted to covering her face and trying desperately to shrink her profile. The abuse was taking it's toll and she would not survive much longer.
   “Stodir!” Dumplin cried through the pain. “You're the toughest, cover Vakun!"
Even in this bleak hour the baboons were her responsibility. Though she may not survive the danger room there was a possibility the Overseer would spare the rest of the baboons when she was out of the way.

Stodir expertly parried and dodged a few spears, and the ones he couldn't negate he mitigated. The strikes harmlessly deflected off of the thickest parts of his armor as he fought across the room to stand near Vakun. He deflected a few spears from their paths and moved her from the paths of a few more but Stodir was not perfect in his art. In moving her from the path of an incoming spear he moved her into the path of another he had not seen. The strike caught her off balance and she collapsed, her helmet falling off.
   There was no chance to act before a spear struck her throat. A plume of blood followed the weapon into the air and pooled on the floor dripping down into the traps inner workings. Degel without thinking tore off one of his gauntlets, lunged down to tightly grip the wound.

   “Cover him!” Dumplin screamed. “He can't let go of her neck!”

The baboons piled on top of Degel ignoring the blows and trying desperately to ensure he Degel could maintain his position while even more desperately trying to slow the bleeding. Stodir plucked a bolt from his quiver, charged the door, and began stabbing at hinges. The sturdy stone door lacked the fracture strength of a metal one and at it's weak hinges could be easily dismantled. The brilliant black stone began falling apart in chunks as the steel bolt chipped away at it.

“Open this door!” He bellowed. “Open it or I'll destroy it!”

Just as he began to make progress here was a bassy mechanical groan as the spears stopped. Dumplin failed to find her feet but scrambled to Vakun's side. The door unlocked and flew open, a cyan fist knocked Stodir to the ground. “Vandal!” Feb barked. His armor mythical adamantine and his helmet artifact steel the One Eyed master of the fortress guard ordered his confederates to drag Stodir to the cells.

“Her throats slashed!” Degel sobbed with crimson teardrops streaming down his face.

Feb One-Eye looked perplexed for a moment. “Knock her in a bin,” he shrugged.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 30, 2013, 03:25:42 pm

Dumplin Lakewanders had done the impossible. She had accomplished what five Drow invasion forces, dozens of cavern beasts, and a lifetime of misfortune had failed to do. She had killed Vakun, the Blind Marksdwarf of Arrowstockades. All her victories meant nothing in the end and she breathed her last in an execution chamber some mad dwarf had called a training aid. It was wholly untraditional but the Baboons assembled in the crypts to bid their friend farewell. Each dead dwarf was entitled to a slab, a coffin, and a door to separate the two. Dumplin was given the task of engraving her slab. She had limited space and limited skill, and so she settled on “Beloved Friend, United With Sapphire.” She placed it in front of her coffin and stood with seven other Baboons. Stodir remained in the jail and Degel was hospitalized for the deep gashes in his hands. Both had paid for their futile effort to save her.
Profundity escaped her so she settled on silence. Vakun was dead because Dumplin Lakewanders had made a critical oversight. She had known the Danger Room was a weapon in the Overseer's arsenal but she had not endeavored to discover what it was. Each Baboon was now to wear three leather cloaks at all times. If it became hot they were to suck it up, if it became uncomfortable they were to suck it up, if it became inconvenient they were to suck it up. The leather would provide a modicum of protection from wooden spears and some slashing attacks targeting exposed flesh.
The Overseer had drawn first blood and he would not rest on his laurels. Dumplin spent that night studying. Instead of sleeping she crawled on her stomach through the silent crypts inspecting every engraving and decoration in the hall of the dead. She would compile a list of every cause of every death that had ever occurred in the fortress. If there was another deadly plot in the waiting she would know and she would be ready.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on September 02, 2013, 06:36:25 pm

   Animals, collapses, magma, water. These were the Overseers preferred methods of execution. Dumplin had assembled a list of every dwarf who had ever lived in Arrowstocakdes, significant incidents in their life, and had made inferences about their relationship with the overseer. Fleeing from combat, harming an asset to the fortress, failure to complete and a host of other infractions were given various weights in regards to likelihood of reprisal. Should a dwarf be killed in a cave in there was no reason to be suspicious, sometimes dwarves died in cave ins. If a dwarf died shortly after offending the overseer then his manner of death was recorded. After working throughout the night Dumplin had identified those four as the most likely.
    If a Baboon noticed the sound of mining in an area other than the mines they were to report it to Dumplin. If they noticed strange construction with no apparent purpose they were to report it to Dumplin. If familiar stone suddenly became damp or warm to the touch they were to report it to Dumplin. If they were told to pull ANY lever they were to report it to Dumplin. If the dining hall served something that was not made of tallow or acorns they were to report it to Dumplin.
   If a Baboon suspected an attempt on their life was being planned they were to flee to the caverns. The caverns were so incredibly dangerous because the Overseer had a much looser grip on them. The Overseer sat in his fancy little office plotting their murder where a cavern beast simply planned to eat them if they drifted by. Evading the Overseer was paramount, if his focus abated they could safely return. If it did not they carried enough rations for one season and they were capable of foraging indefinitely.
   They were not to take these measures lightly, the first time they did it they may break his plans but the second he would surely be prepared. If it came to that they were to flee into the deep caverns and walk in one direction until they reached a path to the surface. Giving up had not occurred to her in the past, leaving the fortress had always been a punishment to dread rather than any kind of way out. This was bleak. It was entirely possible she and her son would be murdered. Asen could not come with her if she left. He was still more or less beneath the Overseer's ire, the fortress was still a safe place for him. The caverns on the other hand were musty and cold and Asen's weak lungs would give out if he had to march with the Baboons for months on end looking for a way out.
   She slept very little now. Vakun's death, her failure to protect the Baboons made the situation so much more real. The Baboons divided into three groups of three whose members randomly rotated, these groups slept in one of the four corners of three of the four different dorms. The dorms would be randomly selected each night before bed. If the Overseer planned to take them sleeping he they would not make it easy. If the Baboons were awoken by noise they were to report to the caverns and wait one hour. If the others showed up they were to return to bed but if they did not they were to presume the fortress demanded their blood and flee.
   Dumplin wasn't alone in her preparation. All of the baboons recognized that they were war. Athel had found a moleweasel which she taught to make noise when finely tuned senses detected danger. Bim had used his skills as a jeweler to stud his arms and gauntlets with sharp stones. Stodir had taken two extra waterskins and a small bag to carry additional rations ensuring the safety of the baboons if they became trapped. Inod kept a few handfuls of sand in his pocket to blind anyone who managed to get within striking distance. Degel tucked a handful of bandages, a few splints, and a ball of of tree resin into the pockets of his cloaks, he would tend to any wounded quickly and with proper tools. Angzak had learned from Ashmon how to break a an enemies neck and even if caught without her weapon was wholly capable of defending herself. Tath cultivated moss in her hair and on her clothes so when she entered the forest she became quite difficult to see.

Iral had taken it to another level. He'd had affixed a dagger to his crossbow to destroy obstacles or bring down more dangerous foes with which he practiced daily. Most boldly however he had stolen a single exploding bolt from the quiver of Bembul Inkshallow, the captain of the First Marksdwarves. Designed to detonate on impact they had the potential to stat massive fires and were reserved only for master marksdwarves. The weapon was tucked neatly into Iral's boot and if the occasion came where he needed it he would be ready. Many dwarves said Dumplin Lakewanders and her motley crew were a pack of paranoid bold snuggler. None of them would say they were killed by cobras in their sleep.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on September 02, 2013, 06:37:47 pm

This one is a little late, forgot it was Monday.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Lalasa on September 02, 2013, 06:41:46 pm

((No offense, since I'm still reading it and liking it, but I feel the quality of the story has dropped since its beginning...))

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on September 02, 2013, 07:02:36 pm

Quote from: Lalasa on September 02, 2013, 06:41:46 pm

((No offense, since I'm still reading it and liking it, but I feel the quality of the story has dropped since its beginning...))

There was a section of the story where I did sort of lose interest and I didn't put my best work into it. I plan on going back and rewriting the weaker bits.

edit: actually I would really appreciate it if you could tell me exactly how you feel it lost quality. As much as I love compliments I need criticism to improve as a writer.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Lalasa on September 02, 2013, 07:47:23 pm

((Grammar for one, has taken a major hit since the beginning (as well as spelling). It was never perfect, but it's not getting better either.
Plot movement has slowed down majorly and is becoming repetitive. The last few pages are all about failed assassination attempts, sleep deprivation, and preparing for more assassination attempts. Believe it or not, that gets kinda dull.
The beginning of the story with its dark humor about the toga was gold. Nothing I've seen lately has that much wit.
Sentence variety has dropped. My English teacher's sole unit last year was varying sentence beginnings. He was a terrible teacher, but he did teach me how stories flow much better and feel more dynamic with variety.
Dialogue feels dry and less inspired, and there's a lot less of it. Also, length has also shortened. This isn't a quality indicator per se, but I feel the length is starting to reflect what isn't added into the story anymore.

I hope these points will hold merit with you. Thanks for stopping to read them.
Also "Dumpin". If there's one thing to get right, it could at least be names. Leave that issue to the illiterate dwarven manager. :P))

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on September 02, 2013, 09:42:21 pm

My dyslexia has always been an obstacle to grammar and spelling, the reason it seems better early on is because my peeps have already pointed it out and told me to clean it up. I will never get angry at someone for showing me that I made a mistake.

The plot movement has changed throughout the chapters. Initially there was a long period where Dumplin did nothing but work, there I use repetition and monotony to demonstrate how dull fotress life was. Now I'm focusing on the battle between Dumplin and the overseer and I don't know how to highlight her increasing paranoia without that same repetition.

My sentence variety and dialogue quality have dropped. As a side effect of taking on nine characters at once I did neglect to give each a unique characterization and thereby a different tone during dialogue. I hope to fix this but am open to suggestions.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Lalasa on September 03, 2013, 09:53:32 pm

Perhaps for the paranoia you could rub it in through vivid and dark description rather than repetition? Bring out hallucinations from sleep deprivation, the creepy things at the edge of the psyche, the nightmares and monsters! I think it would be huge entertaining if you brought Dumplin's degeneration to life. Illustrate how close the Baboons are to snapping, but don't drag it out for too long because as you said, you've already been using a lot of repetition.

You're not required to follow my suggestions, but I'd personally think the battle between the Overseer and the Hairless Baboons would be more vibrant and emotional if more emotions were in it. Decorate the paranoia, pop it out as the main beef of this section. Give different members of Dumplin's regiment differing reactions to this drawn out mental torture. It's being hinted at that their sanity's not that high, but showing is always more fun than telling.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Reudh on September 04, 2013, 06:56:05 am

Quote from: Broseph Stalin on September 02, 2013, 09:42:21 pm

My dyslexia has always been an obstacle to grammar and spelling, the reason it seems better early on is because my peeps have already pointed it out and told me to clean it up. I will never get angry at someone for showing me that I made a mistake.

The plot movement has changed throughout the chapters. Initially there was a long period where Dumplin did nothing but work, there I use repetition and monotony to demonstrate how dull fotress life was. Now I'm focusing on the battle between Dumplin and the overseer and I don't know how to highlight her increasing paranoia without that same repetition.

My sentence variety and dialogue quality have dropped. As a side effect of taking on nine characters at once I did neglect to give each a unique characterization and thereby a different tone during dialogue. I hope to fix this but am open to suggestions.

You have Dyslexia? Wow, I wouldn't ever have guessed - your writing has about the same amount of errors as an average person without dyslexia. Well done!

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on September 06, 2013, 04:59:23 pm

Deleted all my buffer and am in the process of rewriting, expect update monday.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Aseaheru on September 06, 2013, 07:06:04 pm

Eesh. Thanks for thre heads up man! Cant wait!

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on September 06, 2013, 07:41:32 pm

Quote from: Aseaheru on September 06, 2013, 07:06:04 pm

Eesh. Thanks for thre heads up man! Cant wait!

Should probably clarify, I purposely deleted all my buffer because I didn't feel it was of a quality my audience deserved.

You guys are awesome, Dwarf Fortress is awesome, and what I write must be worthy of your combined glory.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Aseaheru on September 06, 2013, 07:42:56 pm

Ah. Thanks for thinking we are worthy of rewriting this!

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on September 06, 2013, 08:10:05 pm

Quote from: Aseaheru on September 06, 2013, 07:42:56 pm

Ah. Thanks for thinking we are worthy of rewriting this!

Are you kidding? This is Dwarf fortress! The game that in a world of blu-ray graphics, billion dollar budgets, and massive development teams said "ascii characters, voluntary donations, and these two dudes." This is Bay 12! The community that looked at an overpopulation of domestic pets, a peaceful sea dwelling civilization, and flesh rotting toxins and said "meat, bone-farm, and fireproof lotion." You disproved the tragedy of the commons, you transcended casual AND hardcore gaming, you are METAL. It is an honor to be part of this community it is a joy to play this game, and it is a privilege to write for you.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Meph on September 07, 2013, 02:44:35 am

Thank you for the effort you put into this. :)

The biggest change in writing I noticed is simply that the start was quite satirical, taking routine fort situations that every player knows, and turning them on their head. The latest texts about bold-cuddling, paranoia and so forth are not bad as such, but lack the connection to the game. Dwarves wouldnt be paranoid about a lever on top of a grate over magma, no, on the contrary, they would happily pull it if told so.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on September 07, 2013, 06:21:06 am

Quote from: Meph on September 07, 2013, 02:44:35 am

Thank you for the effort you put into this. :)

The biggest change in writing I noticed is simply that the start was quite satirical, taking routine fort situations that every player knows, and turning them on their head. The latest texts about bold-cuddling, paranoia and so forth are not bad as such, but lack the connection to the game. Dwarves wouldnt be paranoid about a lever on top of a grate over magma, no, on the contrary, they would happily pull it if told so.

I think some of that's inevitable due to the nature of Dumplin. She's supposed to be a dwarf who doesn't do the things that normal dwarves do and questioning things that seemed strange. The different chapters focused on different elements of fortress life as Dumplin perceived them. Daily Grind was all about work, Cwivers of Dubious quality was all about dealing with nobles, Dwarven Justice System was all about well the dwarven justice system, Hairless Baboons was all about the military, and Worst Dwarf in the World is all about players whacking their dwarves.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on September 10, 2013, 02:35:34 pm

Had a sudden surge in my workload and had to put off writing. I've got tommorrows update written now and I'm working on friday. Expect a shift towards a more familiar tone and the updates to proceed as normal.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on September 11, 2013, 05:18:46 pm

“Ambush!”
The dwarven cry rang out like a gunshot in the crisp morning air. It hung there for a moment before it was answered by call of:
“Shut it down you bold snuggling lunatic!”
Patrol was usually very boring but today was rich with action. Most dwarves on patrol walked around the perimeter enjoying the peace and quiet, munching on the lunches they carried in their pack, and occasionally investigating the odd noise. Today however patrol was a never ending series of ambushes, assassination plots, attempted abductions, and goblin raids. Dumplin was deafened by the sound of silent assassins. Her meal was tainted by the taste of tasteless poisons. The odd noises were met with crossbow bolts instead of investigation because that was just what they expected her to do.

The dwarves found the first and second ambush worth investigating, the third worth ignoring but ambush number eight and all ambushes thereafter provoked only angry yells from dwarves who had just aboutv enough of Dumplin Lakewanders' and her ambushes. She was ambushed by bear, and a deer, and a hawk, and a few suspicious shadows, and on one occasion a suspicious looking fish.
“Dumplin,” Bim chose his words carefully “I think we should double check to ensure the next ambush is, well, an ambush- for the purposes of security”

“Bim,” Dumplin was only loosely aware she was speaking “by the time we double check we'll have been killed by the ambush.”

“Well,” Bim considered his options. “Perhaps we should rule out certain events as ambushes, such as a flock of birds, or fish, or inanimate objects.”

“But what if there are frog men in the water, or elves in the trees, or goblins riding giant falcons?”

“Well I don't think there are frog men living in the pond, I don't think elves hide in trees, and that falcon was not giant.”

“It was very large”

“Not large enough for a goblin to ride.”

“It could have been a very small goblin.”

“There was no goblin.”

“We can't be sure of that it got away.”

“Dumplin I think you need to calm down.”

“We can't calm down everything outside the fortress walls is under eternal threat by invaders and everything inside is the dominion of a homicidal maniac!”

“We're prepared for anything that happens, you need to calm down.”

“Every time I calm down the floor collapses beneath my feet, I always say I won't be surprised by the next hellish swerve my life takes and I decide I'm ready for whatever's coming and then I'm blindsided! It's not just me anymore, I have to worry about Obok and the Baboons. Degel is in the hospital, Stodir is in the jail, and Vakun is in a stone casket, I can't be surprised again!”

Bim gathered up his resolve. “Dumplin, you cannot live like this and we cannot live with you like this. The Baboons are all adults and they can survive without your constant fussing. We've discussed it and we're going to reorganize the work schedule so Angzak, Iral, and Stodir are always on either patrol, in the barracks, or in the watchtower to handle anything that goes wrong. We aren't going to attend any more late night meetings or entertain your paranoia. We can manage our own safety”

“You made a schedule!? Now it will be easier for the Overseer to figure out where you'll be and he'll-”

“Dumplin!” Bim shouted. “We appreciate everything you've done and we're happy to follow your lead but we're beginning to think you've taken too much responsibility on yourself. We are responsible for our safety not you.”

Dumplin's grip on her crossbow tightened.
“I am perfectly capable of managing this squad Bim,” she said through clenched teeth.

“You've been spending your nights banging rocks together, assembling insane contingency plans, and crawling on the floor to read the carvings.”

“That's what it takes to keep everyone alive Bim!”

“Dumplin this isn't helping anyone!”

Before she could reply a rustling caught her eye and in a fluid motion she swung around, fired her crossbow into the brush, and loosed a cry of:
“Ambush!”

She was immediately answered by a call from the distance.

“Lakewanders I will shut this gate and make you sleep out there!”

“It's monkeys!” Bim yelled in vain. “Dumplin it's just a few monkeys!”

“We're surrounded!”

“Dumplin they'll circle for a little bit and leave, just stand your ground!”

“Bim help!”

“Dumplin calm down!”

Dumplin lashed out like a whirlwind striking at tiny bodies, stomping on tiny limbs, and pleaing for aid. The bulk of the troop fled in different directions but she felt something touch her shoulder deadly close to Obok. She spun to drive the butt of her crossbow into the child snatcher and Bim struck the ground with a thud. He lied there clutching his stomach and groaning for a moment before Dumplin recovered the presence of mind to extend a hand.
“No!” His reply was sharp as he slapped the hand away and found his feet. “I've had enough of this, I'll trade jobs with Iral- maybe he'll have the stomach for this madness!”

“Bim I'm sorry-”

“No!” He snapped again, a look of fury hanging upon his kind face. “You've gone insane and if you ever remember who you are again then there will be something to discuss!”

Dumplin stood silently as the old dwarf made his way back to the fortress.

Dumplin Lakewanders was at war with a being commanding the resources of a fortress, the population of a city, and the self-importance of a god. Dumplin Lakewanders was losing and she was losing more than she'd ever imagined.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Aseaheru on September 11, 2013, 07:09:44 pm

Jeaze, someone gotta go be a hermit in the woods or somethink.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Thormgrim on September 12, 2013, 06:47:32 pm

i was sort of hoping that at some point she would spiral and become a normal dwarf... shirking her duties and drinking in the food stockpile--and inadvertently avoid everything the overseer does to try to kill her.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Lalasa on September 13, 2013, 04:05:24 pm

This chapter was really enjoyable and was worth the wait. Thanks for continuing Dumplin's tragic tale. :)
I really like how her breakdown is being handled. It really gives us insight into the terror she's feeling, and it was pretty funny too, although that may just be me being mean.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on September 13, 2013, 05:05:06 pm

“So.” Bim chose his words carefully. “I think we need to... reaffirm our leadership.”
The baboons had assembled in the hospital, Stodir had recently been released but Degel was still in recovery. While the medical team was skilled and numerous it was apparently it was not unheard of for dwarves to be ignored in the hospital for days or weeks when a party broke out in the dining hall or a few breaks coincided.
“I'm doing a fine job of running this squad Bim!” Dumplin recognized she'd stumbled but if the baboons left her control they would be in horrible danger.

“Well you are patently insane.” Angzak replied.

“Also you did lewd things to a kobold.” Inod added.

“That didn't happen and that's not true!” Dumplin snapped back

“Well the alternative is the elf-fondler.” Iral pointed out.

“I don't fondle elves!” Degel insisted.

“He can fondle all the elves he wants Iral!” Tath said.

