Bay 12 Games Forum

Quote from: Rhaken on May 27, 2015, 05:27:03 am

We've all been in the shits lately, it seems. I'd try and post something, but I have to write thirty pages of stuff by sunday and it's not for entertainment value.

Get well soon, Xan!

Thanks dude!         And good luck on your writing project! 

There is no luck. There is coffee.

By the way, did you write down the migrants in the wave? It's relevant.

Anyway, suggestions?

Can you throw in the dates of Xan's journal updates? It's always nice to know what part of the year we're in. Also, don't forget to dwarf Breeso.

As for the tyrant vibe, you've certainly got that going on. It's interesting how Xan seems to be trying to glorify himself further with each entry.

I'll be getting to it soon; WinZip expired and I'm trying to do something about that. Expect a start-of-turn post soon if everything goes as planned.

Use 7zip. Works the same, no license, no fuss. It compresses to the format of your choice as well.

The results of the election were in, and the future of Crownhammers rested now in the hands of another. The afterparty - mandatory after all public affairs of state in dwarven culture - had started in the dining hall, moved on to the Cloudsculler, and died down at some point in the late hours of the evening. Half-drunken layabouts wandered the halls, trying to find their own sleeping quarters and probably getting the door wrong a couple of times before finding their own beds. The only dwarves that weren't even slightly plastered in the early hours of the year 203 were the ones with something to hide.

Them and the pregnant lady, of course. She walked to her old quarters, deep underground, forgoing her room with Bembul aboard the Cloudsculler in favor of the comfort of old stone in the final stretch of her term. Though she hid it from everyone, Bembul included, Atir was beyond tired of the way the other dwarves looked at her, the way they presumably talked behind her back. Dwarves married for life, after all, and only had children with their spouse. But there she was, unmarried yet carrying a child. A 'wee bairn', as Bembul sometimes said.

Bembul's attitude over the past few months had been baffling, to say the least. She was still young by dwarven standards, but she had often noticed how prospective fathers changed due to the impending bundle of joy, for better or worse. With Bembul, there was no such change. He didn't even seem to be warming up to her, much less opening up. Would he be a good father like this? Would he be there for her at all?

She was thinking on their child's future as she crossed the threshold into her room. Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw.

Bembul sat on her bed. He smelled of heat and metal. Beside him was a curious structure built of silver, filled with intricate yet smooth reliefs and figures. It took her a moment to understand that it was a cradle.

"Bembul, did you make this?"

"Aye," he said as he stood up. "I figured we were gonna be needin' it soon. Gotta have somewheres ta poot our child at night, ye ken?"

Atir was taken aback. He had never referred to the baby as 'their' child. It was always 'the' child, far more impersonal.

"You mean...?" She couldn't finish the sentence.

"Aye, lass." He took her smooth hands in his rough ones. There was still soot on them. "I'm here fer ye."

She tried to reply. Words escaped her. She kissed him instead.

They lay down together for the night. She felt her worries melt away even as sleep overtook her. She dreamed of a bright future with her beloved sailor and their child, in a place where the birds were alive and harmless and it rained water instead of blood.

She noticed his absence as soon as she awoke. She glanced around and immediately noticed that the cradle was gone. So were many of her personal effects. Upon a quick yet groggy inspection, she noticed that everything that could have conceivably been used as a weapon was gone. She put on her work clothes and tried going outside. On the other side of the door was no hallway, but a wall of smooth stone.

She had been walled inside her own room. A panic threatened to take her then, but it was quickly superceded by something else. A curious feeling, a will outside of her own. It commanded her to look around, to find a sharp object. There were none. The presence loomed over her, primitive, incoherent, yet stronger than anything she'd ever felt. It took over and pushed her to the back seat.

She felt like she should cry, or shout, or slump into a corner. She couldn't. Her limbs weren't responding, though she knew she was moving in some way. She felt something seize up within her womb. The pain was overwhelming.

