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   "Hera?"
   A distant cry echoed around the high walls of the temple, breaking the silence that had engulfed it not long beforehand. It bounced off the decaying limestone walls; it buried itself within the rubble that covered the floors; it decayed within the overgrown fronds of ivy that had crawled in through the windows. But, ultimately, it fell upon deaf ears - for there was no reply, nor any sign that a creature of any nature had heard it, for the interior remained as still as it had been before.
   "Hera!"
   The call repeated, more urgently this time. It was like the calls of a young, starved chick to it's mother - thin, and wailing.
   "It's no use, Baldr. She can't hear you."
   There was a quiet sigh in response.
   "I'm sorry, but I don't think anyone could have surviv-"
   "She isn't dead!" Baldr snapped, directing his fury at the other speaker. There was a sigh after a short pause. "She can't be dead."
   "You should be glad you're still alive. You were lucky to escape that rockfall with such minor injuries."
   Silence.
   "Doesn't mean I deserved it," Baldr grumbled, his voice barely audible across the temple. "Why does everyone else have to pay for my stupidity?"
   "Perhaps then you might learn a lesson?"
   "Are you calling me stupid?"
   "No, I'm just sa-"
   "Perhaps I am. Now look what I've done! Now we're trapped in this godforsaken temple with no food, no water..."
   "Baldr..."
   "...Not even a bloody campfire. Can't you see, Aesir? We're both going to die in here, and it's all my fault..."
   "Baldr!"
   "What!"
   "Get ahold of yourself, will you? Honestly, I've never heard someone moan so much in my entire life!"
   Baldr heaved a sigh and threw himself onto the marble tiles underfoot. "The gods hate me," he concluded.
   His companion shook his head, the kind of motion made by a man at his wit's end. "That rockfall was just a freak accident, Baldr. Nobody could have seen it coming."
   Baldr retreated from his companion's gaze, dropping his eyes towards his feet. Aesir never quite understood the way that bad things always happened to people around him, and it was only a matter of time before Baldr's bad luck caught up to him, too. Hera had been one of his childhood friends, as the two had grown up together, and now she was lying, probably dead, underneath the pile of rubble that was now keeping both of the would-be adventurers trapped within this ancient temple.
   And it was Aesir's stupid idea to come in here in the first place. It's not like such a ruin would have any treasure left, it would have been picked clean and left to the bears already.
   "...maybe if we use some of this rubble, we could..."
   Right now, bears were the least of Baldr's worries. What if the place was haunted? He'd heard a lot about the malevolent spirits of men, tortured by their continued presence here in the mortal plain and not in the aether where they rightfully belonged.
   "...and perhaps some of these plant stems are woody enough for firewood?..."
   Can't blame them for being insane, Baldr thought. i'd go insane, trapped in the same world as such incompetent fools as Aesir, people who are so blind as to the prospect of treasure and what not that they charge headlong into whatever disas-
   "Baldr?"
   "Hmm? What?" Baldr suddenly felt himself yanked back into reality.
   "Did you listen to a word of what I've just said?"
   "...No?"
   Aesir sighed. "You're impossible, you know that? I'm trying to organise some way we could get some warmth in here while we decide what to do next, and you're too busy brooding in your dark thoughts."
   Baldr glared at him. Heartless bastard.
   "The least you could do is pay attention."
   "Alright, fine," Baldr muttered, before adding, sarcastically: "At your service, master."
   Strange, that. These two were supposedly friends.

Hi, peeps. Lib here.
Don't know how many of you saw my little attempt at a fan-fic style write-up of one of my dwarf fortress games, which ended quickly after I managed to lose my save file  , but I've been into the prospect of writing for a living for a while now.
See, I'm only 16. Still got a long life ahead of me, and I don't intend to spend it cooped up in some office somewhere. I want a career with a bit more freedom, something flexible that I can adapt to and shape around my life, rather than having to shape my life around my work, know what I mean?
Anyway, getting to the point, I intend to try my best at becoming an author, but I'm probably going to need a bit of practice first. Sure, I've got a load of decent ideas and a whole universe to base a novel in buzzing around in my head, but I'm not that brilliantly well known. I've only recently picked up on my talent for creative writing, strangely enough. I guess I've never made the effort to sit down and write anything worthwhile in the past. So, my intention is to post up short stories and the like, and you guys tell me what you think of it? I won't use any of my novel ideas though, in all likelihood, as I don't particularly want anyone nicking them, heh. Sure you understand.
Not too much to ask... Right?

Is it just me who thinks farming is a bit overpowered at the moment?

I think we should tone down the produce. Say, make plants that have growing times closer to 9 months or so, and make it so that plants can only be planted out in one season or similar. Except perhaps plump helmets, which are the ones that really need nerfing, which can be planted any time of year, but take about a season to grow.

