Bay 12 Games Forum

I'm certainly sharing this on my blog. You're a professional writer, of this I have no doubts. Everything you said I know 10 times over, yet I still read it all.

Nicely done.

When I say gun, it's more flintlock, not so much 9mm, hehe. What's the term? Artistic liberty?

Anyways, seems like we got our 6.

Also, so I played a bit to get a feel of the map. Some things happened, and I feel like taking some more artistic liberty and running with it. I may end up making a story based on the first 10 minutes of my fort than anything else. We'll see how it goes.

As for Ishmae, I'm sure she'd love to. You'll see.


Degel awoke slowly, eyes adjusting to the light. A dull ache began to radiate from the side of his head. Where the hell was he?

He looked around, and found himself on a beach. He was soaked to the bone, and it seemed another wave was about to make him even mo-

"Wait, no, not the water! Fuck, fuck, fuck", he yelled as he scrambled from the water. He crawled 2 feet before collapsing on his stomach. Clenching his jaw, he waited for the boiling ocean to claim him.

But the water that hit him was as cold as ever. He flailed about in the 2 inch deep water, refusing the shame of drowning in such a shallow pool. He rolled onto his back, the ache in his head turning into a piercing arrow of pain.

Was it all a dream? Had he imagined that entire event?

"Uh, sir, uh, captain...uh, ph Armok, what was it?...Sir Captain General Penguin? Captain...uh...Penguin...sir?"

Degel shot up, the piercing arrow of pain now a pounding hammer of misery. He looked right, then left, in front of him (just in case), then right again. Where the hell was that voice coming from?

"Uh...I'm...behind you, sir."

"Aye, aye, always the last place I fucking look." It took most of Degels effort to face this source of annoying words. In front of him (well, behind him) was a fellow dwarf, larger in size than he, and with a beard that looked singed in many places. His cheeks were almost blackened, and Degel had a feeling it wasn't dirt.

"You are the captain, right?"

"I suppose I am. Or was. Or...uh...well, do you see a ship?" The two dwarves looked around the beach. The sand was black, as was the driftwood which populated it in both directions. There was certainly not a ship hiding anywhere in the surf.

"...uh...no, I don't"

"Then as far as we're concerned, I'm not a captain of anything." Degel got up, and soon the pounding hammer turned into a...well, he was tired of weapon analogies. All he knew is his head fucking killed, and he either needed a stiff drink or a stiffer dagger to plunge into his skull.

Speaking of which, where was his gun? He assumed he dropped it when...well, whatever hit him in the head. Probably debris as the ship was torn apart, maybe that damned mast, or -

"What, sir?"

"Huh? I didn't say anything."

"Yes, well, you started to. Said it was 'probably debris of the ship', right?"

Had he said that? He didn't remember. It was just a passing thought in his head, almost as if someone else was thinking it for him.

"Well then maybe I did, son, maybe I did. I have two questions, and they must be answered if we are to live." The dwarf's eyes grew wide, and he reached for a weapon at his belt that most certainly wasn't there anymore.

"We are under threat, sir?"

"No...no not anything like that. Or maybe we are. What the hell do I know? My head is killing me, like a cleaving axe and...oh shit, I said I'd stop doing that. Fuck it. Here are my questions. Where are we, and who the hell are you?"

"I...I don't know where we are. And my name is Fungus. I work with fire and ash."

"Excellent."

Of all the things his father taught him growing up, only two things really remained in his clouded memory: Always check under the beard to make sure that lass really IS a lass...and when someone passes you running like hell, you best start running after them, lest you also bear witness to whatever unnamed horror they saw.

Degel contemplated this second piece of advice as the mast of his great ship, Vesselpassionate, cracked in two. His crew was running wildly about, attempting to make sense of this...this...well...whatever this was. Degel had weathered over 34 storms in his time, all of which he was able to sail out of safely. But this...this was no storm. This was the sky...opening up. Like a mouth. And what came out?

Fire. Ash. Darkness.

The waves crashed upon Vesselpassionate again and again, tossing her like she was made out of Featherwood. The crew had cut the ropes attached to the great mast, anticipating it's fall, but it still caused great damage to the port side, bringing teams of screaming Dwarves overboard. The water was boiling. No other word for it. Steam rose around the ship, and the cries of those being cooked alive came from everywhere. Faces were scalded, people blinded by the spray of super heated water.

Yes, Degel contemplated his father's advice as he sat in his captain's cabin, gun in hand. Yes indeed he did.

"What you didn't see, father," the old captain murmured, "was the possibility that the fleeing man does not know where he is going. Oh yes, he's running from that horror, but it's in circles. Who do you follow then?"

Would his men think of his as a coward? Yes, most likely they would. He didn't care. Maybe he was a coward. Wouldn't matter when the only witnesses to his...weakness, were all dead. Cooked alive, impaled, burned...does it even matter anymore?

His ship was doomed. Fuck, the world was doomed. Hadn't they been the beacon of hope? The ripping of the skies was just a distant thought, a myth, a fairy tale...but...

"No matter, no matter," Degel muttered, picking up the gun. Indeed, it did not matter, for one benefit of being dead...was not having to deal with the struggle of staying alive.

He held the gun up to his head and pulled the trigger.



So! What I'm attempting here is a multifaceted fortress. First, the various "challenges" imposed upon myself.

-No stone furniture.
-No metal. At all.
-Wood only for buckets and beds.
-Glass only (explained later)
-No immigrants or traders (again, explained later)
-Set on the beach of a haunted ocean
-Limited resources


Phew. Think that covers it.

Alright, so the story will unfold as I tell it, and I don't wish to spoil a whole lot now. However, there will be only the 7 beginning Dwarves, and no one else. Further, for gameplay and plot reasons, they will have their professions already picked out.

However! I do want community involvement, so if you'd like a Dwarf named after you, then please put your name next to whoever sounds most appealing. Keep in the mind the name you use will be their nickname, so don't restrict yourself to your forum SN. First come first serve and all that. Once I get the 7, I'll continue the story.

Ok? Ok!

So,

Degel Degelkud, Miner/Engraver - Penguin
(male) Rovod Stukosnelas, Wood Cutter/Wood Burner -
(male) Iton Cerolfash, Furnace Operator/Potash Maker -
(male) Zasit Degekducim, Glassmaker/Gem cutter -
(female) Morul Esisathel, Fisherdwarf/Axedwarf -
(female) Morul Idenothsin, Mechanic/Siege Operator -
(female) Tosid Ezumigam, Cook (and all that entails. Fish cleaner, brewer, etc. etc.) -

Get a bonecarver to make suits of armor out of the poor dwarf's dead cats. Also make a bunch of bolts and a crossbow out of said kitty bones. Then give it all to one lucky dwarf, and have him face off with McBeserk.

Because Liasons are proper hist figs, I always find mine have like, near maxed out stats. To the point where they're zipping across the map chasing my apathetic Broker as he drinks or sleeps or admires a fine door.

I consider the trap thing a feature, not a bug.

I'm fairly sure Toady does as well. I swear I remember him discussing dogs and such getting trapped if they fall unconscious, and justifying it in some way.

I think people are forgetting one of the main reasons behind the issue.  DF is the Adams brothers baby...  On a purely sentimental level I can't blame them for not giving up any control of the project.

It's like spending years restoring a rare, classic car.....and letting someone else pick the paint job.

No. More like restoring a rare, classic car, taking pictures of it, and getting mad when someone photoshops it a different color.