The baby was on its way.

---

They had all been made aware of the orders. Watch the hallway with the walled-in room. Stay mostly out of sight. Change watch every six hours. Nobody outside of Balor and the Whalers knew what was going on, but it pays to be safe. Especially now with that lunatic Monarchist going around spewing propaganda.

Reg's first watch came up on the second day. He lurked out of sight in a dark hallway, where he could keep constant watch without being ambushed. Now it was just a matter of waiting for six painfully boring hours and hoping nothing went wrong.

---

Reg picked himself up off the floor. His skull throbbed like someone had been ringing it with a hammer for the better part of a week. What the hell happened? He had been standing by out of sight, watching the hallway where Atir was walled in, and next thing he knows...

That thought jolted him fully awake. He ran to the walled-up room, praying to the Old Dwarf that nothing had happened while he was out. How long was that, anyway?

His hammering heart took an abrubpt stop when he reached the room. The wall had been torn down from without, not merely deconstructed. On the verge of panic, he ducked his head through the doorway. No sign of Atir. Someone had broken her out.

Oh, shit. Oh, shit.

He dashed through the halls of Crownhammers, dodging farmers and haulers on his way to the Cloudsculler's upper floors. He barged through the hatch into the Admiral's office, expecting to find him alone as always. He was about to start calling for him when he saw Balor sitting at one of the wooden chairs, next to Taran himself. She was saying something about Xan, as far as Reg could tell, but quickly held her tongue once she saw him.

He tried to muster words, but the Admiral beat him to it. "Reg," he said in a tone that froze the blood. "I trust ye have an excellent reason ta abandon yer post."

Reg choked on his own words. The Admiral's piercing glare wasn't helping matters. He finally managed to stammer out, "Someone broke down the wall."

He had never seen anything move so fast. The Admiral was out of his seat and dashing past him before he could even give a detailed report.

---

Nobody had seen the Admiral for two days. Likewise his right-hand dwarf Bembuland his lass Atir. Though business carried on as usual, things were oddly silent down in the workshops without the steady rhythm of Taran's saws and hammers, and drink night aboard the Cloudsculler was infinitely more boring without his tales.

Of the entire fort, only Reg, Perseus and Balor knew the truth. The two elder Whalers had gone for a prolonged swim in the ocean of blood, seeking the vanished Atir. Reg reported from the crow's nest every few hours, always with the same information. No sign of either of them. They didn't even come up for air. He had never given Balor any details about the Drowned, not even that they had been trapped beneath the ocean for years. But what if they were no longer immune to drowning?

He sighted Bembul on the third day. He emerged from the rising tide like a wraith from the deepest ocean trench, drenched to the bone and looking hollowed out. In his arms he carried an extraordinarily pale-looking Atir, the swell gone from her belly. He made for the ship with a shambling, twitchy gait. His sunken eyes and deathly pall frightened every dwarf he crossed. A dozen dwarves looked up from their mugs and plates to watch the Whaler limp by, their conversations dropping to a hush as if they were afraid he would hear them and lash out like a wild animal.

Bembul ascended the staircase to the sleeping quarters and deposited Atir on their bed. Reg and Balor followed him in. Perseus stood in front of them, utterly confused, spear ready to strike in case things went awry.

The sailor craned his head around to look at them. He looked dead. He opened his mouth to speak, but a torrent of murky water spilled out instead. He fell to his knees, wretching. When he finally managed to speak, it was in a choked voice, far less vivid than his usual jovial boom.

"She lives," he said before pitching sideways. "I could nae find her afore th' birth, but at least she lives."

Perseus called out from the doorway. "Bembul, are you feeling okay?"

The dwarf tried to chuckle from his position on the floor. All he managed was a watery gargle. "I've nae had food nor drink fer three days. No, I dun feel okay. Now quit yer fuckin' gawpin an' help her, will ye?"