“I'm not an Elf-Fondler” Degel said from his bed. “Also, I don't want to be leader, I'm no good at leading!”

“You tried to save Vakun.” Bim contended.

“I failed to save Vakun!” Degel replied.

“Speaking of, we need a new member.” Athel said.

“We can't put more dwarves in danger!” Dumplin insisted.

“Well if we have an extra dwarf maybe they'll be killed before us.” Iral said.

“Nobody else is getting killed!” Dumplin yelled.

“Then there's no reason we can't have a tenth member.” Bim pointed out.

“I think the biggest question is whether elf fondling is worse than bold snuggling.” Inod suggested.

“It's not!” Degel said. “And I don't fondle elves, they're just sort of nice.”

“So you would campaign as the anti-fondling candidate?” Athel asked.

“Fondling isn't relevant in this election!” Degel said.

“We aren't having any election!” Dumplin shouted.

“That's precisely the point!” Bim retorted. “Degel is the captain and the fact that he hasn't been leading us is a product of his incompetence.”

“He shouldn't be leading us if he's incompetent.” Dumplin replied.

“I'm not incompetent!” Degel contended.

“Well Degel has yet to start a private war with the entire fortress, if you really care about keeping the squad safe then you can't lead it.”

Dumplin tried to form words but they caught in her throat.

“Then it's decided.” Bim said with gravity. “We follow Degel now.”

“Are you going to decriminalize elf-fondling?” Tath asked.

“I don't fondle elves!”

“Hush the both of you!” Bim snapped.

Dumplin sank. She was tasked with protecting dwarves who didn't want or appreciate protection. Her stomach turned a little sour as she felt a sudden sense of kinship with the Overseer.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on September 13, 2013, 05:06:55 pm

Caught the flu and I'm not handling it well. I've been bed ridden for two days and I'm not at my best, if you spot something wrong with this bit please let me know.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Aseaheru on September 13, 2013, 07:59:20 pm

Nothing seems wrong to me.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on September 16, 2013, 04:49:00 pm

I'm back on my feet but I've spent all day making up for assignments I missed. Back to normal on wednsday.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Aseaheru on September 16, 2013, 07:11:30 pm

Good luck. Just what sort of assignments?

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on September 16, 2013, 10:38:37 pm

Quote from: Aseaheru on September 16, 2013, 07:11:30 pm

Good luck. Just what sort of assignments?

A research paper, studying for an upcoming test, and a group project.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Aseaheru on September 17, 2013, 03:22:35 pm

Ah. At what level of bullshitizing? High school, senior year, New York or uni?

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on September 17, 2013, 10:56:07 pm

Quote from: Aseaheru on September 17, 2013, 03:22:35 pm

Ah. At what level of bullshitizing? High school, senior year, New York or uni?

Undergrad, senior year.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Aseaheru on September 18, 2013, 02:31:38 pm

So senior year uni? or am I totally off?

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on September 18, 2013, 04:25:04 pm

Watch duty. A duty to watch. Watching was easy. It was natural. Watching was what Dumplin did best. Stress had made her sharp eyes more powerful. She could spot things that weren't even there. She stood in the tower and watched. She watched the dwarves of the fortress go about their business, she watched the Baboons patrol, she watched the locked hatch behind her to ensure she wasn't surprised.
   The Baboons had decided that Dumplin was no longer fit for patrol. The Baboons had deemed her unfit for patrol. She was the least valued member of the least valued squad in the entire fortress and the contempt she felt for her fellow dwarves burned in her heart. But the watchtower was peaceful, almost sacred in it's stillness, she stood sentinel watching over the dwarves from high above as they went about their labor.
   She stood in perfect silence until figures appeared on the horizon. Traders she told herself. There was a large group coming into view, either traders with wagons loaded with wares or warriors with beasts and blades. She held her breath as they drew near. If she was wrong the fortress wouldn't have a chance to lock down before the attackers reached the gates. A few tense seconds passed before she breathed a sigh of relief, the group was in fact a Drow trade caravan.
   “Ambush!” came a fell cry from the other side of the battlements. Dumplin's eyes flew to the western forest and felt her heart sink.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on September 18, 2013, 04:25:37 pm

Quote from: Aseaheru on September 18, 2013, 02:31:38 pm

So senior year uni? or am I totally off?

No you got it.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Aseaheru on September 18, 2013, 04:36:27 pm

Well, its better than some things.
And that is a nice update.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on September 23, 2013, 09:10:20 pm

What Dumplin had not considered in the long hours she spent crafting care packages was the reason Kobolds were so harmless. They quite readily abandoned their plans at the least resistance because they knew the fortress was for all practical purposes impenetrable. A few would prod the defenses and perhaps scoop up a ragged sock whose owner couldn't be bothered to throw it away. Now they were finding on each trip food, clothing and tools. Now they wanted more. Kobolds, several dozen with spears and bows, descended on the fortress and targeted the patrolling Athel and Angzak.
   “All workers return to the burrow!” Commander Sabershaft issued his cold commands from the battlements. “Archers, take up the wall! Infantry, push forward! Kill the skulking vermin!”
   The patrolling Baboons remembered their drills and began to fall back to the entrance amidst a hail of arrows. Athel gave a sharp cry and collapsed as an arrow punched through her boot. Angzak stopped and turned to defend her fallen comrade. She loosed a bolt into an archer and with a smooth motion drove the butt of her crossbow into a spearman's skull.
   With the militia of arrowstockades still scrambling to respond and Athel incapable of escaping Angzak prepared to hold off the attack for as long as she could.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Grim Portent on September 25, 2013, 11:13:43 am

This is why 'bold snuggling is bad. It leads to smuggling stuff for the 'bolds and then the 'bolds get bold and try their luck at taking more than they have any right to.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Urist Mc Dwarf on October 01, 2013, 05:31:17 pm

Why no updates?

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on October 02, 2013, 11:47:26 am

Shit has sort of hit the fan with my school work and personal life and I have LSAT's on Saturday I'll try to find time to get some Dumplin time in so next week I can update regularly.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Urist Mc Dwarf on October 02, 2013, 08:13:04 pm

Oh.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: ShadowHammer on October 04, 2013, 07:27:03 pm

The updates that did happen we're quite good. I see Dumplin is becoming somewhat unstable?

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on October 09, 2013, 07:41:11 pm

There was a flurry of blows as Angzak turned back the kobold spears. Occasionally she would seize an opportunity to lash out and her crossbow would connect with bone. Spearheads found only the polished wood of her weapon and arrows sailed past as she sidestepped the incoming missiles.
   The kobold's determination had been sharpened by Dumplin's care packages but their confidence melted like snow when they stood beneath the gaze of a hardened soldier. It took only one solid blow for any given kobold to be reminded of it's place in the natural order of things and to break rank.
   Dumplin's first shot went wide and her hands slipped when she attempted to load another bolt leaving a deep gash in her finger. She struggled to redraw the crossbow and knock a blood stained bolt. The second projectile sunk into the flesh of a tree with a bassy thud. Something was wrong. From the far side of the parapet Inod had no trouble hitting his targets. She had resisted the effects of exhaustion until now but she could no longer deny her deteriorating condition had crippled her.
   Angzak was surrounded below, spears were now beginning to glance of her armor instead of being effortlessly batted away. The kobolds were circling her and began to work past her to probe the defenses for holes. One of the infiltrators stopped, training it's eyes on Athel.
   For a moment the air became like molasses and the world slowed to a crawl. Athel had lost consciousness and had no means to defend herself. Angzak was wholly occupied by the attackers on all sides. The militia was still mobilizing, it would be some time before they launched the counter offensive. The Baboons were still en route to the roof, they wouldn't get there in time. If Dumplin couldn't find her mark there was no hope for Athel to survive.
   She fought through the pain and in one perfect motion pulled pulled back the drawstring and rested a bolt in the groove. This was not a death trap. It wasn't a massive conspiracy by a being of terrible brilliance and resources. It wasn't violence and hatred endemic to a system of government. It wasn't even a staircase designed to break the will of the most undervalued dwarves in the fortress. It was a kobold, one kobold without the reflexes or armor to protect itself from a clean shot. She wasn't the helpless dwarf who crossed the great Loveless Mountain range to find nothing but burning rats and heavy stones. She was a veteran soldier with a crossbow in her hand and she would not allow Athel to die.
   She was conscious of every little piece of the world that created the moment; the gentle westerly wind, the tightening of her muscles as she depressed the trigger, the buck of the crossbow as the string rocketed forward, the scream of the wind as the broad head of the bolt cut through the air, the sickening sensation as the wind picked up, the feeling of dread as her bolt pulled so slightly left, and the bassy wooden thud as it buried itself into a tree.
   The crossbow fell from her hands as Dumplin dropped to her knees in tears.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Reudh on October 09, 2013, 10:13:00 pm

Poor Dumplin', wasting a martial trance like that.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on October 11, 2013, 08:15:20 pm

   A short while later the drawbridge was lowered and the legions of Arrowstockades fell upon the ambush like wolves reveling in a brief slaughter before returning to the fortress. They were soon replaced by legions of haulers sent to loot the dead and haul the corpses off to the heap, one among their ranks deigning to scoop up Athel's broken body. Her corpse was stripped of all valuables and interred in one of the stone receptacles identified by a slab bearing her name , the manner of her death, and some trite fact about her. It was all very quick and very clean and within a few hours the Kobold's weapons, armor, and various personal effects had been re-purposed into metal bars or burned to ash while Athel's clothes had been snapped up by haulers, her armor given to some other future casualty of war, and the woman herself forgotten by everyone who mattered. The fortress carried on.
   Athel who had jumped at the call to serve, Athel whose love for her home bordered on the delusional, Athel who had so proudly toiled in the caverns had fallen to the aura of pain and death that followed Dumplin Lakewanders. Dumplin was vaguely surprised to find after a short crying jag that she too was ready to carry on. After a thousand tragedies had befallen her with the promise of a thousand more to come it really didn't make sense to dwell.
   She did not spend hours obsessing over the shot that could have saved Athel, or regretting the decisions that had gotten her killed, she did not wish with all her heart to have died in her place. Dumplin Lakewanders didn't really care anymore. And she finally understood. It finally made sense why nobody ever complained about eating glop or being unable to see their families or working for days on end. They just didn't care. Like a swimmer caught in tide her instinct was to fight but she finally recognized that it was so much simpler just to let go. She finally understood that surviving in Arrowstockades wasn't about achievement or perseverance or dedication or planning or friendship or believing in a higher purpose. It was about accepting that you were going to drown.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on October 23, 2013, 06:23:34 pm

Life advanced rather steadily with her new found distaste for it.
“Lakewanders you're hauling stone”
“I don't care.”
“Lakewanders you're on patrol.”
“I don't care.”
“Dumplin are you alright?”
“I don't care.”
“Dumplin you just stepped on that dwarf!”
“I don't care.”
“We need to convince Degel to fill out the squad.”
“I don't care.”
“Where have you been, I haven't seen you or Obok in days?”
“I don't care.”
“I need to find two new dwarves for the squad.”
“I don't care.”
The overseer was inescapable and the savagery of the world was unavoidable. Only now did she understand the delusion that she could somehow prevent everyone or anyone from dying was foolish. She was cradled by hopelessness like a snowstorm snuffing out a traveler, it was comfortable feeling to accept there was nothing left to do. Every new day was a slow march towards her inevitable death but that had been the case since she'd arrived in the fortress, it wasn't a frightening idea anymore.
Perhaps it was her brighter outlook or just a coincidence but the overseer like a great snake sensing it's prey had stopped struggling no longer deigned to crush her. Her labor was reduced down to military and hauling duties. No more gutting fish or managing hives or burning carcasses, the fortress was very generous with it's boons when it was certain they would provide no comfort. Training became easier too, now that it was up to the thoroughly uninspired Degel to manage training. He didn't Dumplin's knack for such things and instead of practical training exercises and aids he simply organized general demonstrations and sparring session. Her social life was much simpler now that she decided not seeing her husband for days at a time and having no friends didn't warrant any bad thoughts. Her disregard for the insanity of the fortress made her a more efficient worker as well. She worked every moment of the day save when she was hungry, thirsty, or could no longer remain awake. In between work orders she'd simply head to the dining hall and loiter until a new one came down. Resigned to a life of ignominy and an insalubrious death things were finally looking up for Dumplin Lakewanders.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Timeless Bob on October 23, 2013, 11:40:37 pm

Welcome to corporate culture.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: sebcool on November 01, 2013, 07:06:10 pm

You've done it. You have officially broken Dumplin.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Meme on November 01, 2013, 10:10:31 pm

An amazing story! I can't wait for more!

But poor Dumplin...

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on November 03, 2013, 09:37:04 am

Sorry the updates have been so erratic, I've been crazy busy. I've gotten sick five times since September, I think stress is actually damaging my immune system. I have a general outline planned for the rest of the updates so I should be able to get the ball rolling soon.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Meph on November 10, 2013, 04:15:06 pm

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: ShadowHammer on November 12, 2013, 08:19:15 pm

Quote from: Meph on November 10, 2013, 04:15:06 pm

:)

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on November 13, 2013, 01:10:54 pm

Dumplin early by chance, the concept of time had become devoid of meaning and the suns position in the sky no longer influenced the way she went about her business. She went off to collect intact bolts left in the forest by hunters and the engineer's new machination. The guild had created a device they called a “Shotgun” that consisted of a minecart striking a barrier at high speed and sending it's contents ,loose bolts or miscellaneous weaponry usually, flying into the forest and unfortunate invaders. It was fairly light work and the walk gave her a chance to wake up before she had to haul stone or preform her militia duties. But today was unusual, Feb was standing at attention with a scrap of paper resting on a scrapwood plank and quill at the ready. Something about the scene seemed familiar and spurred Dumplin to look to the horizon. The fortress was uphill and she could just make out in between the thick trees a caravan of migrants approaching the fortress.
   The lies of Arrowstockades had enticed another group of poor souls to be swallowed up the wicked fortress. One, maybe two of them would have the talents to be given a chance in their chosen craft and reach legendary ,or passable by Arrowstockades standards, prowess. Four or maybe five among them would be tall or strong enough to be passable militiamen and most of those would be sent to ad hoc squads that would be with 100% certainty wiped out before their third engagement. The rest would preform menial labor day and night until something killed them.
   Dumplin carried out her labor as near the fortress as possible to gawk at the new migrants being processed. Tall ones, short ones, fat ones, some were very old and had come seeking rest, others were quite young and sought to make a new life, some were common laborers hoping to make a modest living, others were upper class tradesmen who had come to find the fine treatment they felt they'd earned. But all came with broad smiles and looks of hope having braved the Loveless Mountains and found the fabled Arrowstockades. Each and every one of them was going to die in the fortress, most sooner rather than later.
   Dumplin wandered nearer to listen to Feb judging the new crop but he spotted her on the approach and signaled for her to come over. Feb pointed to the two standing at the front of the line.
   “Two garbage dwarves,” Feb said. “The woman's militia too. Show them to their work assignments”

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Meme on November 22, 2013, 09:35:17 pm

Dumplin? :(

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on November 27, 2013, 02:13:40 am

Finals, I'll try to throw up a few updates here and there but in about two weeks my schedule will free back up and I can get back on track.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on December 04, 2013, 12:03:16 pm

“Hello,” said the stupidly happy male dwarf. “My name's Okon, Okon Cluttercraze. This is my wife, Lolor Siltlock.”

“I don't care.” Dumplin replied. “Follow me.”

Dumplin began the long practiced route to the stockpiles but the pair behind her stopped short just inside the door with confusion and a bit of fear evident on their faces.

“Are those traps?” Okon asked.

“Yes.” Dumplin replied.

“Well how do we get in?” Lolor asked.

“Avoid the traps,” Dumplin replied.

Dumplin deftly stepped around the triggers and without a thought expertly navigated the maze of death and dismemberment. It was several minutes of careful tiptoeing before Okon and Lolor were with her once more.

“That seems very irregular.” Lolor said.

“Well,” Okon offered dusting himself off. “I suppose if there's that many traps the fortress must be truly fantastic.”

“That's a reasonable thing to suppose.” Dumplin said.
Dumplin proceeded but again they stopped, this time to gawk at the great indoor/outdoor enclave ,even richer in plant and animal life than the wilderness surrounding. They looked in awe at the shear number of dwarves shearing, picking, planting, milking, and otherwise working.

“It's more beautiful than I ever imagined,” Lolor whispered.

“It's magnificent, certainly worth the hike I'd-- Armok's blood what is that smell!?” The question was accompanied by dual gagging fits.

“Burning corpses.” Dumplin replied.

“Is that usual?” Lolor asked.

“Never ending.” Dumplin replied.

The tour continued down the central stairs to the stockpiles and once more they stopped looking around at the great sandy halls and the great brass roads.

“This is amazing!” Okon said. “This is place is more impressive than the lords castle back in the city and it's just a store house!”

“You know,” Lolor leaned in smiling. “Miss...”

“Dumplin.” Dumplin said.

“Well Dumplin, I've heard all sorts of stories about the dining hall, could we visit there before heading off to work? Just for a moment?”

“No.” Dumplin said deflating Lolor's simle. “Infantry or Archer?” She aksed.

“Eh? Oh! Infantry.” Lolor said.

Dumplin pointed towards the nearest stockpile. “Finished goods, Armor, Weapons, Gems, Ammunition. Find a shield, a set of armor, and whatever weapon you're best with.”

“Do you have any recommendations?”

“Suicide.” Dumplin replied.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Liber celi on December 04, 2013, 03:53:10 pm

Absolutely worth the wait.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Lord_lemonpie on December 04, 2013, 04:11:03 pm

Ptw

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Baffler on December 08, 2013, 10:30:13 pm

Posting to watch. This is really great, btw, keep up the good work!

Edit: This isn't just over, is it? That would be depressing, yet oddly fitting.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Broseph Stalin on December 30, 2013, 02:42:48 pm

Quote from: Baffler on December 08, 2013, 10:30:13 pm

Posting to watch. This is really great, btw, keep up the good work!

Edit: This isn't just over, is it? That would be depressing, yet oddly fitting.

No. I have gone temporarily insane and it's interrupted my writing. This story will not under any circumstances end prematurely.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Meph on December 30, 2013, 05:17:59 pm

Quote from: Broseph Stalin on December 30, 2013, 02:42:48 pm

Quote from: Baffler on December 08, 2013, 10:30:13 pm
Posting to watch. This is really great, btw, keep up the good work!

Edit: This isn't just over, is it? That would be depressing, yet oddly fitting.
No. I have gone temporarily insane and it's interrupted my writing. This story will not under any circumstances end prematurely.

That is good to hear. I am still waiting, patiently, for it to finish, then bundle it up, make it a .pdf and put it to MDF somehow. ;) Or at least urge you to upload it to dfstories.com ;)

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on January 02, 2014, 03:11:44 pm

Lolor made an odd face and went about collecting her equipment.
“I don't know about all this militia business,” Okon said. “You aren't a warrior.”
“Well I told that to the One-Eyed Dwarf-”
“Feb One-Eye.” Dumplin said.
“Thank you. I told Mister Feb One-Eye-”
“He's terrible.” Dumplin interrupted.
“Um, thank you. I told Feb that I don't have any experience fighting but he didn't seem to think that mannered. I'll probably just be telling rowdy dwarves to behave at parties or something like that. Dumplin? I think I have my equipment.”
Lolor had succeeded in donning a suit of bronze armor and was holding a sword and shield.
“Off to the barracks then.” Dumplin said already working her way up the stairs. She didn't bother stopping this time when they looked out across the landscape in awe.

“Dumplin!” Came the familiar frantic voice of Degel. “I'm trying to organize a demonstration but all the baboons are ignoring me, they say they're doing individual training but their just standing around and chatting!”

