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« on: March 06, 2009, 06:38:34 pm »
A Flame Extinguished
Chronicle of the Fall of Flamegate, as told by Urist Kolnunok
Keshaninod, Flamegate, had been my home for most of its history. I led a mostly happy life there, and was even blessed with a faithful husband and a loving son. As the only bowyer in the fortress, I was entrusted with the task of crafting the wooden crossbows our soldiers would use time and time again to repel the incessant goblin onslaughts. The attempted sieges were seldom accompanied by tragedy, but occasionally a dwarf or two would succumb to either the ruthless hacking and slashing or the intimidating arrow barrages of the greenskins. Still, akin to the unyielding mountains before the wind, we weathered these invasions along the years, and respectfully mourned our few dead.
Little did I know, little did we all know not goblins nor any other foreign threat would be the cause of our home's downfall. Fate would ultimately deliver all the tragedy we had evaded all those years in a single season, in a single blow that would utterly shatter the resolve of the entire fortress.
Spring will never mean happiness, love and trees blossoming for me again. What transpired in the Spring of 212 was the absolute anti-thesis of those concepts.
It all began with the kind of goblin assaults we had gotten used to. However, unnecessarily hasty defensive preparations left a child stranded outside the fortress, at the mercy of the greenskinned marauders, and his short legs could not get him far enough. From the fortifications on the first floor of the gatehouse, one of the marksdwarves allegedly witnessed the goblins pelting him with untold amounts of foul arrows. The youngling was reportedly still standing after the first barrage, despite the fact at least three projectiles had been driven into his flesh. The repulsive, sadistic beasts spared no expense and fired another daunting barrage at the child, inevitably felling him this time.
Due to the same hasty procedures did another child perish, getting fatally crushed by the raising drawbridge. The Captain of the Guard and her children were rushing into the gatehouse when the young dwarf tripped and was caught in one of the large, iron chains flanking the scarlet bridge itself. The Captain kept the incident to herself for some time, but one could see it in her eyes something had happened.
Before long our experienced marksdwarves had ridden the world of a few dozen goblins, but in the meantime a certain planter, the father of the child downed by the invaders, had been getting increasingly upset and violent about his son's demise. In an attempt to retrieve his body, I saw him dash outside along with the troop of close combat fighters. Having a son of my own, I sympathized with the farmer, but stayed inside. As per routine, our soldiers had to make sure the entrance's surroundings were clear of enemies before the rest of us could initiate the scavenging of the battlefield. But the grief-stricken planter allegedly insisted on his desire to see his fallen child's body immediately, even though General Greenbane, head of the infantry, had strictly forbidden any outdoors activity while the field was cleared and wounded greenskin stragglers dealt with.
The continued argument devolved into an outright fight, in which the farmer managed to pull a warhammer off a soldier's hands. During a moment of insanity, while yelling and cursing, the despairing dwarf swung the hammer at one of the drawbridge's thick chains. The resulting hit crushed one of the links enough to allow the sheer weight of the rock bridge to snap the whole chain. The drawbridge shook violently and the other chain, suddenly over-exerted, yielded as well. The rocky surface shattered and plunged into the river below, along with the reckless planter and two champions. They might have been saved if their fellow dwarves had jumped in after them. But even the bravest of the soldiers hesitated and backed down, perhaps rightfully so given their full suits of heavy armour. Not even the leather-armoured marksdwarves stepped forward, masking their fear of deep water with perhaps excessively pessimistic remarks, already stating their brothers were dead, trapped by the falling boulders on the river bed, claiming any rescue attempt would only result in more deaths.
You will have to forgive me if my memory henceforth fails to deliver as much detail. What followed was the biggest catastrophe to ever befall Keshaninod, and forced me to witness such level of chaos and carnage I am astonished my mind still possesses a modicum of sanity. Please bear with me.
Perhaps the destruction of the main, red stone bridge, the very icon of Flamegate to outsiders, was an ominous sign of what would ensue shortly after. The news of the death of three more dwarves deteriorated what could have been a bearable, and eventually forgettable, episode. The families and friends of the drowned began blaming the opposite side for the unfortunate incident, and sooner than later, once more, arguments devolved into violence. The Fortress Guard was tasked to intervene and restore order, but it only made matters worse.