Reg helped Bembul to his room while Balor set about examining Atir's condition. Her vitals seemed stable, though her breathing was shallow. A blackened umbilical cord protruded from between her legs. It looked to have beem torn apart at the end, then chewed on by fish. She was halfway through removing it when a familiar voice sounded from the hallway.

"Where is she?"

Perseus could hardly believe her eyes. The dwarf before her was definitely the Admiral, yes, but he looked older. Far older, perhaps a century. Though his hair retained its color, the lines on his faced had deepened to pits. His tan seemed to have faded to nothing. She half-stammered, "Are you alright, Admiral?"

"I'll be fine, lass," came the monotonic reply. "Jus' need ta rest. But nae until I know how Atir is doin'."

"Balor is working on her, sir," Perseus said.

The Admiral managed to mouth 'good' before turning around and dragging himself up the stairs. Perseus tried to help him up, but the Admiral shrugged her off. Once at the top, he locked himself in his quarters. He would only emerge on the following day, looking exactly as he did before his prolonged swim.

---

Taran made his way to the hospital with Bembul in his wake. He barged through the door and made a beeline for the single occupied bed. Atir's. She was sound asleep, snugly tucked in blankets up to her chin. Even so, she looked pale and exhausted, and her breathing was shallow.

Taran shifted his gaze to Balor, who had gotten up from her desk at their intrusion. "How's th' lass?" He sounded unperturbed, but there was no denying the sorrow on his face.

"She had a lot of water in her lungs," the Legionary replied. Bembul cursed. "She'll be fine though, just needs a few days to rest. Even the birth seems to have left her unharmed. What I can't vouch for is her mental state."

"Whaddyemean?" It took Balor a moment to get through Bembul's thick accent to understand the words.

"She woke up a few times since. I tried talking to her, but all she does is cry. Silently. I'm no expert here, but I do believe she's depressed."

"I... see." Bembul's shoulders visibly slumped. He fell to his knees besides the bed, resting his forehead on the pillow next to Atir's face.

"Bembul, I'm sorry," Balor said, putting a hand on the old sailor's shoulder.

"T'is fine, doctor," he replied with the barest hint of a tremble in his voice. "I'm jus' glad she'll make it. I'll worry aboot th' rest later. Now, could ye... could ye gimme a few moments?"

"Of course." Balor motioned with her head toward Taran, indicating the back room of the hospital. The two of them went in and she shut the door behind them. If past experience was anything to go by, Taran fully expected another slap across the face.

What he got was an accusing glare instead. "Care to explain to me how you survived for three days in the ocean without coming up for air?"

"I'm nae certain meself." Well, that reply did nothing to ease her mood. "Ye already know that me an' Bembul are Drowned. I cannae give ye th' details, not in a place what isn't secured, but I will tell ye this. Our sea gods want somethin' from th' two of us. Until they get it - whatever th' hell it is - they'll nae let th' waters take us."

"Fine then." Taran wasn't sure if she was convinced. "What about Atir then? She was gone as long as you were. Are you telling me she's Drowned too now?"

"Ach, nae, that's easier ta explain. Bembul found her floatin' a few miles north o' here."

Balor seemed a bit less likely to strike him then. He pursued another topic. "What aboot th' wall? Any news there?"

"One of my agents examined the place. I didn't tell him what it was for. He says the wall was taken down from the outside, but that's all the evidence he could find. Couldn't even get anything out of passersby."

Taran cursed. "So now what?"

"Now we get back to work. I have a patient to attend to, you know."

They returned to the main hospital room to find Bembul standing by the bed. He looked much calmer on the surface, save for the fists balled tight enough to make his knuckles white. The two Whalers departed without so much as another word, leaving Atir is Balor's care.

It was only once they reached the meeting room of the Whalers that they spoke again.

"So now I s'ppose we sit on our arses an' do fuckall aboot this?"

"Nothin' o' th' sort, Bembul. We'll be busier than ever."