“I don't care.” Dumplin replied. “I have to show these two around.”
“Hello,” said Lolor. “I'm Lolor and this is Okon, we're new arrivals.”
“Have you heard any rumors about me?” He asked cautiously.
“What sort of rumors?” Okon asked.
“Elf or fondling based rumors.”
“What?” Lolor asked,
“Never mind.” Degel said. “Always happy to see fresh new faces.”
“I see you're wearing armor,” Lolor said. “Are you part of the militia?”
“I'm Captain Degel.” Degel said proudly. “I lead the Hairless Baboons.”
“Why do they call you the Harless Baboons?” Okon asked.
“Because we can't stop them.” Degel replied.
“The barracks are over there.” Dumplin said pointing. “Find your squad leader.”
“I'll meet you in the dining hall dearest.” Lolor said with a kiss before heading off to train.
“It's a shame we can't work together.” Okon said. “We used to work in the same shop in the city.”
Dumplin stared at Degel for an inordinate amount of time before a spark took root in his brain with a big idiotic smile.
“Well if you'd like to join my squad we could arrange it so you train at the same time.”
“Well that would be fantastic Mr. -Er Captain Degel.”
“Excellent!” Degel clapped excitedly. “Find some armor and I'll fetch you when it's time to train, I was worried we'd never fill out the squad.”
“Oh?” Okon asked.
“Well one of our members was killed in a training accident that hospitalized me and got one of us arrested then Athel was stabbed to death.”
“Oh.”
“Maybe if I can find another migrant who hasn't heard those rumors yet we can fill out the squad before the day is out!”
“About those rumors-”
“Well I don't fondle elves I just think their marital bonds are sort of neat I don't think like about marrying an elf, like meeting one of the traders and running away together.”
“That's a specific thing to not think about.”
“Well that proves the rumors aren't true. Now I have to go see if Iral will let me back in the barracks.” Degel concluded.
“I may have made a poor decision.” Okon said.
“Several.” Dumplin replied.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Baffler on January 05, 2014, 10:37:58 pm

I don't check this board for a couple of days, and look what happened! Glad to see this moving along.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on January 10, 2014, 05:08:20 pm

“What exactly do the Hairless Baboons do?” Okon had followed Dumplin to the stockpiles for a wheelbarrow and begun the descent to the caverns.
“Die horribly.” Dumplin replied.

Okon plotted his response briefly. “Well what are we supposed to do?”

“Die horribly and slowly.” Dumplin replied. “Keeps the siegers busy.” She explained.

“Well, what aside from dying are we supposed to do?”

“Patrol, man the guard towers, train, and suffer grievous injury.”

The strata was changing colors during their descent, Okon had no way of knowing but Dumplin knew exactly how many flights of stairs were left. As the stairs became more irregular and the landings took on more irregular shapes the staircase grew bereft of the masterful craftsmanship and care that was woven into each of the more important facets of the fortress. The sudden lack of interest in quality marked the approach to the caverns.

“Well do we see combat?” Okon asked.

“That would be one source of grievous injury and horrible death.” Dumplin replied.

“If, hypothetically, someone decided to leave the militia how would they go about doing that?”

“Well they could die horribly-”

“Just assume this hypothetical person has no interest in horrible death.”

“Then they could be grievously injured and provided they didn't die horribly they would be expelled from the militia.”

“How grievously would they have to be injured?”

“Enough to die horribly,” Dumplin clarified.

“You know the stories about Arrowstockades don't mention much horrible death.”

“I know,” Dumplin replied. “It's a horrible oversight.”

The stairs finally let out into a small room and Dumplin pushed open the doors breaking the seal between the grand staircase from the caverns. Okon looked out in awe at the glimmering mineral formations, faintly luminous mushrooms, and still waters of the caverns. Dumplin walked forward unaffected to a mound of raw silver and waste stone giving it a pat.

“Load the wheelbarrow and take it up the stairs.”

Okon looked towards the staircase, wheelbarrow, and stone all in turn before uttering a bemused, “Pardon?”

Title: Re: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: ShadowHammer on January 10, 2014, 06:41:58 pm

Does it make me a horrible person if I found that discussion centered on horrible death completely hilarious?

Title: Re: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on January 10, 2014, 09:32:08 pm

Quote from: ShadowHammer on January 10, 2014, 06:41:58 pm

Does it make me a horrible person if I found that discussion centered on horrible death completely hilarious?

Yes but it makes you an excellent Df player.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Meme on January 12, 2014, 12:34:15 am

Well that was hilarious, can't wait for more! I'm so happy that this hasn't stopped!

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: Timeless Bob on January 12, 2014, 07:38:25 pm

Circular logic? In DF? Never!

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Updates M/W/F)
Post by: CaptainLambcake on February 07, 2014, 05:05:12 pm

i miss this and likot soapeater

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on February 28, 2014, 04:43:21 pm

Dumplin ,having a wealth of knowledge on the long and miserable journey up the stairs, could have told Okon exactly how to expedite the process but she simply couldn't muster up enough concern to care. Instead Dumplin chose to alternate between looking at her shoes and Obok ,who she'd all but forgotten had an eternal seat perched upon her. She mused for a bit on how completely unobtrusive a dwarven baby was and after poking him to ensure he was alive turned her attention back to Okon.
   He was still struggling impotently on the first step having made it as far as the third before sliding back down. Dumplin busied herself staring at walls and various mosses and making rough estimates of how long it would take the miners to deplete the new vein. Following that she thought of the average miners speed , how long it took a garbage dwarf to haul away large boulders, and how quickly a mason could smooth and engrave one square urist to calculate how long each part of the fortress had taken to construct.
   “Dumplin,” Okon finally said defeatedly. “I can't get up the stairs.”

“If you can't they'll make you live down here.” Dumplin said pointing towards the cavern dwarves. She did not bother to note his expression or listen to his horrified response.She had no real interest in another warm body to feed the evil machine that was Arrowstockades. Eventually Okon began rising slowly and steadily towards the fortress and his inevitable death.
   “They should put in a ramp.” Okon said heavily. “One with landings every so often. Let the miners use the staircase and the haulers use the ramp.”
She thought wistfully about how she'd tried to fix the fortress once. There was something outstandingly liberating about experience, about understanding the futility of certain paths and knowing not to walk them. Instead of paying attention to him she listened for the faint but rapid strikes of picks far above them. She'd noticed it some time ago and had realized the mausoleum was being expanded.
    It did not escape her that she could tell Okon just how horrible everything was, explain how hopelessly and needlessly every facet of the fortress was. How this bastard oasis deceived the world, how the mountainhome was built on blood and death. How miserably worthless a single dwarven cog was to the monolithic machine. How every moment of peace was heavy with the realization the enemy was about to strike. She could have told him to run from the never ending sieges and a lifetime of hard labor and and from an ignominious death. She could have warned him to disappear into the black deep forests where the wound in the was perpetually growing to house more dwarven dead. Even if she cared about the poor fool carelessly wandering into the spiders web he would ignore her.
   Had their roles been reversed she would have ignored him, there is no more dire a failing of the dwarven language then that it cannot adequately express the horrors of Arrowstockades. It convinced you time and time again that things could get better leaving a spark of hope just bright enough to encourage you to descend deeper and deeper into the stygian depths and when it finally had you body and soul it snuffed that light out and put you in a stone box in a long corridor. It nailed you down to a sickly husband and a newborn child and a band of idiots who without your guidance would surely die and by the time you stopped caring about any of them you had lost the will to run.
   Okon turned his wheelbarrow over to the furnace operators and collapsed in a heap. His right foot bulged out of his shoe in an unseemly fashion, likely broken when he vainly tried to catch himself sliding downward. After the miserable trek even breathing was unpleasant and chest became reluctant to rise after it fell but eventually he found his feet and Dumplin escorted him to the dining hall. There he and his foolish wife would discuss training accidents and long falls and cave ins and the overpowering smell of burning carcasses but they would talk one another out of leaving and then they would die.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: darkflagrance on March 24, 2014, 08:55:48 am

Is this the end? I only just discovered this story and greatly enjoyed reading it. :D :D Frankly, I am astounded her son didn't die. That should give her some hope still?

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on March 25, 2014, 01:29:50 pm

Quote from: darkflagrance on March 24, 2014, 08:55:48 am

Is this the end? I only just discovered this story and greatly enjoyed reading it. :D :D Frankly, I am astounded her son didn't die. That should give her some hope still?

School is crazy. I know exactly how the story is going to end and it's not ending until it's done.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: laxori666 on March 25, 2014, 05:56:04 pm

Awesome! I hadn't read this stuff since last year in June and was so happy to see all these updates. This is me lavishing praise on Broseph Stalin so that I might further encourage him to finish it up =). I admire your perseverance and determination.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: ShadowHammer on March 26, 2014, 10:43:13 pm

Quote from: laxori666 on March 25, 2014, 05:56:04 pm

Awesome! I hadn't read this stuff since last year in June and was so happy to see all these updates. This is me lavishing praise on Broseph Stalin so that I might further encourage him to finish it up =). I admire your perseverance and determination.

My thoughts exactly, except without the haven't read since June part.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: TheFlame52 on March 27, 2014, 06:23:02 pm

Awesome, ptw.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 07, 2014, 07:01:06 pm

A thick layer of morning fog blanketed the valley as it tended to in the rainier months. The fortress was at it's usual frenzied pace but outside the walls there was an almost sacred stillness. The tall, ancient boughs stretched towards infinity, their leafy tops imperceptible through the dense mist. The sun had begun to rise and a relaxed- almost lazy- gray haze hung over the world. The silence was interrupted periodically by the scuffling of a pebble knocked across the ground or a twig snapping under dwarven boots.
   Okon and Lolor spent their first month in Arrowstockades suffering all of it's trials and indignities. Soon they found themselves clad in the magnificent, ornate, filth covered regalia common to the inhabitants of the fortress and had begun settling into the daily grind. Okon was presently assigned to accompany Dumplin on patrol while Lolor was off hauling wood.

“This fortress isn't what I was expecting,” Okon said. “All they ever talk about is how great Arrowstockades is, I never heard about any burning corpses or tallow cakes or the constant threat of violent death. And the work! In the city we work regular hours instead of constant backbreaking work for days on end and then going days just wandering around. Sure there's always the risk of vampires or night creatures but we never worried about invading armies attacking twice season. Plus, I can't help but feel people are much more comfortable about the acceptable amount of body fluids coating your belongings. There's vomit and blood everywhere and nobody seems to do anything about it. I don't know how you stand it.”

“You stop caring.”

“Well I guess I'm getting acclimated to the smell but-”

“No, you stop caring about everything. You stop thinking about your hopes and dreams and aspirations. You reset your expectations. You stop feeling entitled to a room to sleep in, or a moments rest, or any sort of fulfillment, and you get accustomed to burying your friends. You make sure you get your two servings of ale and a solid meal and as long as you aren't dying or killing anyone you accept that as fine. You accept that you can't fix anything, that you can't help anyone, that you can only scrape by just slightly closer to life than death. Your acceptable life expectancy drops from 150 years to 5 years after migrating. The madness gets to you and you stop worrying about 'normal' or 'fair.' And then you accept that one day this fortress is going to fall in a spectacle of violence and fear and there will be no survivors. You understand that this hauling, crafting, fighting, and surviving is just a stupid overly complicated game we're waiting to lose and nothing that happens in between matters. This fortress and everyone and everything in it are completely-!”
   Dumplin paused suddenly. She turned cautiously and turned towards the forest. She plumbed the milky haze with her sharp eyes and held her crossbow at the ready. An almost imperceptible sound was drawing nearer. Okon's ears hadn't picked it up but he'd picked up the hint and was at the ready. What came next was the smell, the foul odor of death that immediately preceded a howl of dwarven terror.
   Avuz Gravetorch joined the fortress twenty two years ago and had through luck and cunning survived in the militia fifteen of those years rising to the rank of sergeant of the First Archers. He escaped countless foes and six enemies of the fortress had found death by his steady hand. He had buried no fewer than eighteen dwarves who called themselves his friends. He knew well the nature of life and death in Arrowstockades. And so Dumplin did not need to see what he'd seen she needed only to hear the fear in that dwarf's cracking voice when he cried “the dead walk!” She broke into a dead run towards the fortress with Okon following close behind.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Iamblichos on April 08, 2014, 02:38:36 pm

THIS. Loving this story :)

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Thormgrim on April 09, 2014, 02:48:35 pm

if Okon is a true dwarf he won't run into the forest, he'll run off into the woods in some random pattern.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: MerkerBenson on April 10, 2014, 04:19:04 pm

Awesomeness, just read the latest chapter, and all I can say is....MOAH!!! :D

Cheers

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 10, 2014, 05:25:52 pm

Something was deeply and profoundly wrong. Dumplin found herself stumbling, her eyes coming unfocused, her footfalls becoming uneven her body bumping into trees and her crossbow shaking wildly in her hands. She had survived roughly two ambushes and a siege per year with up to a dozen attempted assassinations, abductions, and burglaries in between. This was wrong.
   'This is different' something inside her said. 'you should be frightened' it warned. And so she did not turn back while she ran, she did not investigate the sounds of horror, she did not question the wails of pain or the gnashing of teeth. She and Okon deftly dodged trees and roots and boulders navigating the perilous forest keeping the smell of rotting flesh and the sound of shambling footfalls just a little bit behind them. Occasionally their path would be clear and the horrible sounds and the horrible smells would grow distant but other times the forest would grow dense and Dumplin could sense undead hands preparing to snatch her by the neck should she fall another step behind.
   The mist made it difficult to navigate but both dwarves understood the general direction of the fortress in relation to their starting position.
   Their advance on the fortress was painfully slow, bushes grew unimpeded and trees existed close together. The relentless push forward decorated her face with shallow scratches from the thick brush carving her exposed flesh.
   Her heart stopped as a sharp impact struck her in the side and she went tumbling to the ground. She feared the worst for a fraction of a second before a woodcutter blew past her with terror in his face and tore off towrads the fortress unencumbered by heavy armor. The impact was harmless on it's own but as Okon disappeared into the forest she realized the gravity of the situation.

Pwap!
There was something fantastically recognizable about the sound of a boot sinking into the mud.
Pwap!
The impenetrable fog masked the hellish advance of the unspeakable evil.
Pwap!
Dumplin struggled to find her feet but the earth slid from beneath her.
Pwap!
Scarcely visible shadows were beginning to form within the mist.
Pwap!
The crossbow found her hand by sheer instinct and without a thought the weapon kicked and it's payload cut through the fog.
Thunk! Plop!
The foe was still over thirty feet away and only now were man-like shapes beginning to solidify. A hellish panic beset her as she recognized the sound of mud shifting. There had been no cry of pain, no trepidation in the push forward, no indication of harm save for the sound of a heavy body striking the ground and even now she could tell that it was rising once more.
   As the horrifying shapes began to develop features through the fog Dumplin struggled to find her breath as her heart thumped in her ears. She suppressed a scream as the monstrosities fell on her.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: TheFlame52 on April 10, 2014, 06:44:50 pm

ohshitpleasegetamartialtrancedontdie

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on April 16, 2014, 05:39:36 pm

Dumplin gazed in terror at the abominations descending on her. Even with them clear of the impenetrable fog she couldn't interpret their appearance. The decidedly wrong look of dead and decaying flesh compelled to move by blasphemous magic defied description. The nightmarish sound of undead groans began to rise to a deafening pitch. Her paralyzed state was broken by the sudden sensation of motion. The angry dead were already fading into the mist as she was pulled across the ground.
Stand
Was the first rational thought to enter her mind and she obeyed rolling on her stomach, driving a foot into the ground, and rising straight up. She ran in the general direction of safety and was loosely cognizant of the terrifying screams of dwarves who were not so fleet of foot and the dread wails of the undead. Only now as her body adjusted to immediate agonizing death being downgraded from certainty to a probability. As her mind returned to quasi-normal operation she could began to interpret the shouting.

“That was close!” Okon was speaking in some horrible mongrel mix of shrieking and whispering. “I looked around and you were gone! What the hell is going on!?”

“Get to the fortress.” Dumplin said levelly. “They're going to shut the gates.”

“Armok's blood we'll be torn apart!”

They tore through the underbrush with new found vigor until the canopy grew thinner and the stumps more frequent. Soon the last of the trees was behind them and they existed in a perfect bubble. Surrounded by featureless grass and their field of vision reduced to a radius of about thirty feet speed, direction, and the passage of time were strictly academic concepts. Eventually the great wooden walls appeared at the edge of the mist and grew more defined. She immediately recognized the featureless shape standing sentinel in front of the entrance as the wraith Cerol.

At the entrance twenty dwarves lapped in quasi indestructible cyan armor. At their head stood the most wicked weapon master of dwarven kind speaking grimly to the bastard task master of Arrowstockades. The hollow eyed full face helmet of Cerol did not shift to acknowledge them but a deep green eye flicked towards them in acknowledgment.

“Join the others in the staging area you two” Feb said. Dumplin recognized an uncharacteristic nervousness about him that Okon likely hadn't.

   The chill voice of Cerol seeped out into the air as they entered the fortress.

“Are we prepared to seal off the fortress?” The terrible figure faced the forest his massive blade penetrating the ground and his hands resting atop the pommel.

   “Most are safe,” Feb flipped back and forth through a booklet of ratty parchment. “A few are lost I think. Two woodcutters, and four herbalists are still out there. Ashmon was already inside but he ran out screaming about the undead.”
The monstrosity paused before speaking in dread low tones. “If he's the warrior you believe he is he will not require saving. If he isn't then he's unworthy of it.”

The sentence knocked the air out of Dumplin's chest.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: TheFlame52 on April 16, 2014, 05:57:49 pm

Wooo, no immediate death!

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on May 19, 2014, 08:39:42 am

Dumplin suppressed the emotion building in her chest. The trees of the forest still shivered and rustled with unlife as the rotting monstrosities infested the woods. The fortress took everyone eventually and if today was the day that it called for Ashmon's blood she could not save him. She could not save Vakun, she could not save Tath, and she certainly couldn't save Ashmon. The very idea of “saving” someone doomed to die of some other unspeakable horror in the halls of Arrowstockades was foolish. It made no sense, it was just not possible to do any good for any dwarf in Arrowstockades. Besides, Dumplin's heart was hard now and she no longer felt sadness at the loss of her friends, anger at the fortress, or fearful about what the future held. She didn't care about anything anymore, she didn't care about Ashmon or Asen or Okon or Obok or the Baboons.

So why did it hurt? Why was it so miserably and agonizingly painful to think of Ashmon alone, terrified and confused running through the woods? Why did she feel ill when she remembered the happy, goofy, nudist who welcomed her to Arrowstockades? Why was she blocking the image of Ashmon as a mangled living corpse turned against his own home? Why did it completely deplete her reserves of mental strength to stop herself from seizing Cerol by the neck and demanding he do something to save the loyal soldier? Why did she hate herself as she kept walking?

Feb continued to hold court with Cerol. “We also have two of Kilrud's brigade are still out there-”

“Kilrud Coldabyss?” Okon turned instantly and stepped towards the Wraith.

Cerol did not turn but Feb faced Okon with a scowl. “Get to the staging area Cluttercraze.”

“Who is missing from Kilrud Coldabyss' squad?”

“Report to the staging area!” Feb snarled.

“Is Lolor Siltlock still in the forest!?” Okon's hand tightened around his crossbow and he began to hold it at the ready.

Feb's sword leapt to his hand. “Cluttercraze I will I will cut your bastard head off if you don't put that damned thing down!”

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on May 23, 2014, 09:30:48 pm

“Where's my wife!?” The scream echoed throughout the fortress.

“Gone.” The high cold voice was soft but carried effortlessly to every listening ear. He turned towards Okon. “By now they've torn her apart and her body stands among her ranks coming to destroy this fortress. You've already failed her, do not fail the rest of us. Go to the staging area recruit.”

“Look!” Okon pointed towards the mist. “They were right behind us on the way here, if they aren't at the gates now it means they must have stopped! They're waiting, we don't need to close the gate- not yet. Please, Commander, please help me find my wife.”

Cerol didn't acknowledge him.

“Risk ten to save one?” Feb answered for him. “Win enough battles like that and the fortress'll collapse.”

“I am not leaving her out there!” Okon's frantic wild eyes darted around searching for some fragment of hope in the faces of the assembled squad. He searched the angry eyes of Feb, the empty eyes of Cerol, and finally stopped on the broken pain wracked eyes of Dumplin. “Dumplin, you have to tell them, we can find her and get back before they reach the walls! Ashmon's out there for Gods' sake!”

Dumplin fondly remembered the feeling of a knife piercing her stomach as tremors wracked her body and she became physically ill. Everything in her demanded she lay Obok down inside the gates and follow Okon to battle. Everything she remembered about the other world, about good and right, about loyalty and friendship required her to go. Anyone anywhere except for a miserable twisted soul from this miserable twisted pocket of the world would have gone without question.

“It's too late Okon.” Some soulless monster spoke in Dumplin's voice. “Anyone whose still out there is dead. We have to go to the staging area.”

“There's no more time,” Cerol said. “Pull the lever.”

“Puuullll the leverrrr!” Feb bellowed.

“Pull the lever!” A sentry cried.

“Pull the lever!” A guardsman called.