As the heated situation escalated into outright riots, the fighting began to result in both dwarven and animal deaths. My husband tried to get our son and I away from the increasingly dangerous centre of the fortress, but we were separated in the confusion. As our bright minds began to fall to blood-crazed maddwarves or madness itself, I desperately dashed towards the living quarters, hoping to find my family in our humble yet exceptionally-engraved room. I was stuck in a daze as I wandered about the blood-stained, corpse-ridden halls, still unable to believe how my beloved home had suddenly become perhaps deadlier than a filthy goblin lair. Finally, I found our family's room, in the western side of the quarters wing, and locked myself in it. However, neither Bomrek nor Datan were there. Trying to ignore the wailing, raving and screaming going on outside, I sat on the bed and cried. I never saw them again.
I pondered the idea of taking my own life, over and over, but at least some part of my wrecked self refused. My family, in the unlikely event they were still alive, would have either lost their sanity or be locked in some other of the dozens upon dozens of rooms. I wanted to go out, I wanted to go out and look for them, but I was scared, I was overwhelmingly frightened. I was certain there were still insane, murderous dwarves, consumed by grief and anger, roaming about the fortress. I could definitely hear the moans of wounded, agonizing dwarves locked in their rooms. My Datan and Bomrek could be amongst them, but I was aware of the mental state of the population. I could very well try to enter the wrong room and receive only an iron bolt through my throat.
Curled up on the bed, I waited for some time. I lost track. I might have waited an hour. I might have waited ten, hoping things would calm down. But they did not. The screams and the moaning continued. During my cowering, I could swear I heard the despicable dwarf known as the "Hammerer" arguing with General Greenmane and another champion. Then came the clashing of steel, yelling and screams, and then there was silence.
I knew I would go mad as well if I stayed any longer in the hellhole Keshaninod had become. With great care and trembling legs, I stepped out of the room, firmly gripping my crossbow-making knife in my shaken hand. There was blood on the walls, trails on the floor, no matter where I saw. Corpses everywhere, littering the engraved passages, filling the heavy air with the intolerable stench of death. I tried not to look at the face as I lurched forth in the darkness, so to avoid recognizing anyone, which if I did, I knew they would haunt me forever. Above all, with all my heart, I did not want to find my husband and son, dead and bloodied, murdered by some unknown hand.
By the time I made it past the vandalized workshops, I had encountered several survivors along the way. That is, if deranged, rambling, starving dwarves can be considered "survivors". They had clearly lost their mind, so I was prudent enough to discretely avoid them. I have never had the stealthy skills of a hunter, but the poor souls were perhaps too immersed in their own, twisted thoughts to care about their surroundings.
I could also hear the sound of steel clashing and the occasional shout coming from the barracks, but I did not dare investigate. As I approached the food stockpiles, despite my constant daze and ever-present shock, I fortuntately had the presence of mind to gather some rations for the presumably long trip that awaited me once I made it out of the fortress. The gatehouse was isolated with the destruction of the drawbridge, and the small eastern entrance was on the wrong side of the river. The trade depot tunnel was my only option.
Thank Doren, the inner bridge had remained lowered, so I could make it past the inner traps and up onto depot's level. I was surprised to find some stranded elven merchants and a couple of their beasts of burden there. In order to prove I was not one of my crazed, berserking brethren, I immediately put away my knife. It had a wooden hilt, besides. After I explained the state of the inner fortress, they decided to leave, and agreed to take me with them. Elves are not to be trusted, but I did not have a choice. Admittedly, my trust was not misplaced. That time, at least.
On the ride out of Flamegate's territory, I saw more dead goblins that I expected, and also a destroyed caravan with human bodies all around it. These details led me to believe there was another greenskin attack while the fortress was in turmoil. I can only guess what thwarted the second invasion. Perhaps the still-loaded traps and oblivious human caravan guards combined were enough to break the goblin resolve, or the loot of said caravan enough to satiate their lust for ransacking, preventing them from marching on into the fortress and finish us off. Some things I will never know.
For the first time in my life, I was glad to be outside. The sun was only a minor nuisance, compared to the unbearable miasma of rotting bodies and the sight of blood everywhere. The elves dropped me off a league or two away from the border of Katakzuglar, our proud nation, before heading off to their own lands. Zepave Rimane, I think was the name.
I was the unfortunate one to deliver the news about Keshaninod's fate to the Queen. My service was appreciated, and I was given a new home in the mountainhomes. However, the carnage and riots still haunt my dreams, and I can still hear the screams at night. Not a day goes by in which I do not regret having fled instead of stayed and searched for my family, even if I died trying. I was too frightened back then, and now I curse myself everyday for not being braver or, at least, a better wife and mother.
My darling Bomrek, my beloved Datan. Forgive me.