"How d'ye reckon, sir?"

"We've got ta find us a certain bilge rat an' have a chat with it. Though I do hope ye're th' one what catches it fairst."

"Why?"

"Fucker won't live if I'm th' one who finds him."

Bembul hadn't seen the Admiral this agitated in years. Not since he'd disembowelled the rapist all those years ago. There was no mistaking the fury on his face.

The Whalers were on the warpath now.

---

Bring on the next overseer.

Rith wandered through the great hall, seeing all the posters put up. She hated the new Monarchist party. She hated everything they stood for. Uzol, monarchy, nobles...


"At least they're loyal to something..." She thought out loud in a soft voice. She was thinking of the nearly half of the population of this hellhole yet to choose a side. "Those Monarchists will see the end of my spear before they come to power, I swear of it.


((I am going to have Rith ask the overseer's dwarf for adamantine weapons for the MOK.))


((I just realised that Might Of Killing spells out the last 3 letters of armok. Can I change MOK's name to "Attack Range Might Of Killing"?))

Rith has become pretty damn badass by this point. I think I'll give her the artifact spear. Don't expect a whole lot else.

Xan: there are no nobles, and I don't think there ever will be. They are appointed via the liaison, after all, and extinct civs don't get one. That being said, I'm going to need to know which dwarves you claim to calculate the election results.

I wonder if we'd be able to trap the birds in a roofed enclosure and use them to kill something besides our dwarves.

We do have a bunch of them in cages. We also have an undead duck head on the roof, happily quacking away.

Taran sat in his public office, waiting for his guest with a ledger in his lap. His actual office, at the top floor of the Cloudsculler, would be a much more pleasant place to conduct business, but it was also kept out of sight of the general population. Only Whalers conducted business there, and the Admiral's guest was no Whaler.

He looked up when he heard the knock. He had left the door ajar to avoid another airborne poisoning mishap, but this dwarf had chosen to knock anyway. Well, can't fault him for having good manners.

"Enter, do it please ye."

It was one of the recent migrants, the married one, armed with a winning smile and a confident gait. Taran wasn't much one for politeness, but business was business. He stood up to greet his guest.

"Good day to you, Overseer. My name is Serpine. Andromodo Val Serpine, at your service." Still smiling, the newcomer gave Taran a vigorous handshake. Taran noted that he had the hands of a lifelong worker, rough and powerful, though not as crushing as a soldier's grip.

"Glad ta have ye, Serpine," Taran replied. If the accent perturbed Andromodo, he gave no sign of it. "Now, what brings ye ta my office?"

"Oh, I merely wished to make my agenda known to the dwarf in charge," Serpine assured. He was still smiling. This dwarf was either high or lying through the teeth.

"Oh? By all means, oot with it then."

"I represent the interest of a politically active group called the Coalition of Steel," Serpine continued. "We found ourselves grossly unrepresented here in Crownhammers, so I was sent to remedy the issue."

Taran eyebrowed Serpine. "Very well. Crownhammers welcomes th' Coalition o' Steel. Best o' luck to ye in th' election. Now, is there anythin' else ye want ta discuss?"

"Well, there is one thing," Serpine considered aloud. "There seems to be very little in the way of entertainment to be had here."

"Well, we are a fledglin' fortress," Taran explained. "Our priorities still lie in makin' th' place liveable an' defensible. Fun an' games can come later."

"I see. Well, I do believe that is all then. See you around, overseer." Serpine was still smiling. "Remember, we of the Coalition are always at your service!"

"I appreciate that." A blatant lie. "Fare ye well, Andromodo Val Serpine."

They parted ways with another firm handshake. Once Serpine was out of sight, Taran left and made his way to his office aboard the Cloudsculler. Sitting at the table he had built with his own hands, he logged the day's events into a ledger. He would have to ask Balor about this so-called Coalition of Steel at a later date.