The cry jumped from dwarf to dwarf and was carried into the bowels of the fortress. Cerol and the army passed through the great aperture as mechanisms groaned and clicked. Dumplin and Okon made eye contact until the great bridge rose between them.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Meph on May 23, 2014, 11:41:49 pm

Yeah,.Updates. :)

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 02, 2014, 09:16:39 am

The entrance to the fortress was a great vestibule where the great gate and inner doors separated the fortress from the Trade Depot and the Trade Depot from the wilderness. In this separate lock the armies of Arrowstockades prepared for war. It took quite some time for every military dwarf to be woken, pulled from their jobs, armed, armored, and made battle ready and like an incomplete bridge an incomplete army was of no practical value. The difference between decisive victory and utter massacre may rest on whether or not two or three dwarves dawdled picking up their swords. This was the deadly flaw of the Dwarven Military. The time it took to mobilize an effective force meant certain death for anyone outside the walls and offered horrible pensive minutes to any guilt wracked dwarf.

   Dumplin was no stranger to combat, over the years she had seen countless battles but this was far different. This battle was uniquely horrible for three reasons. First, the undead legions of the Bastard Spire had never attempted to make the long journey south. The denizens of that blighted tower had always existed more as a myth than a salient threat to Arrowstockades and their presence here meant that their raids had exhausted the available supply of living bodies in the north. Second this was the first time Dumplin or the Baboons were not slated to enjoy the fighting from the battlements but to enter the fray themselves. Third, this was the first battle where Dumplin sincerely regretted that she presently stood on the safe side of the walls.

   She had abandoned Ashmon to the undead legions and when the newcomer Okon had dared to think heroically she attempted to dissuade him. It was clear to her that she belonged outside skulking through the corpse-haunted forests hunting for Ashmon and Lolor, that in the best of all possible worlds when duty called Dumplin Lakewanders had not shunned it. But in the best of all possible worlds there was no Arrowstockades.

   The land of fear and misery where Dumplin had the pleasure of residing was governed by simple rules and chief among them was the hopelessness of resisting fate. Lolor and Ashmon were dead the moment she fell behind and Okon was dead the moment he left the safety of the fortress. Had Dumplin followed there would be no heroic battle, simply four slabs engraved instead of two. None of this gave her comfort. No simple truths or rationalizations could make her whole. When Cerol was satisfied at the number of Dwarven Militamen he became animate once more and rallied he began to speak.

“The enemy has ceased to advance. They remain outside range of our sharpshooters and artillery. To drive them from our home a direct military engagement is necessary. We will push into the forest and purge the undead down to the last. There is a necromancer among their ranks and until he is killed, the fallen of both sides will rise to join or rejoin the invaders.” Dumplin spent a moment considering how an army of dwarves shivering in their armor made a very strange noise.

“The undead are exceptionally susceptible to crossbow bolts. The infantry will create a line of defense between the invaders and the marksdwarves who will claim the majority of the killing. It is a terrible thing to be attacked by the undead and the weak among you will break. It is pointless and dishonest to tell you to be unafraid, I will instead warn you that there is no possibility that fleeing will help your chances of survival. Steel yourselves now. Pull the lever.”

   “Pull the lever!”

   “Pull the lever!”

   “Pull the lever!”

   The cry traveled around the fortress again until mechanisms once more groaned and the drawbridge fell with a deafening crash and there was a sudden rush of sweet morning air tainted by the smell of death. The army advanced with the marksdwarves safely insulated behind a barrier of dwarven might their commander Cerol Sabershaft leading the charge with his peerless iridium blade. In the distance a black legion of boundless terror rallied under the flag of the Necromancer General Kopoh Torturedrest and his black powers gifted from the ageless slab of pure fire Hate Ever Onward. The denizens of the fortress and the gods themselves looked on in fear as the two deadly forces prepared to meet.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: neblime on July 03, 2014, 09:28:34 am

HOORAY for an update!
Don't stop

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 10, 2014, 12:54:38 pm

    Nearly one hundred Dwarves at a dead run made up the military push approaching the forest's edge. Were there a benevolent god watching down on the fortress the morning fog would still hang thick but now all lines of sight were clear and all eyes were free to observe the trees spring to horrid, wormy life. The boughs and branches quivered and became unnaturally animate as an undead mob spilled onto the clear-cut plains.
   “Hold position!” Cried Cerol. “Infantry, protect the archers!”
   The huddled mass of sharpshooters fired outward often scarcely missing their protectors in an effort to cease the relentless advance of the rotting horde. Screams of exertion, horror, and insatiable hunger filled the air as the wave of festering legions collided with a wall of dwarven shields. Blades, hammers, maces, spears, and axe heads all lashed out with deadly intent crushing bones, severing limbs and impaling the inexpert but tenacious opposing army. As those frightful creatures were held off balance by the infantrymen crossbow bolts peppered them quickly thinning their numbers. In the earliest moments of the engagement the dwarven defenders held the clear advantage and eagerly decimating the first wave with the defenders suffering sparse and minor injury.
   But the ghastly tremors of the forest did not cease and the flow of animate, decomposing warriors quickened. Soon every fallen abomination was replaced by two more of his kind and they charged with nightmarish persistence towards the defenders. The warriors of Arrowstockades were the fiercest of Dwarven kind but even the greatest of their ranks could not boast indefatigability in the face of mortal combat. As the defenders grew slower and their attacks less precise the blighted strikes of the unliving began to find purchase.
   Cries of pain rang out as the first defenders began to fall. Fueled by unspeakable magics the undead possessed seemingly infinite strength and even dwarven armor buckled under their blows. When the hard shell of the defenders held out rotten hands grasped at limbs and began twisting, pulling, bending and otherwise mangling their quarry. The most expert fighters did their part to protect the wounded but a black chill suddenly tainted the air and the twice dead invaders began to rise again. Bodies were quickly torn apart, their armor largely ignored and even the most expert combatants could not hold off for long. Soon the spark of undeath found the very warriors who had come to resist the invasion. The forces of Arrowstockades had begun to turn against themselves.
   The battlefield soon grew slick with fresh blood and vomit as both sides faced massacre. The trees were decorated with undead limbs and offal some of which would occasionally be compelled by an unseen gesture to rejoin the fray. The mutilated dwarven dead began to pile up in greater and greater numbers. The armies of Arrowstockades were the most fearsome on the planet and their commander known and feared the world over. Law-Givers, princes, and even demons claiming to be gods had come to Arrowstockades in an attempt to wrest control from it's Dwarven masters and they had all found their end burned to ash and turned into brilliant glass gems.
   But the dread necromancer Kopoh Torturedrest had been a general in a forgotten age and his knowledge had not been diminished by the gulf of ages. His conquest of the northern regions had been unrelenting and precise. His forces had grown to unimaginable strength and no elven, human, or dwarven army had posed any real resistance. So long as he controlled it the attackers were truly unstoppable.
   “First Infantry!” Echoed the voice of Cerol. “On me, we hunt the necromancer!”
The sight of their comrades being slaughtered, the seemingly infinite scope of the dark army, and their commander departing shattered morale. Without their dark master the soldiers of Arrowstockades collapsed into anarchy soldiers and captains cried out issuing conflicting orders to the headless army.
“Break rank!”
“Scatter or we're all doomed!”
“Hold the line!”
“Back to the gates!”
“Every dwarf for himself!”

The once rigid phalanx was instantly reduced to a cloud of scattering dwarven particulate as the squads were torn between fighting on, fleeing, attempting to return to the fortress, and in the case of the baboons staring in horror at the charging undead army.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: jagar on July 16, 2014, 05:24:44 am

ptw. This story is of the highest quality.
I'm totally willing to help edit the final product, starting whenever.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 16, 2014, 12:00:26 pm

Quote from: jagar on July 16, 2014, 05:24:44 am

ptw. This story is of the highest quality.
I'm totally willing to help edit the final product, starting whenever.

Right now I'm sure there are typos and misattributed names everywhere that have already survived multiple read throughs by me. If you could point any out I'd really appreciate it.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Iamblichos on July 16, 2014, 01:14:09 pm

Dang it! You're only allowed to post in your own thread with an update! j/k

Love this story.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 16, 2014, 02:09:12 pm

The fiercest dwarves held their ground and with unparalleled skill dodged blocked and parried incoming strikes but the bulk of the force could manage no such feats and were forced to flee in increasing numbers. Just as the baboons prepared to scatter a command was barked in a sharp clear voice.

   “Baboons!” She didn't dare turn her back on the undead to see the speaker “There's a hill just south of here! Stodir, Iral, Angzak take the front!”

   The three most melee proficient baboons rushed to hold off the attackers while the others walked backwards firing opportunistically to cover their organized retreat. Most of the undead joined in the wave attacks against the most expert infantrymen but a few broke off from the main group to hunt the fleeing dwarves or attempt to stop Cerol's assault on their dark master. Even so their vast numbers forced Dumplin to lash out with the butt of her crossbow no fewer than seven times to parry a strike or stagger a shambling corpse.

   The battlefield rapidly degenerated from disorganized to absolute anarchy. The rigid mass that had approached the forest was gone and now replaced by small clusters of dwarves trapped in deadly combat with multiple undead. Dumplin struggled to focus on the approaching enemies and disregarding the others to avoid meeting eyes with the lone, injured dwarves crying out for aid.

   Cerol or Feb or any of their squads could have stepped in easily, a Dwarven Axelord in full armor had the power to save a life on the battlefield but the time it took to reload a crossbow meant death if they dared to engage the enemy before they reached their defensible position. The group found their high ground in a plateau bordered on three sides by lower ground and on one by the river. Avoiding a fight on two fronts was their only hope for survival.

   “Dumplin, Inod, Tath, take the east, Bim join me on the west side!” The commanding voice came again. Though still entirely alien it must by process of elimination be Degel's. Though the idea of the elf-fondling flower picker as a rock in this particular tempest was strange no brilliant strategies came to her mind. Resigned to death one way or another she scrabbled up the hill to her assigned station with the undead nipping at her heels.

Dumplin looked across the clear cut field and saw the group of attacking undead being reinforced by seemingly infinite legions of invaders and former warriors. Far behind her in the distance the great drawbridge remained tightly. Were her escape not blocked on one side by an army of relentless abominations and the other by a river deep and wide there was still no hope of finding safety. Dumplin contemplated the situation and decided falling on a cursed hill in a hopeless last stand against the infinite armies of darkness did not make a terrible end for a story.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on July 16, 2014, 02:10:13 pm

Quote from: Iamblichos on July 16, 2014, 01:14:09 pm

Dang it! You're only allowed to post in your own thread with an update! j/k

Love this story.

Let me make it up to you.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 29, 2014, 10:27:16 am

   The creatures were savage and undisciplined in their attacks, it was rather easy to push them away with stiff kicks while loading another bolt. Instead of being slaughtered as they were destined on the plains the Baboons succeeded in preserving their lives longer than many of their dwarven brethren. Unstoppable and inexhaustible the horrors struck in growing waves of force

   The superior position and tactics were enough to hold back the horrible hands grasping and striking hungry for dwarven blood. But like their brothers on the blighted plain the Baboons did not have the energy to maintain the stalemate for very long. The monstrosities did not slow in their attack but the defenders quickly tired. Tath gave out a yell as her leg was caught and she was pulled, skidding down the hillside. Iral without warning dove into his boot and jumped into the fray, colliding with the zombie grabbing Tath and giving Degel the chance to pull her free.

   Quickly, Iral was set upon by the undead. His armor crushed and dented with grasping hands and biting teeth all searching for his vital organs. There came a wild howl of pain and fury spoken in wholly undwarven, blasphemous, and vaguely mocking tones as the warrior spat ancient curses even with the creatures beginning to mangle his body. Dumplin scarcely recognized the object in his hand until it sank into a rotten belly and the exploding bolt detonated.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on August 29, 2014, 10:33:06 am

Sorry about the length I stopped the previous update at a stupid place.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Baffler on August 29, 2014, 10:19:29 pm

Dumplin lives! But Iral doesn't :(

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: fourpotatoes on August 30, 2014, 12:50:39 pm

We know they're all going to meet a bad end. The only question is how and when.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the Worrld
Post by: Broseph Stalin on October 29, 2014, 04:37:42 pm

   In a flash the cannibal soapmaker of Arrowstockades was incinerated and the fire quickly spread to the mob and out into the field. The burning attackers fell more easily and more definitively. Iral's sacrifice began to turn the tables and the enemies of Arrowstockades began to thin. The flames burned with horrible intensity swallowing up the attackers and reducing them to piles of inanimate scorched bones.
    Just as it appeared the Baboons would have victory a fiery claw lashed out as the angry, vengeful, horde began a desperate effort to scramble up the hillside. The flames wreathing their sizzling hands touched the dry grass and ,curiously at first, began to spread. The exploratory advance of the roaring inferno quickly became more aggressive and even as crossbow bolts peppered the attackers the Baboons were driven further and further back eventually coming flush against the cliffside.
   The cries for Degel's next orders were overtaken by the monstrous drone of the fire swallowing up the land and the baleful screams of the fiery dead. In a flash a burning figure whose flesh had come unseated by the intense heat exploded from the blaze and swung a terrible skeletal claw towards Dumplin. She quickly sidestepped but found with horror that her lead foot hung hopelessly in the air for a moment before her body fell, careening down into the chasm and river.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Baffler on October 30, 2014, 01:55:02 pm

D:

At least Dumplin (probably) won't become a zombie.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on November 13, 2014, 08:20:49 pm

Dumplin maintained the consciousness necessary to place her body between Obok and the river before she collided with the water rather inelegantly. It was a horrible struggle to reach the surface and twice as hard trying to keep Obok above the water line as well. There were a few tense seconds of terror before she got the hang of treading water in full mail and stabilized somewhat. She managed to strap her crossbow back to her back and free one hand to help stay afloat.

   A quick analysis of the situation found it to be as optimistic as any available in Arrowstockades. Her experience with armor allowed her a range of flexibility only slightly much much worse than she normally enjoyed. Further the light weight of the armor encumbered her only very very badly. Luckily she was substantially better at swimming than a person that had already drowned. Her plate armor filled with water making her less buoyant and had an unpleasant tendency to drag. Fortunately she was distracted from this unpleasantness by the fact that even a momentary breach in her concentration would mean either her head or Obok's would sink beneath the water and this also meant she had only one hand to stabilize with.

   The waterfall created a deep area of water that was not as viciously paced as some other points in the river. Great walls of stone and earth towered four urists above her on three sides. Dumplin was no climber. She had innumerable trips up and down the Grand Staircase and it built muscle but climbing was a matter of dexterity, it was why a cat could climb as well as a dwarf of legendary skill and an ox could looks spectacularly silly a few moments before it exploded into fragments. Dumplin imagined she could not climb the walls even if the walls were dry, she had not spent the entire day running and fighting, and she was not wearing armor.

   While the water here was fairly slow paced it picked up steam very quickly and if she entered a swift patch there was no possibility she would be able to escape the current until it slowed down again. It was possible that it would be a short way downstream or a short way downstream from the place where she would drown. Fortunately Dumplin formed a brilliant plan.

   It was a miserable struggle but Dumplin managed to fight her way to the side and establish a shaky grasp on a damp , rocky, handhold. It still took considerable concentration to keep her grip on the wall to stay steady, kick against it to stay stable, and keep Obok safe from harm. So went Dumplin's brilliant plan. She was now delaying being dragged down river and still had no way of escaping. A secondary evaluation was equally sunny.

   Dumplin's grip on a bit of smooth damp stone was the only thing keeping her from being pulled into the raging river and swept away to almost certain death. Better still her physical and mental reserves were completely depleted by the events of the day. However in an unheard of blessing her current manner of certain death (drowning/smashed by rapids while drowning) was better than her previous manner of certain death (ripped apart by animate corpses and turned into a unliving monstrosity).

   Just as things began looking up the first body hit the water.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Meme on November 13, 2014, 08:23:43 pm

My heart stopped when I saw this, I love this story and I'm so happy your hopefully going to continue it :D

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on November 13, 2014, 08:31:10 pm

The story will come to it's natural conclusion. I have everything plotted out. My schedule is a little chaotic and I'm incredibly irresponsible so I can't always set aside time to write. Even when I try to keep to a schedule I can't sit down and force myself to hammer something out. I tried it before and it just wasn't very good. The first fifty pages were written in a weekend and it was good because it was easy and it was natural. I'm working on getting back to the place where it's natural so I can make sure it's good and easy. Recently one of the big blocks is that I couldn't get into the story at it's current point because I was so focused on writing the rest of the story. I'm getting pretty close to where the story is now running into what I've already written and my muse is a little bit more in the moment so the writers block shouldn't be as bad.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: MDFification on November 15, 2014, 12:11:16 am

Quote from: Broseph Stalin on November 13, 2014, 08:31:10 pm

The story will come to it's natural conclusion.

So Obok and Dumplin will die excruciating deaths then.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Baffler on November 15, 2014, 02:34:10 pm

It is sad, but not unexpected. Still looking forward to it.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on November 19, 2014, 12:02:27 pm

Dumplin looked up to see the Baboons trying to climb down the cliff and escape fiery death. It would seem that being as skilled at climbing as a group of garbage dwarves in armor one of them had fallen. There was a moment of terrifying apprehension before a hairy dwarven head broke the surface and Stodir's confused face spun around spitting out water.

   One would not need to be particularly generous to say that Stodir fared much better than Dumplin. He was exceptionally strong, had no baby to protect, and the fact his descent was pre-planned his meant his crossbow was strapped to his back before he fell not hastilly while he was drowning. In that same vein, Stodir seemed to be much better at not drowning. It seemed almost as though Stodir was aware that water existed and had decided understanding how to deal with it was a worthwhile endeavor. He did not however seem to have Dumplin's situational awareness and struggled to remain in place rather than finding a side and grabbing on. Just as she began to educate him the second body hit the water.

   In an instant Stodir disappeared and moments later he appeared again with the sputtering Degel tucked under his arm. He kicked over to Dumplin and deposited the Dwarf on the wall beside her. Without another moment he pushed off the wall and swam back to the middle of the water and was staring up at the cliff face.

   “Ah” she realized. “He isn't being foolish he's concerned about other people's survival.”
It was a foolish comparison of course. Dumplin couldn't swim and she had Obok to worry about but she wasn't thinking about Degel as she thought it. She could have gone with Okon and she could have told the Baboons to follow. They would have still faced the horrors of an undead platoon but they would have done it on their terms not Cerol's and she wouldn't have the sinking feeling that she did not deserve to come back alive.

   The third body hit the water. Inod had held on reasonably well considering he had one hand but swam about as well as a one handed dwarf. Stodir dipped beneath the water again and again he escorted the waterlogged baboon to the wall.

   “Degel!” He sputtered. “You were right! My head was too heavy to swim up the waterfall.”

   Stodir swam back to the center of the deep pool and prepared for yet another baboon to fall. Inod had begun formulating theories and devising potential methods of breathing with his head inside the waterfall and free from the influence of gravity. Degel was not paying attention to either of them and was instead struggling to count his fingers while gripping the cliff face. It took a moment for the horrifying implications and her eyes snapped to the wall. Vakun was never replaced, Okon died searching for his wife, Iral died on the hill. There were seven living Hairless Baboons. There were four in the water. There were three unaccounted for.

There were over a dozen figures climbing down the wall.

It was then that the cliff face shifted and the next fifteen bodies hit the water.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on November 26, 2014, 05:42:42 pm

   Dumplin quickly found herself trying to rise above the waves precipitated by the rockslide. She incidentally missed much of the struggle that occurred. She did however catch a glimpse of the wild eyed Stodir dragging both Tath and Bim to the cliff face before disappearing again in an explosion of white water. She craned her neck to see the water bubble unnaturally as creatures with no fear of drowning began to teach themselves to swim. Almost as alarmingly Stodir was nowhere to be seen and neither was Angzak.

   The undead abominations began bobbing in the water like bits of rotten fruit, thrashing and writhing in monsterous fashions. Some of them made passable efforts to kick off the bottom and drift towards the baboons but generally came destabilized and fell back into helplessness. Some of them were nearly skeletal after the fire but some had the flesh necessary to gain some sort of buoyancy. Gradually the meatier among them began developing primitive rhythms and disturbing suggestions of intelligence. The creatures were becoming better and better at flailing and with nothing to lose they had plenty of room for trial and error. Neither Stodir nor Angzak had such good fortune.

   They were both (hopefully) very much living dwarves with (hopefully) very much functioning respiratory systems that should ideally not remain submerged underwater. She hadn't been counting the seconds since the rocks fell or since Stodir dropped off Tath and Bim but she understood that they needed to get back up very shortly. There was a brief scuffle as Degel passed over Dumplin and let out a loud yell.
“Get back!” He shouted driving his boot into a rotting face. The undead were refining their techniques and one of them had come within striking distance. This meant leaving behind Stodir and Angzak or rendering Iral's sacrifice pointless. This particular one seemed to be more lucky than skilled and successfully rebuked was not able to scramble back over to them. Degel's quick thinking meant they had a few more seconds to delay the inevitable. Angzak and Stodir were most likely swept downstream or ripped apart underwater and the survival of the squad demanded they be left behind.