Also, would it be possible to implement orchards? So growing trees and harvesting the fruit once each year, which increase in yield as they grow until they finally die? And then these 'orchards' could be farmed for logs as well.

I understand weapons and the like need rebalancing at the moment, but I've got a suggestion as to how these weapons should work.

For starters, edge weapons should still rely slightly on their weight, especially if wielded two handed. An extremely sharp dagger is on par with a greatsword for cutting flesh, but not armor - perhaps the weight of a weapon should add to armor penetration?

Secondly, keeping with the idea of 'armor penetration', edged weapons should be more effective against flesh, whereas heavy weapons should batter through armor with ease. A knife is better at cutting meat than a maul, but a knife isn't so useful against meat in a breastplate.

Thirdly, weapons should be able to be dual wielded. I like to organise my dwarves into individual types - for example, footsoldiers are there to take the majority of beatings, and should be very tough and outfitted with heavy armor and shields. Berserkers, however, are my more agile dwarves, armed with their axes, leather armor and superior speed, and are meant to keep just out of harm's reach as they dole out punishment. You can guess that they take a mashing if they aren't skilled enough. But that being said - what is a berserker with only one axe? Naked. They should be able to wield two.

Also, the native dwarven weapons should be expanded. We have axes, swords, crossbows, hammers, maces and the like, but how about things such as mauls, which are big two handed hammers, two handed axes, greatswords, morningstars, and other hefty weapons and the like? I understand that the game has already got greatswords and greataxes, but these are too big to be handled by dwarves. Wouldn't the dwarves simply forge their own two-handed weapons? After all, you can probably get more strength into a sword swing if you use both hands.

Am I being followed here? Good.

Next, why do artefact weapons always follow the basic ideas for weaponry, and the dwarves aren't being creative? 'Artefact' weapons could be randomised to a point, for example a large axe with a spear-point on the top, so it can be used to skewer the enemy and hack their arms off?

And, finally, can shields have an impact on the wielder's accuracy with their weapons? I don't know about you, but if I had a huge tonne of steel strapped to one arm, i'd feel a bit more off balance when swinging a weapon. Perhaps this penalty could be mitigated as the user's aptitude with shields increases?

As an aspiring author, I treat this as just a way to practice, but felt that I ought to share it with the rest of the world. Because you might like to see it. ^^
This story is about one of my current forts in 40d. (I still use 40d mainly because 31.03's a bit buggy for my liking. Things like the vermin bug annoys me beyond belief, but also the fact Visual Fortress is only available on 40d... what? I LIKE VF!)
Anyway, here goes. I've kept this as narrative as possible, seen through the viewpoint of my hunter. I've used each dwarf's individuality as a template for their characters, as well as added a fitting back story to match their personalities.

* * *

   'Fikod Erithuvel, I have found your son guilty of murder and mutilation, and I charge you with assisted murder. How do you plead?'
   Fikod stared up at the captain of the guard with a grim horror reflecting off his eyes. 'For the last freaking time, I had no idea my so-'
   'SILENCE! Guilty or innocent!' The Captain of the Guard screamed, blasting the hushed whispers of the assorted crowd into a stunned silence. Mestthos sighed.
   His son, a sickly and depressive child, had recently been struck with a maddening rage, by memories of when his mother was slaughtered by a kobold in front of him just a few seasons back. He had claimed the butcher's workshop by night, and sat in there brooding with malicious intent. Fikod had no idea what his son was planning, truely enough. Instead, his son had acted entirely off his own independance, and it was the first time he had gotten up after narrowly escaping the same kobold with his life.
   In the recesses of his mind, Fikod knew this was all his fault... he had stolen the key to the butchery late one night, intending to talk to his son again over his irrational act. Instead, as the lock in the door had clicked open, the young boy had burst off and was hobbling quickly down the corridor. Before Fikod had the chance to pick up his thoughts, he saw his son dragging the general's wife from her quarters, kicking and screaming, into the workshop. The guards who had followed this child so far caught Fikod red-handed, stood bewildered in the middle of the corridor, key lying in his open palm.
   'Well?' The Guard Captain asked.
   Stood in the middle of the arena, with most of the rest of the population of the fortress above him, Fikod made his pleas.
   'Guilty,' He stated.

* * *

   That was six months ago. Fikod Erithuvel, Zon Gerig's widely known hunter and disgraced father, was sentenced to exile, after being forced to watch his son being torn apart by the resident cave spider that had been trapped, wild, in the recesses of the pit.
   He hadn't left alone. He and 6 other dwarves, also convicted of numerous crimes across the city, had been shunted out of the mountains and into the forbidding wastes beyond. Each had thier own stories to tell, but all of them were not truely the villians at heart the world had made them out to be, instead either framed of their 'crimes', or like Mestthos, who had been closely associated with a crime they truely had nothing to do with.