---

Winter had come to the territories of Crownhammers. The local dwarves welcomed it like they would a rude relative who eats all the food, defecates on the dining table, molests the cat and sets the house on fire before leaving.

The blood rains continued, but colder than ever. Flocks of migratory birds far overhead brought with them a sense of dread as they passed, southbound. Nobody could tell if they were undead or not. Their only solace there came from the four-dwarf crossbow squad the Admiral had appointed.

The Admiral's occasional nights of telling sailor stories carried on in the winter, though the venue had changed. His usual crowd had moved from the cramped dining hall to the more spacious ground floor of the Cloudsculler. They had evenings of stories and evenings of shanties. Taran had heard the rumor that Perseus had quite a voice on her, so he tried convincing her to sing every now and then.

It was after one of Taran's story nights, once most of the patrons were gone, that it happened. A dwarf with long hair and hands stained with soot approached him as he and Bembul cleaned up. She was fascinated by the tales of the high seas and the wonderful whaling songs. She wanted to be a part of the Admiral's group.

So it was that Alath Lirukonol, legendary weaponsmith of Crownhammers, joined the Whalers. It would be months yet before she would be allowed into the grotto.

---

"Year's windin' down, Cap'n."

"So t'is."

"D'ye suppose we'll be elected again, ser?"

"Bembul, I'm nae even sure I want us ta be."

The two old sailors stood in the crow's nest, gazing out over an crimson ocean. The winter rain drenched them in the congealed blood of elves.

"I hear our new mate Alath locked his arse in th' forges with nae but a piece o' adamantine last week."

"Aye, ser. Made us a spear what's worth more than th' half th' fort put together. It's one o' them recursive thingies too."


A murder of undead crows passed by, hundreds of feet overhead. The creatures didn't notice the dwarves in the settlement below. They wood have swooped in if they had.

"Are ye sure ye can go through with this, Bembul?"

The old Whaler sighed. "Shite, Cap'n, how should I ken? E'en with all we've done o'er th' years, nothin's ever compared ta this."

Taran held his tongue. They had already discussed every last possible detail of the plan, and it was quite clear that Bembul wasn't comfortable with it. Who would be? They were gambling with lives at this point. Discussing it further would only cause tempers to flare at this point.

Seeking a distraction, the Admiral cast his eyes over the land. Despite their unrestrained logging efforts, the southern portion of the territory was still a solid mass of woodland. He didn't much like that. Too easy for greenskins and hippies to hide in.

A hint of movement beyond the tree line caught his eye. He nudged Bembul, beckoned.

"...Th' fuck is that?"

The two dwarves strained their vision to make out the hulking shape wandering around outside the lands of Crownhammers, but were unable to make out what exactly they were dealing with. Whatever it was, it was moving away, to the southwest. Perhaps they wouldn't have to deal with it just yet. Taran would later leave a note with Perseus to stay alert.

---

They had spotted her from the crow's nest nearly a month before, but the creature had decided to stay away. Now she entered the lands around Crownhammers, attempting to sneak up on the unsuspecting dwarves. Unfortunately for her, the Admiral and his first mate had been spending a lot of time at the crow's nest, from which they commanded a view of the entire territory. Even more unfortunate for her, but doubtlessly fortunate for the dwarves, the Admiral had a voice that could be heard over thunderstorm.

"Ettin enterin' from th' sootheast! Get crackin', soldiers!"


Soldiers mustered outside the gates, their weapons eager to taste blood. Many among them felt the need to redeem themselves in the aftermath of the minotaur fiasco, and this was the perfect chance. They formed up by the trap line to the best of their ability, four underfull squads of melee combatants forming a loose wedge of fourteen dwarves. They waited as the ettin approached through the trees, hoping their drills would pay off and the rookie marksdwarves got there in time, but they had no such luck. It would be a brawl.

The ettin - female, if the teats were any indication - ran within charging distance. The dwarves broke ranks and sprinted toward their foe, shouting warcries and bracing for impact.