   It was just as she decided on the necessity of abandoning a few more of the people depending on her trust that Stodir breached the surface with a mighty gasp. Angzak had an arm slung around his neck and helped very little with her own rescue.

“Take her!” He yelled sidling up to Degel. The dwarf changed hands and Dumplin came to notice a pale pink orange cloud eminating from Angzak. Her right greave was badly damaged and she looked incredibly pale. It occurred that the fall was quite impressive and while they were all armored, the odds of surviving it unscathed were in her estimation still only about 6/7.

   “No!” Her pensive state was interrupted by Stodir breaking off again to drive an armored fist into a nearly fleshless skull.
“Climb along the wall!” Stodir ordered. “Go, Quickly!”

   The Baboons desperately began to work their way downstream. There was horrible trepidation at first, the water raged very near to them and stable handholds were few and far between. Pure necessity convinced them to pick up the pace. Stodir stayed at the rear lashing out with dwarven fury, stunning, incapacitating, and even bringing rest to a few of the undead legion. As more and more of their number developed a passable understanding of swimming he faced a growing threat. It wasn't like the hillside. There were no real barriers between him and them and not only did he have to push them back he and he alone had to ensure they couldn't drift past and imperil the escaping squad.

   Dumplin groped at bare stone grasping at rocks, roots, nooks, and crannies. It was a slow advance but trying to hurry It could mean slipping. Slipping would breaking from the wall and being at the mercy of the current. Even if she kept her head above water there was always the chance she would be battered by rocks or lose her hold on Obok. Of course slowing down might see Stodir's defense prove insufficient. She looked back at the spectacle and saw Stodir bent into an unnatural position with two undead tangled in each arm and another having it's path obstructed by each leg. They struggled to bend or break his limbs and pierce his armor with their teeth but the powerful dwarf was so far succesful in fighting them back. Even in his occupied state he was able to kick at a few more attackers.

   “Stodir!” Degel cried. “Leave it! Break off, we can fight them together!”

   The Dwarf either didn't hear him or didn't agree with him because the mass of deadly combat did not shift. Another cry of “Stodir!” was interrupted when the root Tath hung onto came dislodged and took her body along with it. Without warning the woman's body became a cudgel and knocked loose every dwarf downriver of her.

   “Stodir!” Degel cried again as the battling shapes disappeared in the mist of the waterfall.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Theodolus on December 05, 2014, 05:52:05 pm

Welp, this is pretty much made of win. Glad to hear that you aren't giving up on it too Broseph.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Dozebôm Lolumzalìs on December 14, 2014, 10:14:20 am

Hooray! This isn't the end! This is still continuing!

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on December 19, 2014, 07:35:17 pm

There were a horrifyingly long minutes as the baboons bounced along the river suffering concussing blows as they caught rocks or either side of the canyon. Though it seemed to last forever the walls of the canyon became shorter and shorter and soon they came to rest at a bend in the river.

Degel was for a period very insistent that they go back upstream Bim put forward and Dumplin agreed that seeking out the threat Stodir saved them from would render his sacrifice pointless. Dejectedly Degel sat down on the mucky bank and took stock of the situation. Their squad had been nine strong at the start of the day but Okon had run to his death, Iral died on the cliff, Stodir had just drowned. They had lost more in a few hours than in the rest of their brief history combined. To make matters worse Angzak had been injured in the fall and the amount of blood leaking from her greaves suggested the leg had been badly mangled.

   “Find the gate.” Degel said staring at the wet clay. “Even if it's still closed there will be other soldiers there. I can help Angzak walk.” This area had never been cut and the trees grew to dizzying size and blocked out the sun. It was hard going for all but it was impossible for Degel who had to support half Angzak's weight, and ultimately they decided to follow the river until they were directly across from the fortress so they could avoid spending the worst of the journey with Degel desperately trying and failing to step around roots. The longer they were in the field the more likely it was they were to encounter yet another group of undead.

   It was a chore to walk silently across soft clay in full armor and waterlogged clothes but like all chores in Arrowstockades it was also completely pointless. Their excess weight meant that they sank very deep, sometimes near to the knee, in the muddy river muck. Awful grains of sand, dirt clods, and small stones found their way into their socks and made short work of rubbing the skin off their ankles. Dumplin knew that it would be infinitely easier and infinitely less blistery to step around roots than trod through muck but bringing Angzak along meant staying out of the trees as much as possible. Of course there was no reason to bring Angzak. Even if by some wild stretch of the imagination they encountered no more undead the hospital would overflow with wounded. She needed desperate and immediate help that the fortress had no real interest in giving her.

   Dumplin recognized this part of her. It was the one that tried to escape before Stodir rescued Angzak and the one that said “no” when Okon begged for her help. This was the horrible, cowardly, selfish part of her that Arrowstockades had nourished even while it ate away at everything else. She steeled herself and silenced the horrible, grating, voice even as the trees began to stir with blasphemous life. She drew her crossbow and joined the Baboons in arms as the next wave of undead prepared to attack.

   There was an overwhelming sense of joy as Dumplin laid eyes on the first non decaying face in recent memory. Instead of an endless army of unimaginable horror from the trees there came a smallish, furry, creature with the head and tail of a monkey. It had an odd round head and a round dark face with a slightly bulging slightly sad mouth. It was covered completely save it's hands, feet, and face with light gray fur. It carefully set down a few pieces of fruit and stared inquisitively at the newcomers with it's big brown eyes.
    Looking to the trees Dumplin saw she noticed a decidedly constructed look to a protrusion and deduced they had stumbled across a nest of Gray Langur men. A few furry faces previously content to adorn the trees quickly began descending and the Hairless Baboons were suddenly surrounded by primates of a more hirsute variety.
   They were all vaguely man shaped and covered in fur that was still slightly damp from the morning dew. Their furry bodies and furry arms were fairly thin and made their furry heads look rather large by comparison. The largest of their family were 2/3 the size of a dwarf and there was nothing particularly savage about them. They all seemed rather apprehensive and confused, it occurred to Dumplin that with the overwhelming danger of being away from the safety of the walls and how little there was of value this far off it was possible these creatures had never been so close to dwarves. In fact had they ever drawn near enough to be worth notice Ashmon certainly would have been dispatched to massacre them and anything they built would certainly be destroyed.
   One of the smaller Langur Men came forward and placed it's face very near Angzak and with an inquisitive fuzzy hand reached out and grasped her gauntlet. The creature tugged a bit in a primitive facsimile of a handshake. The horrors of the day seemed a bit more distant as the Baboons and the Langurs all watched curiously as the two groups made peaceful contact for the first time.
   The mood was shaken somewhat as the handshake became protracted and Angzak quickly became put out. What had started as a gentle tugging quickly devolved into a blatant attempt to claim the silvery armor piece for itself. Angzak gave the beast a push and it responded by opening it's mouth in a defensive yawn bearing it's massive teeth. Angzak's retort was to very quickly throw a stiff punch and sending the creature sprawling.
   There was a sudden explosion of violence as the animal men lunged all at once in pursuit of the newcomers treasures. The baboons fought back without mercy and the first volley of crossbow bolts left four of the creatures writhing in agony on the ground. The Langur men were undeterred and the uninjured ones fought without fear. Crossbow strikes, punches, kicks, and bites were all exchanged in a massive struggle.
   Dumplin had just knocked another bolt before one of the beasts had snatched up her quiver. The creatures clearly bore something resembling intelligence as they moved immediately to deprive the dwarves of the ability to reload. Dumplin struggled fearsomely and drove her metal clad fist into the beasts head until blood flowed freely from it's nose. She succeeded in creating a bit of distance between herself and the enemy and succeeded again in filling that distance with a crossbow jabbed right up against it's chin. In another moment an iron bolt entered the monsters skull and cleanly passed through the top of it's head.
   The struggle continued with bashing, biting, grasping, and cursing until the Langur Men found reinforcements. Degel was the first to appreciate the hopelessness of the situation and sound the retreat. The baboons moved as a unit, retreating and firing and whacking in different measure but they were quickly surrounded again. With Angzak wounded there was no hope of outrunning the mob. The squabble broke suddenly as a silvery gauntlet sailed through the air and hit the ground with a clatter. A pair of animal men broke off and greedily snatched up the piece of armor and after a brief squabble the winner gnawed at it curiously.
“Run!” ordered Angzak already stripping off her other gauntlet. “Get back to the fortress!”

   The baboons had come to recognize what defeat looked like and there was no hope of defeating so many langur men. They were exhausted and low on ammunition and they're numbers had already fallen to six. Very shortly that number would be five or zero. Dumplin suppressed the cries of “coward” echoing in her head and beat a speedy retreat while Angzak distracted the troop of Langur Men. Degel, Inod, Tath, Bim, and Dumplin fled into the forest as the five surviving members of the Hairless Baboons.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on January 02, 2015, 08:31:48 am

There was now a miserable walk in the forest that gave Dumplin time to consider her life in Arrowstockades and what it meant to be a dwarf. Dwarves were mighty warriors and builders and while they weren't gnomes they were very impressive engineers. The two combined in dwarven warfare and the construction of the weapons that armed their conflict. Though nowhere near as intricate as gnomish machinery they were filled with infinitely more baleful creativity.

   Dwarven artillery is a fantastically varied type of armament. There's the ballista, it is in essences a massive crossbow that fires a large frightening bolt like projectile that with luck has an army assembled a fairly short distance in front of it. Then there's the catapult, it launches bone crushingly huge rocks and with any luck there's an assembled army standing in front of it at a very specific distance. It can be improved with explosive ordinance which has the added bonus of burning everything and everyone regardless of how much the siege operator would like for that not to happen. There's also the Arbalest ,which fires multiple bolts with more accuracy than a common ballista and the Trebuchet ,which launches pots of incendiary agents with deadly precision but both enjoy less widespread use. The undisputed king of Siege Engines was the Dwarven Shotgun.

    The weapon was not a precision tool, it was an instrument of indiscriminate slaughter that was unleashed when nobody important was likely to be in the way and meant that the garbage dwarves had the lovely duty of scooping up corpse fragments and blood stained binfuls of shot. It is said that the first victim of the Dwarven Shotgun was an unfortunate dwarven bystander who wandered onto the track, was launched into the air by the firing mechanism, and then perforated by it's payload of iron spears in midair. Upon witnessing the death of an innocent dwarf in a horrific cone of razor sharp hail it was immediately decided that the weapon had a severe flaw. The damn thing took a long time to reload. So came the Dwarven Automatic Shotgun. It was capable of launching the same devastating blast of dwarven shot but was loaded by purely mechanical means and as a result could launch another payload, if not immediately substantially quicker than anyone could possibly say “perhaps this display of utter barbarism is unnecessary.” Truly, for an invader on the ground there was nothing more frightening than a dwarven automatic shotgun peppering the land with deadly shrapnel with nightmarish speed and efficiency.

   Her thoughts on this fantastic weapon lasted a fraction of a second because as it turns out there is nothing as terrifying to a dwarven soldier returning home than a dwarven automatic shotgun peppering the land with deadly shrapnel with nightmarish speed and efficiency. Inod did however take a moment to ponder the fantastic engineering of the device as menacing spike sailed into his chest and punched through his armor like paper.

   “Stop firing!” Degel yelled vainly as he tried to drag the wounded dwarf to cover. Dumplin had lost her passion for the days events and rather than scrabble in a blind panic she mechanically positioned herself behind a tree. Bim was charging the fortress wall trying to get too close to be within effective range and Tath was lying face down in a murky pool whimpering or screaming something, it was just getting dull now. The first zombies in the forest had panicked her, the sight of the army shocked her, the defense of the hill invigorated her, the river tired her, the langur men bothered her, and now she was just waiting for what happened next. Eventually Degel devised some vaguely clever pattern to move in while carrying Inod but it was of course in vain as his heart had been pierced and a truly impressive amount of blood spread everywhere he was moved. When the tragedy was over they began walking around towards the entrance one dwarf fewer.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: laxori666 on January 03, 2015, 10:43:31 pm

Quote from: Broseph Stalin on January 02, 2015, 08:31:48 am

Eventually Degel devised some vaguely clever pattern to move in while carrying Inod but it was of course in vain as his heart had been pierced and a truly impressive amount of blood spread everywhere he was moved. When the tragedy was over they began walking around towards the entrance one dwarf fewer.

Ooh exciting. Will everyone but Dumplin die? Or will this be the end for Dumplin as well?

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Baffler on January 04, 2015, 02:58:16 pm

Tune in next [Redacted] to find out!

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on January 04, 2015, 09:59:55 pm

If the story isn't over by the 31st I'll be very surprised.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on January 09, 2015, 02:38:11 pm

   It would seem that the overseer looked at the automatic weapon of indiscriminate death with a penchant for killing the soldiers intended to serve the same purpose and immediately noticed the obvious problem; he did not have eight of them. Unfortunately for the Baboons who had not kept up on the latest constructions they were taken by surprise when they were met by additional shotguns sabotaging their plans to follow the walls to the entrance. Instead they found themselves backtracking and heading back into the forest to circle around without being skewered. It would seem that attempting to return to safety before the overseer saw fit to stop the omnidirectional barrage would be suicidal. Instead of seeking out the entrance the Baboons moved into position near the treeline where the entrance was visible but well out of the effective range of the weapons and found a decent place to wait. The very moment they were prepared to rest the shotguns finally stopped firing indicating either they had run out of ammunition or the Overseer was satisfied with the amount of carnage (which of course meant the shotguns were out of ammunition). Dumplin breathed a sigh of pained relief with the knowledge that the horror of her blackest day in Arrowstockades was coming to a close.
    Dumplin noted she was about to have her goals realized and instinctively readied herself for the next horrible thing to happen. Her expectations were fully met when she realized the tree trunk she'd deemed uninteresting exuded an overpowering aura of death. The concrete thought “Necromancer” had scarcely materialized by the time Dumplin had leveled her crossbow and silently indicated for the baboons to hold position. She was greeted by an unpleasantly cold voice sounding unusually natural.
   “Conserve your ammunition.” It said.

   Though he was still truly massive Cerol Sabershaft looked uncharacteristically small without his armor, though still fairly tall and strong he was not as singularly massive as he once appeared. Without his great helmet to give it resonance his terrible voice sounded peculiarly like a sound that a dwarf could understandably make. She could see now that a great mane of wild black, gray streaked hair joined seamlessly his great black gray streaked beard all horribly unkempt having been tucked neatly under a helmet day and night without end for many years. His great wide back was covered in scars of battles won only in name and pain and exhaustion were evident in his eyes. Where he had once seemed implacable he now seemed only broken, the voice that had once sounded cruel now seemed weak, in the light of the day Cerol Sabreshaft was indistinguishable from the rest of the broken, miserable, condemned dwarves that populated the fortress. He did not turn to acknowledge her or the rest of the squad and instead stared idly and thoughtlessly at the fortress in the distance.
   “Why-?”
   “The dark one is dead.” He preemptively replied. “His magic meant little to the Prowler of Rasps. Maintain your distance.”

   Dumplin stopped her approach as suddenly as she'd begun.

   “The necromancer was blighted. Cursed by the gods to bear the mark of the defiler for all time. It bore a terrible plague and as it's final act delivered that plague to me. I laid down my weapons and my armor, left my squad behind, and came here to wait for the end.”

   “What-”

“Nothing.” He spoke again. “Nothing to be done, nothing to be said, there is only waiting now. Leave Baboons, you have nothing worth hearing to say.”

If Dumplin could kill only one dwarf and for whatever reason the Overseer and Feb weren't options Cerol would be the easy choice. Still, though Dumplin had understood academically that Cerol was just a dwarf and felt no strong desire to see him live the idea of him being mortal was never something she understood in her gut and to see him in this state was disorienting. She considered that this was the perfect moment to crush one of her fiercest enemies either spiritually or physically and that perhaps that kind of victory may just cheer her up a bit but somehow it felt wrong. It also felt very likely that Cerol had just killed one of the most powerful and evil beings on the planet and was by extension one of the most powerful and evil beings on the planet. It was very likely, she realized, that Cerol Sabershaft unarmed and on deaths door could slaughter a dozen Baboons on their best day.
   There were an awkward few moments of silence before a helmet fell to the ground. Tath removed her armor and began walking towards Cerol. Before Dumplin could seek an explanation Tath had removed her mail and her left arm came into view. The limb was an odd shade of purple and when exposed to the open air the smell of death was overpowering. It seeped pus from open sores with black rims and had big cavities devoid of flesh. Dumplin remembered the fight with Bandrims.
“It tingled for a while,” she said. “Then it stopped. They cut the rotten bits out but it kept getting worse so they cut again. They keep cutting every few months and I don't think they can cut much more. I don't want to go back inside. Not after all this.”

Tath stepped forward and sat on a stump near Cerol. The two sat in silence staring at the fortress and Degel, Bim and Dumplin walked away.

It seemed strange at first to give up when victory was so close but Dumplin reminded herself that there was always more. When she was safely inside the fortress it did not mean the struggle was over it meant the next round was coming. No matter what was thrown at the Baboons there was always more. No matter how miserable or painful life became there was more. She thought of how Iral, Inod, and Stodir must have envied Vakun. She lost nothing they hadn't and didn't face the horrors they had. There was no real point in prolonging a foregone conclusion, the fortress killed everyone eventually. She no longer believed as she used to that it could somehow end and that eventually she would be respected as a loyal citizen, a craftsdwarf, or a warrior. The fortress demanded loyalty and punished those who were lacking in it but never rewarded those who exemplified it, the best craftsdwarves had a quasi-magical mix of personality traits and innate talent or were blessed by some divine spark of inspiration, the best warriors were unusually strong or fast or driven and hardened by brutal training that consumed every fiber of their being. Even these ones who were valuable were utterly hopeless, eventually they all died like the rest of the fortress.

The Nobles , the founders, still lived of course and they lived like mortal gods but even they were doomed to walk among the broken husks of the damned. Even they'd lost the spark that made dwarves. They looked at dwarves of their shared blood, their friends and neighbors born from the First Anvil just as they themselves were, their kin- their equals under the eyes of Armok and they felt nothing. They were no longer moved by those who were trapped in the corporeal nightmare whose walls they themselves raised. They'd been destroyed as much as anyone else and in the end they would be killed by an ambush or an accident or assassinated by the overseer for some slight that had likely been imagined.
   The dwarves, even the most important and most respected dwarves, were irrelevant. The Fortress mattered. Not the dwarves who lived in it, who worked to preserve it, who loved it as their only home. The Fortress must survive, if it's population was reduced to one dwarf whose days and nights were filled with horror, suffering and prayers for death this would be completely fine The Fortress, the literal walls, fortifications, and tunnels, that was what mattered. This was not a place of refuge it was a monument and any safety it provided to the drones conscripted to it's upkeep was wholly incidental. In the eyes of the Fortress the Fortress was all that mattered.

She looked at her quiver "The Beauty of the Destination will Justify the Road." It was a lie, an awkwardly phrased lie told by an idealistic dwarfette who had never known true suffering. When you burned a corpse and mixed it's ashes with a handful of dirt you could call it “clear glass” and persuade yourself it's a gem but what you had was still just a dead body and handful of dirt and the death was no less senseless nor the dirt more meaningful when you were done. The climb to greatness was long and perilous, and the summit was a place unloved by the gods- it was blasted, wind battered, and bare and there was no returning from that place. At the end of it all she was fighting tooth and nail to get one more moment to bask in the horrors of Arrowstockades, fighting towards a goal that was both unreachable and not worth reaching. She wondered why her body insisted on continuing. Why she lashed out on pure instinct to push away an attacking zombie or struggling to stay above the waterline. After a few more minutes of walking she didn't have an answer. She smiled placidly to no one in particular.

This was the day Dumplin Lakewanders decided to kill herself.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Iamblichos on January 09, 2015, 02:52:33 pm

... and then it got really, really dark in here.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Baffler on January 09, 2015, 03:22:37 pm

Well that was depressing.

Well written, certainly, but depressing. Out of curiosity, how close to actual events in the fortress was this story?

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on January 09, 2015, 04:23:23 pm

Quote from: Baffler on January 09, 2015, 03:22:37 pm

Well that was depressing.

Well written, certainly, but depressing. Out of curiosity, how close to actual events in the fortress was this story?