   First of these dwarves was Eshtan, a real gentle giant in his twilight years. He had been involved in a mining accident that was caused by poor planning, sending a huge clod of soil through the entire noble's quarters. The Guard Captain had accused him of sabotage, and the onlookers knew better than to stand against such an accusation. They tethered him to a post outside the entrance as a warning to all who may enter as to what lawbreakers were treated like. He was later exiled for treason and witchcraft, as he had carved a small figurine into the archways with the likeness of the baron himself, and driven a chisel clean through the figurine's chest. He had left alongside Mestthos, taking pity on the hunter after seeing part of the display in the pit a few days prior.
   Logem Keldumat was a woodcutter and a skilled carpenter, having spent years training under her father. She was exiled for her complete disrespect of authority and numerous infringements on mandate orders. She and Domas had wandered the forests outside of Zon Gerig for a few months, before their camp was discovered by Mestthos after he too had been exiled.
   Domas Morulistbar was always a natrual leader, once an aspiring member of the fortress guard, and was quick to take up on the idea of leading a small party of exiles to their new home. He had put himself into exile after saving Logem from her fate at the fangs of the spider, to avoid any repercussions on his place or life. He had also managed to barter a few trinkets, including the ring that Fikod was given by his son before he slaughtered, in return for a wagon, and a year's worth of supplies. When asked about why he saved Logem's life, he quickly changes the subject, usually with a weary glance to see if she's listening.
   Mestthis Allasshorast, old friend of Eshtan, had been outraged by the shame his friend went through, being chained up half-naked at the entryway into the fort, and failed an attempt to rescue the old man. Fikod escaped into the wilderness, where he drove himself mad with starvation until he was finally discovered by Domas and his band of exiles, where he slowly began his return to civilisation.
   Shorast Athelod had a unique mind. She was an artist, an extremely talented craftswoman. She was also known as a 'devil in the kitchen', for her skill in culinary abilities. She had wandered away from the fortress early one morning in search of inspiration, and never returned - instead she had walked straight into the growing group of exiles, and had decided to leave her poverty-striken past in Zon Gerig behind.
   Finally, Zaneg Dodoksarek, who had always been a selfish, yet dutiful dwarf, he had entered Zon Gerig as a lowly peasant and had filled in as many odd jobs as he could, in hopes to endear himself to the nobility. When he had become the cheif butcher of the fortress and a skilled brewer to boot, he became wrapped up in the case of Fikod's son's murder - Zaneg had also been scrutinised, for allowing the child to claim his butchery in the first place. He had stormed out in rage, and soon found himself travelling alongside the other exiles.

Deep in the opposite side of thier home mountain range, The Problematic Spikes, the seven exiles had finally found a place to settle, at the dawning of history. But would their little band, Ulengdomas, 'The lost guild', hope to survive long in the savage wastes that were to become Atridthortith, 'Blossomspell'?

* * *

   'Domas?'
   'Yes?'
   '...Are we there yet?'
   'Oh, do stop bothering me with that Fikod, dammit! We won't be on the wagon much longer now. Atridthotith is only a few leagues away.'
   Fikod sighed with relief. 'Good,' He muttered, dangling a pair of cramped legs over the edge of the stuffed wagon. He respected the archietect and his amazing charisma, but couldn't help being so frustrated at the way he took complete authority over a situation. Like the way he had bartered away Fikod's only real material possesion besides his clothes and crossbow, in return for supplies. A neccesary sacrifice, but Fikod had only remained on speaking terms with the supposed leader because he had gotten a shiny new set of slick leather armor from the deal, mostly crafted from the tanned hides of giant rats, creatures known for their thick hides. An odd gift, but Fikod was an odd person.
   Besides, the shock of losing his son was so distant now. They had been on the road for six months, and Fikod had grown distant from his past in that time. Besides, Shorast was right. The best cure he could have for the past was to cast off his memories and begin anew, and she had even offered to take him through the entire ritual neccesary to pledge himself to the god Doren, which he had found unneccesary. Not that that had ever stopped him from feeling melancholic from time to time, his mind scarred by the last images of his son clawing at the sides of the pit, huge fangs digging into the heart of his back.
   Fikod blinked the images from his eyes. He didn't want to think about that now, no matter how unavoidable it was. Remember what Shorast has said, he told himself.
   'Remember what I said,' Shorast's voice echoed Fikod's exact thoughts. An uncanny habit of hers was to know exactly what you were thinking from the slightest signs - so much of a look could tell her everything.
   With a sigh, Fikod turned to the front of the wagon again.
   'Domas...'
   'Not yet!'


A picture of the embark locale.