Perseus got there first. Wasting no time, she rammed the head of her spear into the ettin's torso. The tip bit bone, eliciting a cry of agony from the creature's left head. Perseus ducked a massive fist, then twisted and pulled. The spearhead came away bathed in blood and bile. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she wondered how she would fare on a whale hunt with the Admiral and the rest of the Whalers.

The Adamant Guard was hot on Perseus's heels. Their maces began crushing the bones of the ettin's legs and torso. Eral of the Fellowship landed a vicious horizontal strike that tore a calf bone asunder. The jagged, fractured tip of the bone pierced the skin and brought the ettin to one knee.

Both heads were now screaming, arms flailing wildly in a desperate attempt to throw off the diminutive attackers. The dwarves ducked, weaved and sidestepped the sweeping blows with practiced efficiency. Perseus's long spear wrought havoc upon the ettin's torso, shattering ribs and ripping through intestines. The axes of the North Papers arrived on the scene, and immediately went about the task of separating as many of the invader's extremities from the torso as they could. Momuz, the militia commander, drove her feather-light adamantine axe through an arm and a leg in a single, fluid cleave. A mace caught the left head straight in the side, landing hard enough to deform the skull. The screaming from that head faded to a reedy, agonized gurgle. A swing of brilliant blue, and that head was cleanly separated from its twin. Racked by grievous wounds and monumental blood loss, the ettin fell to the floor.

It was nothing short of a massacre. Weapons rose and fell across her form, ripping away limbs and shattering what bones remained. Spears skewered her massive torso, leaving gaping holes that pooled with blood. Momul concluded the entire violent affair with a decisive swing of the axe, taking the second head from its shoulders and ending the threat to Crownhammers.

The battle-lust died down then. The more recent recruits fought the urge to retch at the carnage even as the veterans among them went for a celebratory drink. On the way in, Perseus chanced a look at the top of the Cloudsculler's single mast. The Admiral was still there, though she was surprised to find him staring away northward, away from the battle. His gaze was fixed far overhead, staring at a dark mass in the distance.

The realization hit her before the Admiral could call out the danger. She ran inside quickly, bellowing for the soldiers to get back outside. They were long gone. She called out to the haulers around her, telling them to stay inside, but they would have none of it.

The ensuing carnage would tarnish what little reputation the military still had. The crows descended in a cawing maelstrom of feathers and decayed flesh, diving like falcons toward dwarven heads. Perseus ran outside, trying to intercept them, trying to save any dwarf she could, but the previous battle had left her weary. By the time she had reached the hill to the south, the hauler was already dead and the crows had moved on.

She followed the caws and screams northward again, toward the entrance. A new sound joined the cacophony, the sound of ducks. It came from inside the barracks.


Soldiers started coming back up from their boozing trip, alerted by a fortress-wide panic. They dashed outside, spreading every whichway, but they were late.

Later that same day, Tim would abandon his mother's arms and venture out into the world on his own. He was inquisitive for a one-year-old, already contemplating the concept of agriculture. He was not so perceptive, however, of the many grieving dwarves around him.

For the first time in months, the blood of dwarves had mingled with the blood of elves.
 

---

Well fuck me sideways, this week did not go as planned. I'd say "final update tomorrow", but we all know how that turned out last time. Hope you folks had a fine Easter.

There are only 7 days left in the year. Please perform all last-minute political maneuvers as quickly as possible so we can hand this save off to another player. I've taken far too much of your time as it is.

[Hope that was alright.]

Perfectly fine, Exodus. The meeting can be arranged, though you'll have to tell me the purpose of it at least. We can even write it up together over pm, though it would have to be fast. I'm stretching this too long as it is.

Small update within the next few hours. I'm considering finishing up the turn without a major bang so we can move on to the next player and finishing this storyline during the early part of the next year. What do you fine folks think?