There's a great deal of creative license to explain randomness and bring things to a personal level, for example the actual reason she didn't kill the Kobold was that she suffered a minor injury and ran to the opposite side of the arena. The fortress is a composite of several fortresses but Arrowstockades was the one the real Dumplin lived in. I'd say about half of all events happened in Arrowstockades but there's also a great deal I left out, Dumplin was actually an underequipped sworddwarf before she was a marksdwarf and probably did lots of stuff before I noticed she existed. The thing to remember is that Arrowstockades is supposed to be the prototypical fortress or at least one emblematic of my playstyle not necessarily a specific fort. Class based room assignment, zombie attacks and cave dwarf burrows might not be part of every fortress but they're all things that happen in Fortresses I make.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on January 09, 2015, 04:23:54 pm

Quote from: Iamblichos on January 09, 2015, 02:52:33 pm

... and then it got really, really dark in here.

Surely it can't get any worse...

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: fourpotatoes on January 10, 2015, 02:26:59 am

I feel a little sorry for Cerol. Unlike Feb One-Eye, I get the impression that under different circumstances he'd have been a good ~~person~~dwarf, not a monster self-made by necessity.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on January 16, 2015, 06:41:13 pm

There were no more trees and no more mud and no undead in view but somehow the last leg was the hardest. Okon threw his life away to save a dead woman while Iral, Stodir, and Angzak had all sacrificed their lives to help their comrades gain precious little ground Inod was killed by the defenses of the fortress he fought to protect Tath had finally realized the hopelessness of her situation and unlike Dumplin no longer deigned to justify her continued survival. It was hopeless. She couldn't count how many times she'd thought the word but she meant it now. There was no hope. Any belief however fleeting or deluded that there could be light or goodness in the world was gone
   Today had been one long frantic struggle serving no purpose but to ensure she lived long enough to see the next long frantic struggle- but it had not been today. It had been her life since coming to Arrowstockades. If she had known laboring over her quiver meant imprisonment and a trinket that was closer to the first two pieces of garbage she'd made than anything a real dwarf would wear into battle would she have still done it? If she had known that defeating the goblin raider would mean induction into the military and horrors she could never have imagined would she have bothered? If she had known forgiving the Kobold would make her a target and that the nigh omnipotent overseer would break her would it have still been worth it? After a certain point if one failed to recognize a pattern it was their fault when they suffered for it. She never won, she fought and she bled and she lost some part of herself and got ready to fight the next round far weaker. It was a vicious, inscrutable, little game whose only objective was to figure out how exactly she would lose.

Arrowstockades had killed six more baboons today.

   But it hadn't just killed baboons. It had killed an impressive segment of it's militia. Even the war god of dwarven kind had fallen to the onslaught. It occurred that two immortal warriors colliding and both being destroyed in an apocalyptic battle between the forces of evil and worse evil was precisely the kind of legend that drew migrants. It was odd to be a historical figure. It was like being a regular person but you regretted every choice you ever made and sincerely wished you were dead.

   What would the legends say about Dumplin Lakewanders? That she joined in the defense of Arrowstockades led by Cerol Sabershaft? That she scored a few lucky shots on a few mindless zombies while running away? No, it was more likely that the legends would mention Cerol Sabershaft and Kopoh Torturedrest and perhaps a notable or two but Dumplin had no place of interest in any legends. She was just one of the dwarves who didn't die or do anything particularly important. That was her story. That garbagedwarf that was still alive. Her story would change shortly.

   She'd seen melancholic dwarves blubber and wail and mope around the dining hall demanding attention, if they were satisfied there were enough dwarves watching they would jump off a guard tower or down a well and if they weren't they would just die of malnutrition in the hope their terrible skeletal form would disgust or horrify those who had hated them in life. She didn't feel like that. She felt more like Cerol or Tath simply seeing enough as being enough and making the calm rational decision to opt out. It was also possible she was just more realistic. The fortress had proven time and time again that it would not deign to look at her unless in fury. How long would the dwarves in the dining hall actually care that they'd watched malnutrition wear away at one of their own while they shoveled food into their mouths? Would the overseer even notice? No, there was no point in trying to teach a lesson to someone who wasn't listening or wound beings that were alive in only a strictly technical sense.

   The great gate stood before them, finally open. It vomited garbagedwarves to pick at what remained of the apocalyptic battle and doctors to carry those who could be stolen from the jaws of merciful death. Some wore looks of terror or fury but most were their usual implacable selves. The militia also began trickling in some screaming despondently with the horror of the day, some crying out in agony, and others wearing the bored look that Dumplin imagined she herself wore.

    There was a twinge of fear as she looked upon the great fortress. Like an abused dog she found her home only slightly less terrible than the unforgiving world outside. This was a terrible place to live. Perhaps it was better for a child, for one who had never seen the world outside and simply didn't know that the world had the potential to be better. That it was somehow wrong to labor under the capricious whims of a vengeful overseer. Feb One-Eye stood in front giving orders.

   Feb One-Eye was a proper historical figure. Feb One-Eye had made countless kills with a blade so razor sharp that it was said the continent would divide in two should he ever drop it carelessly. He became possessed with divine inspiration and vision and fashioned for himself a steel helmet of such impossible quality that every helmet made before or since appeared to be a forgery, a bastardization of his flawless work. He served as guard captain defending and securing the greatest fortress of any dwarven empire and in that service had killed more men than some plagues. Feb would be remembered for his contribution this day, his would not be the kind of trivial mention that Degel or Dumplin would share. Bim, however, without warning injected himself into Feb's story.

   She attempted ,just as dwarven scholars would one day attempt, to rationalize why Bim shot Feb One-Eye in the stomach. Perhaps he had simply snapped, perhaps he blamed Feb for what had happened, perhaps he himself had simply given up. For whatever reason Bim leveled his crossbow giving no indication of any dissatisfaction and fired, the bolt was stopped by the indestructible aquamarine armor but Feb was staggered by the blow. The response was lightning quick, the air became momentarily blue and then momentarily red as the adamantine sword flew with unholy speed and left a mark in Bim's armor, like a papercut that stretched from one side of the plate to the other but went almost to his spine. Bim fell over quite dead.

   Some part of her was surprised but most of her was still consumed by hopeless apathy. Whatever light inside her had been warding off the darkness of Arrowstockades had burned out and now the cold, inky blackness was all that was left. Obok was not ready to be on his own yet but the moment he could walk unassisted he would be ready to join the cloud of generally unattended children that wandered the fortress. A fortress child had no real need for parents, any lessons they needed could be taught by a prison sentence or hospital visit and the dangers they faced were so dire that parents could not conceivably help them. There was food ,drink, sleeping space, and medical care freely available and the parents were required to do very little. The only difference between an orphan, a child with two parents was that the latter two would occasionally follow their parents to work and then die horribly when whatever killed their parents turned on them. If anything it was unfortunate that he would still have his father to look to for guidance. She'd accepted that losing was inevitable and that the fortress would eventually win and delaying it any longer had become tedious work. When Obok could walk on his own Dumplin would find the heaviest suit of armor she could, do some pseudo poetic thing with her quiver, walk into the river, and finally be done.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Thormgrim on January 17, 2015, 03:45:42 pm

I was expecting her to come back to a tantrum spiral in the fortress

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on January 23, 2015, 07:52:47 pm

Degel stood statue still over Bim and did not explain what the actual hell was all that about when Feb asked. He stood very still with his face very rigid, pain evident in his glassy eyes. He held his position for a moment seemingly frozen in time as dwarves continued to walk passed him.

“Okon.” Degel finally said. “We should find Okon.”

“He's dead.” Dumplin replied.

“Then we'll find him all the same.” Degel replied tightly. “If he's fallen then the records should say how. A dwarf deserves as much.”

Dumplin said nothing. It meant very little to risk a life she planned to throw away.

In terms of language systems Dwarven is an entirely alphabetic. Letters form words which hold meaning and form sentences which communicate ideas. If Dwarven were a pictographic language, and thereby expressed ideas in images rather than words, their pictogram for “Valor” may well be Degel the ragged militia dwarf declining peaceful rest to seek out his lost comrade for proper burial. The Onslaught of Smoke had ravaged Arrowstockades, crushed it's military, killed it's commander, scarred the land, and cut the baboons from nine to three. Exhausted, beaten, and low on ammunition the group was weaker than in it's early days when Inod and Degel stood alone. Degel pushed forward undeterred. The long death march that had been this day would soon be over one way or another and Okon's fate would not remain unknown while he lived. If this hypothetical pictographic dwarven language had a word for “out of place” it may well be an image of Dumplin.

   Dumplin walked with less fire. She joined Degel only in physical form and was well aware that if they recovered his body it only meant that the engravers would have to go to work immediately rather than wait six days until the overseer declared him missing and therefore dead. If his body was at all recoverable then it would be recovered regardless, the mass hauling would begin shortly and broken bodies would be cataloged in vile detail. They would be thrown into the corpse pile and the Bookkeeper with his frightening precision would describe their condition and number. There was no special reason it had to be them to do the nasty business or to make a special job of it before the alert was deactivated. Dumplin had no special desire to find Okon's broken corpse or say words over it before it was thrown in a stone coffin and forgotten.

   The pointless work went reasonably quickly, navigating the forest wasn't particularly difficult with the undead slaughtered and Dumplin would much rather be in bed. Though there were certainly no more undead Degel's decision that they should split up was still in her eyes completely idiotic. She made an awkward zigzag east and Degel going west.

   To busy herself Dumplin thought of something more meaningful- the manner in which she would end her life. Walking into the river would be fine but stepping into the trash compactor may be quicker and less tedious. She could also finally take a run at Feb One-Eye, Bim seemed to enjoy it and it would be satisfying but there was always the possibility he would hack off her arms and legs and then send her to jail. But perhaps her best bet was--

Dumplin stopped with her crossbow at the ready. She'd detected movement just ahead. She skulked quietly forward and barely stopped the panicked muscle contraction from firing her weapon. There in the clearing Okon and Lolor lied in a bloody pile, Okon had his crossbow leveled at her and Lolor weakly held her sword in a defensive fashion. Around them were over a dozen bodies in various states of decomposition. They had apparently held up in the clearing and only a few of the zombies had broken off the main horde to attack them. They were wracked with horrible injuries and utterly ragged but they were alive.

“Dumplin!” Okon croaked weakly. “Is it over?”

She didn't respond. She was busy convincing herself that even though she was wrong about Okon dying she'd made the right choice with the information she had and that she wasn't a coward for abandoning him. She tried to convince herself that had she brought the baboons on such a mission they would have attracted more undead attention and they would have all died anyway, the only difference is that Dumplin Degel Okon and Lolor would not have lived either. Suddenly Okon turned his weapon in another direction. There was a familiar cry of anger and frustration that inspired Dumplin to run. It was very rare for a dwarf to have a second chance in Arrowstockades and the faintest possibility drove her forward. She pierced through the trees quickly and easily her crossbow perfectly level and fixed to fire.

There between the trees stood Ashmon, quite alive and fighting a lone zombie. He dodged a swipe wearily and threw half a punch groaning with frustration as his fear prevented the blow from connecting. Dumplin fired and the bolt sailed through the air striking the zombie's head with perfect accuracy and passed through the other side. Ashmon looked shocked and gaped at her. She ran forward to meet him. She stopped suddenly.

Ashmon began explaining something or other as she dropped her crossbow and stared blankly.

The towns of Windpromised is not a source of genius. It's exports are cotton and wool textiles with the occasional raw fruits and vegetables mixed in. The work of the city is primarily for individual subsistence. There are ten or twelve men and women who have achieved reasonable wealth and earned for themselves a dining room with a statue or perhaps a home with a single room for sleeping and no unfamiliar faces dwelling within. There is no exorbitant wealth in Windpromised but every dwarf who lives there finds a bed and the peace of mind that accompanies a full days work. Though dwarven treasure would be snapped up greedily by the King a few pieces of pewter dinnerware or some luxury such as barrel of passable candies would trickle from the capitol to the cities and somewhere before coming to rest in the tiny villages on the outskirts of the Kingdom it would be picked through by Windpromised. On those few and fortunate days there is much rejoicing and every dwarf beams with pride to their elven human and goblin neighbors.

   “Look!” They say, “The shape of this goblet is generally fine and it's flaws can be counted quite easily provided you remove one shoe and make use of the toes of that foot. Surely it is a miracle of Dwarven craftsmanship. And look here again! These candies are more flavorful and pleasant to eat than a potato or even a fruit that is not particularly fresh. ”

   Dumplin Lakewanders did not travel to Windpromised. She went to Arrowstockades where resplendent beauty and abject horror merged into one bastard entity of endless suffering.
   Oh the wealth and grandeur of Arrowstockades. Where the smell of decomposing flesh hung foul in the heavy air, where pointless trinkets were churned out by the thousand at the cost of life and limb, where the most miserable souls of the earth ,already resigned to death, fought to defend it's unassailable walls, where every child went to bed in fear that the night would bring more bloodshed, where life advanced at a miserable pace, where vast quantities of food and drink sat long months brewed and slapped together from whatever stood most plentiful in the stocks to defend against starvation when the armies of it's many foes beset them.
   Oh Arrowstockades where broken, ragged dwarves mill about like stinking corpse flies preforming their grisly work with psychotic and unyielding drive. Where glorious fabrics formed magnificent rainments that were caked with mud and vomit and stained by the blood of one thousand and some odd dead and wrapped around the grimy living husks that populate the blasted place. Where dwarves worked night and day to no discernible purpose save the creation of unneeded and unwanted wealth to be horded in vast stockpiles. Where the the miners labored timelessly in black, sunless pits to expand the great tomb that housed the sum of the fortress' dwarven dead.
   Oh Arrowstockades where nightmares never cease. Where each odd day is filled with soul rending terror meted out by things dwarven eyes were never meant to behold. Where each even day is filled with long hours spent in mind warping paranoia and the knowledge that peace simply means you cannot yet see the foe. Where nameless horrors crawl from the depths, ancient titans descend from the skies, and the armies of each race set upon the place from all directions.
   Oh Arrowstockades with it's vicious promises of wealth and glory ensnaring naïve dwarven minds. Where Dukes and Barons and mayors all under the Kings command spin webs of flawless design and leave perfect, beautiful lies in the ear of every merchantman who happens by. Where platinum, gold, and silver, are crafted into objects of terrible beauty and set with crystals forged with the tainted ash of the ever burning corpse ovens.

If Dumplin was better with names or the fortress hadn't stopped speaking to her she may have realized that Kilrud Coldabyss captain of the Yellow Barrels had quite some time ago been killed by the Fortress Guard after murdering a farmer in a fit of rage. Two dwarves from his squad were missing when the militia did roll call. One had been Lolor Siltlock. The other dwarf was the latest captain who fled into the forest to find his wife. If Dumplin had kept abreast of the goings on in the fortress she would know that the yellow barrels were still called Kilrud Coldabyss' squad because the new captain was a garbagedwarf whose wife was a hardened criminal, an accused vampire, a known Bold-Snuggler and all around mad woman. This poor foolish captain learned that his wife was outside the fortress walls and enlisted the help of a guardsman to run into the forest to find her shrieking to Feb One-Eye that Dumplin had to be rescued from undead hands. Asen Hateumbra, foolish captain of Kilrud Coldabyss' infantry squad had died searching for his wife and was reanimated by the dark power of the Necromancer General.

Oh Arrowstockades where, under the setting sun Dumplin Lakewanders shot her husband in the head.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: TheFlame52 on January 23, 2015, 08:09:29 pm

Well this story sure does live up to its name.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Dozebôm Lolumzalìs on January 30, 2015, 05:32:18 pm

Wait, what? Could you clarify the last two paragraphs, Broseph? (That includes the short "She shot her husband in the head" one.)

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on January 30, 2015, 05:54:29 pm

Quote from: jwoodward48df on January 30, 2015, 05:32:18 pm

Wait, what? Could you clarify the last two paragraphs, Broseph? (That includes the short "She shot her husband in the head" one.)

Okon ran into the forest because two dwarves from "Kilrud Coldabyss's squad" were still outside and he recognized that as the squad his wife was in.

Feb said Ashmon ran into the Forest screaming about the undead.

Back when Dumplin was in and out of jail Asen was promoted to militia captain after his squad leader went berserk and killed a farmer. Dumplin never learned the old captains name, it was Kilrud Coldabyss.

The reveal is that Ashmon didn't panic, he heard Dumplin was outside with Okon and went with Asen to find her.

The Zombie that Ashmon was fighting was Asen and Dumplin shot him in the head.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on January 30, 2015, 08:32:41 pm

What followed was a dream like blur. At some point in the evening the drawbridge closed again leaving Cerol and ,for reasons inexplicable to the rest of the fortress Tath, standing in it's footprint. There were a few spectators watching as the drawbridge fell crushing both of them with such force that nothing remained to reclaim or bury. Stodir's body was likewise not recovered, dredging the river was simply out of the question with the fortress short so many hands. The fire that swallowed Iral burned so hot that anything left of him was indistinguishable from what was left of the forest. Angzak's body was recovered stripped of all valuables and for whatever it was worth the Lanugr Men that killed her were slaughtered and their children were slaughtered, and images made from their bones came to decorate clothing made from their hides. Degel found Inod's body precisely where it fell but stripped of all his possessions and equipment, Degel interred him personally and said a few words. Bim was already in a coffin by the time Degel returned but he said something for that dwarf too. There were several hours of chaos that followed but it was largely beneath her interest.

   Bembul Sheep-Shearer most beloved dwarf in Arrowstockades was dead. It was said that he'd been trapped outside and that the militia had refused to open the gates to rescue him. The dwarves of Arrowstockades were incensed. These dwarves had come to accept constant unrelenting horror but it was all taken with the supposition that dwarves like Bembul Sheep-Shearer who told moderately funny jokes were safe. Here formed the crack. Through this crack slipped complaints from the militia about the horrors they'd witnessed ,the civillians from the friends they'd lost, the garbage dwarves from their lack of proper rooms, and from just about everybody that Gusil the Mayor was a horrible woman. For the first time in years there was rancor, the floodgates finally burst.

   First there was shouting mostly directed at Gusil and then there was more general uproar with dwarves crying out in shock and grief and then the situation escalated. Some fell into depression, some began to wander obliviously, and some were overcome with rage. It is not known who flipped the first table but before long the dining hall had been torn apart and shortly after that the tables and chairs were used as projectile weapons in the twenty five assaults that followed. When the fun and games were done things got more serious. Dwarves began running through the halls shrieking their grievances viciously attacking people at random. The chaos spread from the dining hall outward and soon enough it reached the hospital where things became truly awful. Doctors dragged wounded rioters to beds and were repaid with assault when they reached their destinations. Some of the doctors themselves joined in and began beating the patients they treated.

   Then came the militarization. Feb One-Eye lead what remained of the militia to the dining hall in full kit and put an end to the worst of the fighting. They failed as almost immediately militia dwarves becan throwing tantrums as well turning the riot into a full scale battle. Wise dwarves locked themselves in their rooms.

   Dumplin did not have a room to seal herself in so instead she went to the rarely visited Soapmaker's workshop a small room with doors on all four sides and laid on the ground therein. The shop was beneath interest to the rioters so she sat unmolested long enough to sleep. When she woke she found the world was very much as she left it, four doors, sandy earthen walls, and a soapmaker's workshop. This seemed perfectly fine so she did not act. She spent quite a long time not acting until she became hungry and thirsty at which point she ate a tallow cake from her pack and drank some tuber beer from her flask and before long it was time to sleep again. She repeated this process for three days until she ran out of rations and two days more until the hunger pains were unbearable. She had a meal and a drink then filled her pack and her flask and went back to the shop to start again.

   Her way was obstructed by rioters and rather than fight them she walked down the grand staircase and found her way to the caverns. Eventually she came across a mined out vein and chose this as a place to rest. She did not count hours or days simply laid on the ground and stared at the faint streaks of gold left behind by the miners and busied herself with her thoughts. She was still vaguely aware that the world was still moving because every so often she had to resupply but she was now as close to nonexistence as she'd ever been.

   Asen Hateumbra had been prompted by his wife to make the long journey to Arrowstockades where they were both miserable. After she cost them their room he'd become upset with her and she'd responded by never really speaking to him again. When an army of infinite horror marched on the fortress and his wife was still reported to be outside the walls he had ,being a good husband, gone out to find her. Throughout the entire ordeal Dumplin thought of him precisely once and it was how he would fare after she left him alone with their son. At some unclear point Dumplin had become a bad person. She didn't cry, the wound was so deep she could scarcely feel it. There was no pain, just a deep sense of loss. The world seemed somehow incomplete.

   In the few moments she spent outside the secluded mineral vein the world seemed to be collapsing. There were bursts of violence, and destruction as dwarves rioted in the halls leaving pools of blood and vomit all over interspersed with the odd body part. The guard tried to keep order but as it turned out some problems couldn't be stabbed. She didn't bother with any of it. No dwarf had shown any interest in the crevice she'd taken up residence in so she continued to spend her hours in silence.

   She thought about how broken the fortress was and how she'd come to be so miserable. She thought back to the dwarf she was when she entered Arrowstockades. How alien that dwarf seemed now. The very idea of a dwarf being happy or optimistic was foreign. The idea that the world could be right and good sounded like a work of utter fiction. She couldn't imagine that once upon a time things hadn't been like this, that somewhere beyond these walls the world was good and fair. Her taste for the world was gone, even if there was something else to be had it was beneath seeking. The end was very near.

   Eventually Obok stood up. He was very wobbly and fell over immediately but the progress was apparent and enough was enough. Dumplin bid him goodbye and walked through one of the doors back into the fortress. One of the benefits of this alone time was that she'd thought of something much better than walking into a river. Dumplin was off to see the overseer.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: TheFlame52 on January 30, 2015, 09:34:40 pm

Reminds me of the tantrum spirals of old. I guess Dumplin is going to be one of the handful of hardened, uncaring dwarves that keep the fortress going until new migrants come. Or death by forgotten beast, one or the other.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Baffler on January 30, 2015, 11:56:26 pm

Quote from: Broseph Stalin on January 30, 2015, 08:32:41 pm

One of the benefits of this alone time was that she'd thought of something much better than walking into a river. Dumplin was off to see the overseer.

Good, I can feel your anger. He (or she) is defenseless. Take your crossbow. Strike him down with all of your hatred and your journey towards the dark side will be complete!

This ought to be good. Inb4 there is no overseer, and hasn't been for some time.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: heydude6 on February 05, 2015, 09:05:09 pm

If it makes you feel any better your story was inducted into the hall of legends today. Congratulations. Also PTW.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on February 05, 2015, 09:12:48 pm

Quote from: heydude6 on February 05, 2015, 09:05:09 pm

If it makes you feel any better your story was inducted into the hall of legends today. Congratulations. Also PTW.

I've had an eye on the nomination for a while, super happy that so many people have enjoyed the story.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on February 06, 2015, 06:55:29 pm

“Move.” The voice was weak and raspy, she hadn't spoken in a very long time and her throat had grown rusty. All the same the viciousness of the command still carried.

“Meeting with the Mayor?” The gold plated dwarf asked relatively unfazed by the pandemonium consuming the fortress.

“No,” She replied. “I want to see the overseer.”

“Not possible.” The dwarf replied.

“Nobody speaks to the overseer.” He had begun to say when an iron crossbow struck him in the jaw. She missed the polished wood weapon she'd grown used to but this one served it's purpose.

The door was predictably locked but she struck at the hinges with her crossbow and then with a stiff mithril plated kick she knocked it over. A long hallway stretched in front of her paved with gold.

“Mayor.” She said mentally. “Administrators, Baron, Assorted Lords and Ladies” She counted off the doors. When a door swung open behind her she realized she'd missed one.

“Captain of the Guard.”

Feb looked at the unconscious guard and Dumplin walking towards the king's chambers.

“Lakewanders!” He barked. “You're under arrest for assault!”

Her response was a crossbow bolt sailing through the air. Feb retorted by slapping it away like the hand of a petulant child and charging at a dead run. She didn't have time to knock another bolt so instead she prepared to launch a downward stroke with her weapon. Feb One-Eye being who he was slipped out of the way effortlessly and drove a boot into her stomach before driving his shield into her face. Dumplin fell to the ground and desperately rolled scrambling for her feet only to fling herself backward and away from a lunging stab. As she recovered from jumping backwards she leaned forward, snapped up his extended wrist, and brought her weight down on top of him before he could recover from his lunge.
   Feb flipped over into a dominant position grabbed her throat and squeezed tightly. He was a substantially better wrestler than her goblin adversary. There was no instinct left. The decision to grab his helmet was purely logical, as was the decision to yank it off, and so was the choice to whack him with it. The decision to follow that whack up with a dozen more was largely emotional but when the struggle was done Feb was bleeding badly and Dumplin was back on her path. The door to the king's quarters at the end of the hall were not sealed.

“What is the meaning of this!?” The monarch shouted.

“Where is the Overseer?” Dumplin asked.

“You've gone insane, guard! Guards to me—”

A crossbow bolt screamed by the dwarf's head.

“Where is the Overseer?” She asked again.

“The hatch!” The king yelled in a high frightened voice pointing to a distant corner. “He's down the hatch!”

Dumplin walked in the designated direction and noticed a solid gold hatch blending in with the solid gold floor. She opened it and walked down the stairwell it hid. There was no gold here, only bare stone and spiderwebs. This path had not been traversed in some time. She didn't count steps but she followed the strata to where the caverns ought to be and followed it deeper still. Eventually the heat began to build, the rocks were nearly molten in places but she continued walking. Then came the screams. The horrible wails and whispers and threats that seem to came from all directions, she felt a presence more terrible then Cerol, more terrible than the undead army, deadly near her. She walked further. Down and down and down until finally the stone turned black. Not the beautiful shiny black of the dining hall but a lifeless black. This black did not suck hope out of the air and did not speak of evil and ancient secrets. It did nothing and the sight of it inspired nothing in her. As much as stone could be, this stone was dead.
   The legends said six of the seven founders had become nobles in the traditional sense and the seventh had become obsessed with the construction of more and more elaborate projects and constructions, massive military forces, and pointless displays of power. This dwarf was the Overseer of Arrowstockades whose quarters were eventually built in hell simply so it could be said that the most monstrous creature in the underworld was a dwarf.
   Here the walls became smooth again. Soon she came to a door which she pushed open. It's weight was unimaginable but it was balanced perfectly and it opened easily. She stood in a massive hallway that stretched farther than the hallway in the nobles quarters, larger than the breadth of the entire fortress. She could scarcely see the double doors at the end. In these halls dwelled the most terrible dwarf in the world and she'd come to kill him.
Dumplin looked to the walls and the floor and the roof. It is said that a dwarf can recognize any stone simply because dwarves pride themselves in such knowledge with no special attribute of dwarven blood involved. That does not explain the intimate familiarity with which her mind said “Slade”. The mythical stone was said to comprise hell and along with Semi-Molten Rock and Adamantine be one of the three substances which was truly indestructible to a demon.
   She couldn't fathom how it had been smoothed or engraved or bent to dwarven will and that had obviously been intention. The overseer was ,within Arrowstockades, a god. He most commonly took the form of an unfortunate accidents and senseless violence. His was the domain of pointlessness and his arch foe was the impossible. This hall was the temple of a mortal god and it had been constructed to be worthy of his imagined greatness.
   The massive slade columns stretched to the roof and met with great vaults to form enormous bays of incalculable length. Between these far spaced columns there was a long trench and in this trench there was magma giving the place a menacing red glow. Evenly spaced along the magma trench there were statues of horrible monsters, terrible battles, and nightmarish scenes of the darkest days of the world. She walked until her legs became sore and counted in total eleven great bays of fairly equal spacing whose walls were smooth stone and a twelfth bay which was large enough to hold every other bay inside with ease and was dense with decoration. At the end of the bay stood a single door and behind that door was the being whose twisted hand had shaped Arrowstockades.
   She stepped forward softly and with the impression that she was in a sacred place. There was an impossible amount of knowledge held in the twelfth bay and she considered taking time to take some of it in before doing her work but ultimately deciding she should kill the overseer first and when that was done spend her leisure time reading until the guard came down to kill her. She tried the door and found it locked and surprised by this obvious fact tried it again. She struck at the hinges as she did the brick door but her crossbow bounced off vibrating horribly and painfully as though giggling at the idea of damaging slade. She fired a bolt which deflected and shot just passed her head bouncing off the ceiling and landing in a pool of magma. She made a mental note to never attempt that again and banged three times on the door to no response. Heat rose up into her face.

“I can wait!” She roared in her fractured voice. “You have to leave eventually!”

Except nobody had walked up or down that staircase in years which meant that was, unless the overseer had some pressing need to regularly enter this ornate but otherwise empty hallway, definitely not true. Eventually though he may be driven to come see the dwarf that brazenly knocked upon his door. She knocked again. Again there was silence.

She sat down in a huff. He would open up eventually. He had to. He did not.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Immortal-D on February 06, 2015, 07:35:36 pm

Oh my gosh, lol. I just found this in HoL, actually fell behind at work today b/c I was reading. I just reached the point where

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

We take for granted that our Dwarves have infinite strength and endurance, that hauling boulders of gold & obsidian through 10 levels of stairs straight up doesn't pain them in any way. Two things in particular really struck me though. First is the Marksdwarves being assigned to bash each other with their crossbows. Every single Fortress I have ever run has encountered this problem at least once. 90% of the time it's my fault :-[ Second is the description of how an ornate, gem-studded & engraved gold goblet actually comes in to being, the many steps involved in its' creation. You have truly captured what a realistic view of the wholly surreal nature of a Fortress would be. Classic 'train wreck in slow motion', I'm glad I caught this on a weekend, cuz I'm gonna be up all night reading.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: TheFlame52 on February 06, 2015, 07:43:11 pm

EPIC

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Baffler on February 06, 2015, 07:50:31 pm

Well damn. We were the monsters all along. At least Feb got what was coming to him.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on February 06, 2015, 08:00:00 pm

Quote from: Immortal-D on February 06, 2015, 07:35:36 pm

Oh my gosh, lol. I just found this in HoL, actually fell behind at work today b/c I was reading. I just reached the point where
Spoiler (click to show/hide)
she is mulling over having her battle-glory stolen by a technicality.
We take for granted that our Dwarves have infinite strength and endurance, that hauling boulders of gold & obsidian through 10 levels of stairs straight up doesn't pain them in any way. Two things in particular really struck me though. First is the Marksdwarves being assigned to bash each other with their crossbows. Every single Fortress I have ever run has encountered this problem at least once. 90% of the time it's my fault :-[ Second is the description of how an ornate, gem-studded & engraved gold goblet actually comes in to being, the many steps involved in its' creation. You have truly captured what a realistic view of the wholly surreal nature of a Fortress would be. Classic 'train wreck in slow motion', I'm glad I caught this on a weekend, cuz I'm gonna be up all night reading.

Thank you so much. I love hearing that people connect with the story and I love that the Hall of Legends is bringing more people to it. One of my side projects that I'm going to start working on after Dumplin wraps up is the Day That Brassworked Fell, it's going to have a much smaller scope but it's going to have the same basic theme of exploring the little moments that get lost in the scale of the game.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Immortal-D on February 06, 2015, 09:42:57 pm

And here we are at the end! :D ...... aw crap >:( Having reached what I must presume is the penultimate chapter, I feel inclined to make a prediction;

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: reality.auditor on February 13, 2015, 05:08:11 pm

This mix of humour, horror and tragedy is excellent. Rules of DF collide with common sense resulting in hellhole not unlike North Korea concentration camp.

Quote from: Immortal-D on February 06, 2015, 09:42:57 pm

And here we are at the end! :D ...... aw crap >:( Having reached what I must presume is the penultimate chapter, I feel inclined to make a prediction;

Mine:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: heydude6 on February 13, 2015, 07:39:34 pm

Wait, did the story actually end yet? Is it over?

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on February 13, 2015, 07:46:51 pm

Quote from: heydude6 on February 13, 2015, 07:39:34 pm

Wait, did the story actually end yet? Is it over?

Nope.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on February 18, 2015, 03:17:38 pm

   Idly Dumplin examined the walls roof and floor of the twelfth bay. She sought at first to busy herself while waiting for the doors to open or the guard to come down to get her but she quickly forgot where she was. Etched into the black, dead, stone were images. Images of cataclysmic fires, rampaging elephants, great carp snatching up fisherdwarves, whale carcases invigorated by dark magic storming beaches. The immense twelfth bay was much wider and longer than the rest and in places was separated into sections by great columns stretching to the vaulted ceiling. Dumplin could identify some method to their organization in that events, people, and fortresses were housed in different sections but there appeared to be an infinitely more complicated system in play. She quickly understood that these were not simple engravings but a painstaking catalog of real events. Dumplin read everything she could over the course of hours eventually lying down in exhaustion and sleeping. When she woke she confirmed that the guard had not come and the doors had not opened. She turned back to the walls and began reading again in the timeless hall of legends.

   Some stories spoke of great fortresses. The legends of the eternal fires of Boatmurdered, twice damned Headshoots, Battlefailed and all it's horrors, Gemclod which the swamp had long since swallowed, and the spire of Bravemule that chose to collapse rather than fall. These sat along stories of lesser known places whose tales seemed equally fantastic but far more arcane. Queerer legends too adorned the walls. Immortal warriors wielding backpacks, of fluffy wamblers defeating colossal golems, of elven warrior kings leading dwarven kingdoms. Some of the engravings filled her with disgust and unease depicting acts of dwarven cruelty. Great farms stripping mermaid flesh from bone, torture pits to school children in warfare, attempts to vaccinate soldiers against fire by melting away their body fat, and the most fell of scientific endeavors. Some things she saw were so impossible, so fantastic, so disturbing that every part of her rational mind said that they were simply the fiction constructed by a diseased mind but the fact they were held alongside the images she knew to be faithful convinced her that this was nothing short of a faithful retelling of an unimaginable history. Every battle, every fort, every hero, everything that populated even the most esoteric of dwarven legends was immortalized in this hall.

   Dumplin did little but read, she read until her head ached and she could retain no more information at which point she slept and started again. Never during this time was there a stirring behind the door or the troop of guards she had been expecting. She removed her breastplate and managed to work a reasonable shine into the super reflective metal. She had taken on a sickly pallor and horribly thin and her hair had grown scraggly and matted in places. There was a mad look to her that was if not worse than Iral at least awful in a new and different way. She considered how horribly stupid this had all been. There was nothing to do about it though, instead she just kept reading.
   Almost every story no matter how fantastic or frightening was also the story of an overseer. What infection had taken these dwarves? Goblins ,it could be said, were evil by nature. They were compelled to murder by the very fabric of their being and their demonic overlords were of little help. Kobolds were simply too stupid to survive by any means except thievery and were also products of their creation. Overseers were different, they were dwarves that for whatever reason were the most despicably evil type of person that could exist. Some were so utterly incompetent they abandoned the overseeing trade after their first fort was destroyed by their failure to bring any supplies. Others were so brilliant that their creations were a mockery of everything a common dwarf knew about the world. They created fortresses whose design was intended to divine the outcome of manipulating numbers, the purpose of this was unknown but likely apocalyptic in nature. Even at their dimmest they were a breed with the vision and intelligence to create fortresses and run fortresses, to amass armies, to issue sometimes suicidal orders to hundreds of dwarves with the unquestioning certainty that they would be obeyed. It was even said that some of them had through unknown methods bred new species such as the Tuskox and warped the very world with their terrible might.

   They wielded godly power and with that power a disturbing majority of them created hell on earth. Why? Why were so many fortresses places of unforgivable cruelty and pointless suffering? Why had so many overseers done so many unimaginably cruel things? Some of it she understood, assassinating a dwarf who refused to kill or die in the arena while unpleasant was the act of a wrathful being. What perplexed her was the flippant nature of some of their crimes. There was no evil in the decision to create a winding staircase that stretched from the surface to the end of the earth's solid crust or the expectation that this staircase would be fearlessly traversed with barrels, bins, and wheelbarrows in tow.

   Eventually in this timeless place she came to imagine herself as an Overseer. Striking out with good intentions, seven dwarves, and whatever she could afford to put in a wagon. She could solve the simple problems, clean water for washing, alcohol for drinking, food and the rest for eating. Eventually she'd make some crafts to trade for more supplies and soon there would be artifacts. Their numbers swell until hundreds of souls were dependent on her and she alone was trapped with the knowledge that every fortress no matter how great or small was destined to fall. What would she do when the goblin hordes came? When Kobolds probed the defenses? When assassins and child snatchers began picking off the weak? When 200+ dwarves needed things from her how many would she actually care about? How many would be written off as garbagedwarves? What would it feel like when the first dwarf that uprooted it's life to live under her rule died because of her mistakes? What would it feel like when the hundredth did? Would she still imagine her subjects as living breathing dwarves with wants needs and inherent value?

   When she couldn't count them anymore and tragedy simply meant one number growing as another shrank would it still matter to her if one garbagedwarf's back hurt from hauling stone? Would she give a sadistic chuckle when one of them was killed in a gruesome fashion? Would she groan in frustration when another puking, eating, party throwing life was brought into the fortress promising to suck up resources and give nothing back for no fewer than eight years? Would she come to busy herself with spectacles of horror and madness? Would she be wrathful when one dwarf refused to fight in her arena? After she walked away from the ashes of her seventeenth failed fortress and went off to start another would she be motivated by more than morbid curiosity?

   This was not a creature that was unaware of suffering. Protecting the baboons and her family had driven her mad. The overseer protected the entire fortress. Somewhere behind the immovable stone doors was a being that did not care for dwarven life. It had filled to many graves to care. It's view of the world was warped by legends of raging fires, horrible monsters, deadly plagues, and had come to exalt these things as glory. It knew of every misfortune that the world had ever visited upon the dwarven people and any sense of compassion had been beaten out of it or worn away by time. Failure was as inevitable for it as it was for any dwarf in the fortress and it fought anyway. It found cruel fascination in complicated traps and massive monuments and projects whose scope she found wholly inconceivable. Like Dumplin it mechanically and heartlessly it persevered. In it's madness and paranoia it built vast arrays of traps and weapons, it conscripted a massive military force and it trained them with cruel efficiency, it wracked it's evil mind to devise a defense against any foe and it had failed, it had known it would fail. What remained behind those doors could not care for dwarves, it saw only little interchangeable things that scurried about and eventually stopped. The alternative would be crushing.

   How many times had the winter freeze claimed entire families before animal fat and acorns were first pressed together for food? How many sieges ravaged the fortress before the Danger Room rattled day and night with the cries of dwarven agony? How many years had they been denied needed goods before the first caravan was sacked? How many dwarves walked alone into battle before their ranks were bolstered through impressment? How long had it vied for the satisfaction of the fortress before settling on it's survival? There was a being more miserable than any cavern dwarf or broken down hauler in command of the fortress. He must have known very well the stories engraved on those walls and floors and worked into every craft the fortress produced. What had the weight of the fortress done to the poor soulless husk entombed in the bowels of the citadel?

   She had seen the charred landscape, ugly and baleful, but had not considered the rampaging fires that had twisted them so. For the first time since her arrival she felt a pain of sympathy for the worst dwarf in the world.
   “I understand that...” she searched for wisdom but found only fury. “This can't be what you want! You can't want the world to be this way!”

There was no response. Dumplin considered for a moment that the impossibly dense stone may make her voice inaudible and also considered that the Overseer simply didn't care to listen.

“I don't have any answers, I don't know how to run a good fortress but you have to at least want it. The dwarves that live here have to be the more important than fancy architecture or killing goblins their happiness needs to matter.”

There was no response.

“We matter! All of us, every dwarf in the fortress deserves to be alive and happy! You have to care! You can't forget that they all matter!”

Still the hall was silent. She sat quietly then. She looked over the walls some more and the hall sat unchanged. She could not know if the Overseer had heard her or planned to listen. Perhaps it was too late, perhaps there was nothing left in that broken shell that could be moved by her words. Perhaps it was only concerning itself with why this one dwarf chose to stand idly in place instead of working. Perhaps there was nothing behind the doors at all. It was not unfeasible that the overseer had abandoned the fortress like a dissatisfied god and hadn't deemed it necessary to send word to the citizens. In any case there was nothing left for her to say. The fortress was a dark and vicious place and if any goodness could be found in it it would not be created by the overseer. Dumplin turned and walked back down the hall and up the stairs.

She was yet again surprised to find no death squad Feb was not where she'd left him. Feb was not where she'd left him which implied he'd either recovered or been hauled to the tombs. She didn't have time to ask as “Siege” was the word on everyone's lips when she returned to the fortress. Dwarves were running around everywhere screaming and grabbing weapons. It would seem that a rather large enemy had found it's way to the bridge before it could close and the mechanisms that attempted to raise it did their duty but the materials of the bridge gave out. A few stone blocks were spread on the ground and a troll began tearing at the inner doors. The militia was dispatched but they didn't have time to rally, the bloodbath that followed was due in part to Cerol Sabershafts sudden retirement and in part to the mass rioting landing no small number of otherwise capable warriors in the hospital or the jail.

   There was an awful sound as the shotguns, catapults, and ballistae sprung to horrid life. The rapid cycle of their constant firing, arming, loading, and firing echoed deep into the fortress sounded to her like the horrible laughter of a black god sitting on it's throne in the underworld bathing in the delight of a new challenge.

   If the fortress fell then Obok would be lost with it. When the dust settled she would be punished for her impudence and if she was allowed to live it would certainly not be an act of mercy but until then any harm that came to a dwarf of Arrowstockades would not be said to have come while Dumplin did nothing. She walked the long staircase to the top of the fortress and joined the fray.
   A massive fire had been started by a variety of explosive ammunition and outside the walls goblins died in screaming agony but the section of forest lost to Iral's self-immolation would not burn twice. And most of the attackers were now clustered in the pre-burnt section separated from those trapped inside with the dwarven defenders. Marksdwarves stood at the rear firing into the attackers as the infantry fought tooth and nail to push back the incursion.
   Every dwarf no matter how miserable was a dwarf, a dwarf that deserved to live. It was a struggle but she mustered all of the good left in her and tried with all her might to remember what it was to value life. If something resembling goodness would exist in Arrowstockades it would begin with he. Her aim was steady and her eyes were sharp as she struck the attackers pinning down her fellow dwarves. She effortlessly threaded the needle and sent shots passing through holes in the dwarven ranks and directly into goblin targets. This created enough time for the the haggered warriors to defend themselves.
   “Ashmon.” Her brain said as she fired at the goblin pitched in combat with the Dwarf.
   “Avuz” Her brain said as she defended the guardsman.
   “Feb” There was a pause as she allowed the badly bruised dwarf to fight on his own until deciding that yes Feb was a dwarf too.

   When the fighting stopped she ran to the battlements to prepare for the next wave. What remained of the marksdwarves rallied over the entrance prepared to open fire when the charge began. When the inferno stopped it would be simple for the bulk of the invasion force to march right in and the weary militia may not be enough to hold them back. For now the invaders waited at an angle that didn't allow for attack by shotgun, catapult, or ballista.

   In the distance she saw a being of absolute horror. Her keen eyes traced it's frightful form and saw a hateful thing with a segmented body composed entirely of salt. It's hideous form undulated rhythmically as it stood in the center of a weakened goblin army. Their numbers were reduced but the goblin force would inflict terrible casualties if allowed to pass through the gates assuming the defenders were victorious at all. This demon was certainly no foot soldier and with it gone the attackers may break rank or at least fight with less discipline. It could be no less than sixty urists away and in perfect conditions striking a target forty urists away was an act of unparalleled marskdwarfship.

   Dumplin centered herself. She filled her heart with the love of life and compassion for all dwarfkind. “No more needless death,” she thought. “One shot and the day is won.” Dumplin wordlessly walked towards the western watchtower and took the slightly higher position. If the creature knew of her presence the improbable would become impossible and there would be no choice but open combat inside the walls. The heavy crossbow became light in her hands as she unstrapped it and held it at the ready. Salt was not spectacularly strong and whatever power the demon had it likely came from spitting fire or webs or poison gas, to dispatch it before it could bring that force to bear would save countless lives. Her footfalls stopped at the top of the watch tower and with one steady motion she tore out a chunk of matted hair observing how the wind carried it. She corrected for the wind and aimed at a high arc. She was interrupted by a loud metallic clang.
   Suddenly very confused she slowly turned to the west and saw a gnomish attack force consisting primarily of sharpshooters capitalizing on the ongoing goblin invasion.

“It's fortunate I have a helmet” She thought to herself.

She felt a trickle of blood.

“This is an awful helmet” She thought to herself.

The trickle became a gush and it escaped the bullethole in her helmet.

“Why have I been wearing this helmet?” She thought to herself.

There was a rainlike sound as a volley of bullets punched effortlessly through her armor and buried themselves in her flesh.

“Gwur?” She thought to herself as the bullet rattled around her brain.

Dumplin fell backwards.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: reality.auditor on February 18, 2015, 04:02:52 pm

It was inevitable.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Baffler on February 18, 2015, 04:25:40 pm

Poor Dumplin, killed swiftly and brutally out of left field in true Dwarven fashion.

But I guess I've been wrong about this being over before.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Immortal-D on February 18, 2015, 07:32:18 pm

You know what would be truly tragic? If she weren't dead yet. I mean it's a pretty safe bet at this point, but Dwarves have been known to fully recover from having literally every bone fractured.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: TheFlame52 on February 19, 2015, 08:32:21 am

Quote from: Immortal-D on February 18, 2015, 07:32:18 pm

You know what would be truly tragic? If she weren't dead yet. I mean it's a pretty safe bet at this point, but Dwarves have been known to fully recover from having literally every bone fractured.

I remember a dwarf named Balta in Towersomething that survived two 17-z falls. He was more cloth than dwarf. He eventually died of infection.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Elagn on February 19, 2015, 05:38:27 pm

I would say that dumplin is dead. for now.

The title says "The Increasingly Tragic" in it, and this is in a fortress where necromancers are know to visit.

That, or, with the death of most of the workforce as caused by the seige, her body will be left to rot, and she will rise as a ghost, separated from her husband.

Title: Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf in the World
Post by: Broseph Stalin on February 20, 2015, 06:03:10 pm

Dumplin saw the marksdwarves on the walls fade into the distance. She was floating away. Backwards, panning out from the carnage and violence of the wicked world she'd lived in for so long. She saw the fighting grow more distant as her weightless form continued to drift away. The battlements came into view and soon so did the wall. She was descending, slowly and peacefully back to the earth. The wall soon rose above her and the sky came into view. The tearful and pained cry of “Dumplin” from Degel did not wrench her heart. She felt peace, for once since coming to Arrowstockades there was no pain or fear. She was no longer waiting for the other shoe to drop. She had come to the fortress to find a new life and now she finally felt free of it. She was loosely aware of the metallic rattle as her armor clad body collided with the ground and the snapping sound of her bones fragmenting within it.

   The world was very still now. She saw only the sky as musket balls and crossbow bolts whizzed overhead. It all seemed very small now. The fortress was an insignificant pocket of an insignificant territory of an insignificant region in an insignificant world. Peace, finally she'd found peace.

   She thought of Okon, he would be ready to walk soon free of his mothers influence. She lamented that the first walk he would take on his own would be up the grand staircase. He would grow into a boy and then a man who would with any luck be smart enough to leave the fortress before it got hooks into him. Darkness creeped inward from the edges of her vision. She was subtly aware that her heartbeat was rapidly falling. Soon she would be with Asen again and she would rejoin the Baboons holding a place for their captain when his time came as well.
   In retrospect it had been a terrible life but not a bad one. She'd been a laborer, and dabbled as an artisan for a little over a week, she'd been a hardened convict, a wife, a mother, and a warrior. She'd (not technically) slain an ancient monster,learned forgiveness in the arena and denied an armor clad demon her soul. She survived a war with a god, taught courage to the Baboons, lost most of her friends in a day, defeated a sadistic guardsman, and read arcane secrets from the walls of a palace in hell. She closed her eyes prepared for some well deserved rest.

Dumplin Lakewanders felt comfortable that she had finally won.

HATE FEAR DIE

A wooden ceiling and a curious looking dwarf.

HURT STOP DON'T

A large pair of eyes inspecting her.

NO WHY QUIT

A dwarf standing over her.

STOP DEATH PLEASE

A dwarf wearing a blue dyed robe and holding a very long strip of paper stood in front of her.

“Hi, I'm your doctor!” The dwarf said. “You're my first patient. As you may know our entire medical staff was murdered by angry patients during the riots and most of our patients were murdered by our angry medicals staff so we're a little bit short handed. I have literally never been in this room before this week. Funny story actually, I decided to sleep up here because it was closer than the dormitory and I guess someone saw me and decided I should make myself useful because when I woke up I was Chief Medical Dwarf. Can you believe it? I've been here for about a month and I'm already a noble, this place is great! And speaking of lucky, I saved your life!
   You were really messed up, we had to conscript a team of doctors to make sure you didn't die before you got all your procedures done. I can't read this list, I've tried four times and I always lose my place. I brought the bookkeeper up here to read it and he couldn't get the same number of injuries twice. Muscle torn apart organ torn, bone shattered times infinity, if you need a clear picture. I've never seen anyone who was supposed to be dead as much as you are. ”

Dumplin blinked.

“So I found some cloth and thread and a couple sticks in those chests over there so I figured I'd just use them on you. I wrapped some stuff up and stitched some stuff up, by the way did you know there isn't a single needle in this fortress? I thought I was going to dislocate my shoulder doing all that needleless suturing. Some of your bones were broken so I stitched those back together and I'm pretty sure I put them back together alright, they look like bones. Also surgery, you had so much surgery.
    I mushed some of your organs back together and I guess that's good, incidentally do you have a top liver because I found the left and right but there was this other thing and I have no idea what it is. Oh, I was going to mention it when I was talking about your bones but a lot of them were outside your body and I don't think they were working properly so I pushed them back in. I'm not sure if there's any tools here to help reboning but unless it's a bucket it's not in the chests so just some really hard pushing.
   After that I took a couple of the small sticks and put your arms, legs, hands, and feet, in them because that seemed fun and healthy. I got you a big stick to walk with but your legs are both filled with thousands of tiny bones instead of the two or three big ones you need to walk so that went back in the chest, instead I filled one of the buckets with pond water and poured into your unconscious mouth.

Dumplin made a grunting sound.

“I consulted some militia dwarves for information on why you weren't dead and they said if a bullet didn't pierce your heart, throat, both lungs, or go deep into your brain it was basically impossible for it to kill you. I guess your armor deflected bullets away from your heart and into your non-vital organs. Now your helmet actually seems to have slowed down the bullets so they only went into your “outer” brain which is really just padding to protect your inner brain which makes you alive. We counted the holes in your helmet and we counted the bullets on the ground that passed through and we figure there's six or seven in your head. On that same subject you are filled with bullets.

Yeah like a lot of bullets. There are so many bullets inside of you. I don't know what a normal number of bullets to be shot with is but I'm guessing you have enough bullets in you to give that number to every dwarf in the fortress. So many bullets. I talked to the metalsmiths and they say there might be enough bullets inside you to melt them down and make a statue of you being shot with the bullets. It's crazy, everything I know about the world says that's impossible. Now I talked to Feb about what he did when he got shot and he said the doctors left it in so he took a bath and just yanked it out of his eye then, so I guess just do that.

Any way, you're all better- well in several months you will be, right now you're in traction. I'm not sure how long it'll take you to heal but they told me standard procedure was to deconstruct the traction bench and throw you on the floor and see if you could go back to work every few months. Dwarven medicine at it's finest.”

Dumplin made a clicking sound.

“Hypothetically that is. Practically it looks like you've gotten a little paler since we've finished and some of the other new doctors think you're bleeding internally. My thinking is that blood is supposed to be inside of you so it's just going back into your body but everyone else says your going to die in a couple days or hours but if you're still alive let me know so I can rub it in their faces. ”

“Arp?” Dumplin worked out.

“You've gotten pretty popular too, everyone wanted to see the dwarf that got shot to pieces and lived. You're a bigger celebrity than Bemul Sheep Shearer gods rest his soul! You should meet your fans in the dining hall if you don't die of blood loss, get an infection, or get killed by a tantruming doctor. .”

There was an unpleasant sound of what Dumplin inferred to be several iron musketballs rubbing against each other as she breathed.

“Looks like we're all done here, bye first patient.” He kicked the bench. “Back to work I go!”

   It is said that when a dwarf sees death as imminent and expects wholly to die they enter a state of incredible single-minded focus. Such dwarves are capable of unimaginable feats, these condemned warriors know no equal in battle and strike with righteous fury awakened in their dwarven blood. These so called “martial trances” are the simple and flawed imitations of the crystaline clarity with which Dumplin saw and the infinite well of power and fury that she drew upon as the fortress shook with her mighty roar. If there was an enemy more powerful than Arrowstockades she didn't know of it and in the face of this invincible foe she entered a true martial trance rolling out of bed on her shattered limbs and clambering past the terrified doctor and down the stairs like a frightful octopus wrapped in cotton. She rolled awkwardly down the grand staircase knocking dwarves out of her way and menacing those that stood in her path until found herself in the caverns.

   She moved in a spiderlike fashion scrabbling to the vein she'd left Obok in, scooped the boy up, and then made a painfully long and painfully painful belly crawl up the grand staircase tripping biting shoving and generally upsetting the dwarves who used the busy thoroughfare. She clambered up with disturbing speed as her noodly limbs flipped about. Eventually she reached the workshops and pulled herself across the ground to the jeweler's shop.

   It had taken a few menacing gurrgles to frighten the attending craftsdwarf into fleeing and with an implement he'd dropped began working. She didn't have to think of anything clever, a lifetime in the fortress (nearly five years) had made the one lesson and recurring theme of her life perfectly clear.

   She scratched away at the large glass gem on her quiver vandalizing the previous idealistic slogan. She carved a simple message into it to replace her earlier mantra and then with Obok in toe crawled down one flight and through a complex series of bodily manipulations made her way into the dining hall. A few dwarves reacted to her but most had seen stranger things and went about their business.

   Dupmlin then mustered all of the ancient power remaining in her blood and she bent her own will. She forced herself to love Arrowstockades, to desire nothing more than to recover, to see another day, and to grow old in the most splendid of all dwarven kingdoms. Sure enough she noticed the fatigue of bloodloss almost imediately as the universe predictably conspired to disappoint her. By the time the joy of being done with the wretched fortress overtook her it was too late for the fates change their plans and she felt herself dying.

   Anyone watching would see her expression change from burning rage, melancholy, abject terror, wistfulness, and by the time she'd breathed her last; peace. Whatever battle she'd fought lying on the floor of the dining hall with blood filling her chest cavity she seemed satisfied with it's resolution. She'd come to accept she was not the hero of any story. Her desire to find the right thing to say at the right time was gone so instead she mustered one final breath and repeated to Obok the words she'd etched into the green glass gem set into her quiver.

    Dumplin Lakewandrers left the world having given it very little. When the dwarves of the dining hall stripped her of her possessions they found a suit of welded mithril armor, a set of decent clothing, a crossbow, all given to her by the fortress and returned to the fortress. They also found a few heaping handfuls of iron and steel bullets that she had technically collected which were eventually melted into bars. They took also the quiver which she had made and given to her son but they could not take the words she'd carved into it, the same words she'd left in his ear.

“Fortresses suck.”

Epilogue

   After Dumplin Lakewanders was shot a spectacular number of times by a gnomish deathsquad and lived only long enough after treatment to return her son to the “safety” of the dining hall something odd happened to the fortress. People swore the crystal glass was less brilliant, the gold had lost it's luster, and an Arrowstockades goblet had somehow become a lesser thing. The meals lost their flavor, the wine lost it's substance, and the clothing seemed more “tacky” than “lavish”. The uniqueness of the fortress disappeared as well. There were no more massive projects and the day to day became focused on producing enough food and drink to live with most dwarves finding themselves with many idle hours and almost no unfortunate accidents. Some were quite pleased with this but others believed the Overseer had abandoned them. Some returned to the hillocks or the mountain halls, others became city dwarves and a few even came to join new fortresses.

   Feb One-Eye remained in Arrowstockades as champion eventually taking up the Prowler of Rasps, he was killed by a mad dwarf and fashioned into a loin cloth. Degel went to the mountainhomes where he served as a general for less than a month before he surrendered to a much smaller elven force, joined their civilization, and became a flower picker called Foranane by his Elven kinsmen. He did not learn Elvish. Okon and Lolor decided a fortress with a bad reputation would be safer to live in and settled in the fledgling fortress of Joytheater, a haunted swamp. They didn't even make it inside. The Overseer, it is said, founded a new fortress that, facing destruction, created a path from hell to the surface of the earth and ushered in seven hundred years of darkness that are not important to this story. Ashmon found a rock. Obok grew to be a man of twelve years old, became a hunter, and left Arrowstockades leaving his crossbow but taking his quiver with him. No one is quite sure what became of then for there are many stories and some of them are simply not true.

   What is known is that travelers tell stories of a lake in the mountains and is so deeply embedded in the thick would and rugged terrain one could only come across it if they were truly and utterly lost. On this lake ,they say, is a thoroughly unimpressive stronghold where the natural order is subverted. Where dwarves have no need of riches and no lust for war. In that stronghold it is said that they eat bland mushrooms and drink weak mushroom wine and work vigilantly to ensure their stock of the two never runs out. They have no silk but inexpertly spin coarse pigtail thread and produce coarse pigtail togas that may or may not be primitively dyed. They have no goblets here but they have poorly crafted irregular stone mugs decorated with poor pictures of flowers birds or other simple things. They are not troubled by thieves or raiders for they have no wealth, they are not overworked for they expect very little, they do not face horrible ordeals for their lives are very simple. It is said that if a dwarf comes to hate fortress life and walks into the wilderness then they may be magnetically drawn into the deep woods and the high mountains until they find Wanderedlake where they will be welcomed as brothers should they only find the overseer who knows well the message and speak the words “Fortresses Suck.”

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Dozebôm Lolumzalìs on February 20, 2015, 06:40:49 pm

This...

this is awesome.

As good as Boatmurded. No, better. This is the best.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on February 20, 2015, 10:16:40 pm

So there's no confusion: Yes the story is done. I actually started writing this when I was playing dwarf fortress during a weekend alone. A dwarf named Dumat Stakepondered stood in the wrong part of the battlements and was shot an absurd number of times by a gnomish ambush. She collapsed where she stood and was peppered with bullets until she managed to dodge one in one of the brief periods of consciousness. I put everything I could into saving her because I thought this was hilarious and named her Dumplin to keep track of her. Her child wandered into an ore vein in some difficult to access area of the fortress while she was in the hospital and she survived just long enough to pick him up and take him to the dining hall before bleeding to death for reasons that aren't entirely clear. When she was buried and slabbed as "Dumplin" I thought about how evil it is to change a dwarf's name and made a list of the other awful things dwarves had gone through under my leadership and decided to write a little story about one dwarf who went through them all. After I had dozens of pages written in one sitting I decided I may as well see if anybody else got a kick out of it and then two years happened. Sorry for all the missed updates, hope you had fun.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Thormgrim on February 21, 2015, 11:57:09 pm

it was a great read
this story really has resonated for me, when i think of the day-to-day suffering of ordinary dwarves
or more specifically, the shocking non-suffering they seem to manage under truly bizarre circumstances

i liked the twist ending there, too. reminded me a little of the Matrix when she is suddenly reading the Bay12 forums. It might have been a better twist if she found her own story on the forums, read how it ended, and then went up to face the gnomish invasion with full knowledge what was coming.

great story, Broseph

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: TheFlame52 on February 22, 2015, 02:48:20 pm

nice

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Dozebôm Lolumzalìs on March 01, 2015, 02:16:20 pm

Wait, so Dumplin's husband went outside and was zombified or something? I still don't really get that part.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Broseph Stalin on March 01, 2015, 03:58:34 pm

Quote from: jwoodward48df on March 01, 2015, 02:16:20 pm

Wait, so Dumplin's husband went outside and was zombified or something? I still don't really get that part.

While she was trying to get back in the fortress he left the fortress to look for her and was killed and zombified.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Immortal-D on March 01, 2015, 07:54:10 pm

There are no words to describe the feels :o Best part (aside from the whole thing, really) was her insistence that every Dwarf is important and worthy, even after confronting the legendary engravings in the twelfth bay. I wonder how many Dwarves would bail out if they were given the option. Instead, unseen divine forces compel them to stay at their new home until death or madness claims them. Bravo mate :)

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: icer667 on March 03, 2015, 08:56:16 pm

That was so amazing.

The whole story, in four hours.

I really got sad at the end, Dumplin has to be my favourite character in all of the DF stories I have read (Except for Ashmon, of course).

I also loved the "Urist Scarecrow" part, as it was a very intimidating and intense scene.

So, thanks for making this brilliant story, you magnificent bastard. I'll never look at dwarf fortress the same way again, knowing what I do to these innocent people. Actually, in that regard, THANKS ASSHOLE. ^{Just kidding please don't hate me}

TOGA!

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: tonnot98 on April 21, 2015, 05:50:00 pm

This extremely depressing story has led me to think of what I do with my own fortresses, in which I usually just gear up soldiers until a mega-beast decides to confront my forces. I love this story so much, and was sad at the last few updates. The "Ashmon found a rock." part pretty much summed up the importance of a normal dwarf.

Bravo, you magnificent bastard.

Title: Re: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin
Post by: Meneth on April 22, 2015, 06:44:13 am

There is another Dumplin, who arrived just after this story ended. He's had a bit more luck in his life. TeamFourStar plays Dragonball Xenoverse (http://teamfourstar.com/video/tfs-plays-dragonball-xenoverse-1/): The Adventures of Dumplin (http://teamfourstar.com/video/tfs-plays-dragonball-xenoverse-2/)!

Bay 12 Games Forum

Dwarf Fortress => DF Community Games & Stories => Topic started by: Broseph Stalin on April 05, 2013, 12:38:51 am