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7th Granite, 70th year of goblin reign.
Journal of Goxa Urarxost

Been stuck at this hole a week now.  The great irony is that for all the water around here, none of it's wet enough to drink.  Lucky we hit that great big firepit, isn't it?  Ozo stumbled across a solution to this one; dig out a trench directly beneath an ice floe, fill it with magma from the pit and catch the meltwater in a basin above.  If it weren't for how long the damn pit took to excavate, I'd be a much happier man.  As it is, we've had to sleep using trolls as bedding and comfort and we all stink to high heaven now.  What are we even going to do with all these trolls?


23rd Granite

After a fair bit of work, Ozo and Smanges have hollowed out a sort of rough building from the ice.  They've built up the walls around it, and honestly it's surprisingly effective at keeping the cold out.  We drove some poles of ice into the, uh, ice, and chained the alpha troll and seventeen of his favourite females up to them for now.  The rest... I'm thinking we're going to need to cull their population a bit soon.





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Good lord, fighting sixty trolls?  That would certainly have been Fun, but no, not today.


Edit:  A little fun with Stonesense really brings this to life...

Dostgnosp Sledasazstrog

Years and years ago, Dostgnosp had worked with Zom for Zolak Sulliedpoison.  It had been a harsh life, but what life wasn't?  Still, she had served the dark lord directly and been spared many of the harsher tasks a slave could be put to.  She had cleaned and tidied, prepared food and drink and tasted it against poison, served the master as he required it (but not serviced, one mercy for which she had her fatness to thank - the master had preferred a leaner build) and done her best to stitch up the cuts, bruises and gaping wounds the other menial slaves would suffer.

In the nineteenth year of recorded history, Zolak Sulliedpoison had been out riding a new mount he had received as a gift; a yellow llama.  Dostgnosp imagined his surprise when the llama had taken him into the fortress' central square and thrown him off, then stood up on its hind legs and burned him to a crisp before the watching eyes of all his kind.  The security of her servitude had been shaken, and like many of the palace staff she feared she would be sold on, perhaps straight to the mines with the rest.

As it happened she was sold, but into the service of a new goblin, one who had arrived with the new dark lady.  He had noticed the skill of the book-slave Zom and bid for her purchase.  Dostgnosp had simply come as part of the package of slaves that came with her, but it was still an escape.

Escape had been the theme of the last two weeks, journeying north into the frozen wastes.  When the horses had fallen dead from exhaustion, she had joined the other slaves in dragging the cart.  Limited as their supplies were, the master himself had fallen to butchering the horses for meat, but that was almost gone now.  She winced at the weight of the yoke on her shoulders, then paused as she spotted something in the distance.  Was that a plume?

The whip cracked behind her, and she trudged on a little further, but soon enough she caught sight of it again.  A plume of smoke, or maybe steam, and figures dotted on the horizon.  She turned around to alert the whipmaster, but he was already staring intently toward them.

Loksvig's Notes, 1st Slate 355

Busy couple of weeks.  We lost more than one good dwarf in the attack, and I lost a friend.  I remember the day Datan first arrived, barely able to stand with the rest of the refugees.  Never told him, but we were all proud of him for sticking with the military.  He was an inspiration, a true dwarf and a terror to the gobbers.  The place just won't be the same without him.

The new hotshot kid in the military, the one that has Broose's old job.  He got hit too, arrow broke his forearm.  By some miracle, didn't cut open his arteries, but he'll be out of commission for a while.  Worse, he lost his wife in the attack.  Won't talk about it, won't stick to bed rest.  Just drilling the militia harder and harder.  I guess loss takes people in different ways.

We got more people, too.  Refugees from the war going on out there, even a couple of old cons back from the prison break all those years ago.  Gods above, has it been that long?  Emerin's off her feet trying to deal with them all, she and Dani have been locked up in the office all week just sorting the paperwork out.  Not that we have paper, mind.

One piece of good news, work-wise.  The stream thawed out again, and the dam we set up has started redirecting the flow.  Now all we need to do is finish hollowing out the reservoir chambers and we'll be set.

Kiku Ustolsong

"Rebel" was such a strong word.  Just because he'd had a little disagreement with his boss over how to split the loot, and just because that disagreement had ended up with a knife in his boss' eye, everything had been blown out of proportion.  Actually nobody had cared about that.  It was the suggestion of not giving up taxes to Sheget that had wound up with him in this dungeon.

It wasn't even a particularly high quality dungeon, either.  Kiku had been in plenty of dungeons, albeit usually on the other side of the shackles.  He'd spent time in the burrows beneath the Citadel of Terrors, and he could tell you that those were dungeons worthy of the name.  Errant beasts, a maze of twisty passages (all alike), decent manacles and even rats that would try and eat your toes if you looked dead enough.  This was more of a holding cell.  Even the fish hooks used to suspend him from the ceiling looked second rate.  Honestly, it was such a disappointing place to end his life he was actually enjoying the torture.  Although he supposed that might have been the blood loss talking.

Sixty-five years in service of the Seductions.  First as a slave, then a freed man, then a slavemaster, finally a second in command to a lord.  He'd been on the up and up, he had.  Everything was looking rosy for him, or at least that pinkish shade you get in very fresh, frothy blood.  A lauded fighter, a regular in the pit fights, probably would have even kept the job as Lord if he hadn't let his enthusiasm get the better of him.  Ah, well.

Light struck him across the eyes like a mace.

"Ow," he muttered.  "Could you keep the light down?  Some of us are trying to die horribly here."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry," snorted the goblin who stepped through the door.  "I didn't realise you were enjoying yourself so much."

"Of course I'm enjoying myself, there isn't much else to enjoy around here," Kiku retorted.  "Or to suffer, besides your face.  You call this torture?  Where are the spinning blades?  Where's the pit of venomous scorpions, or magma?  Couldn't you have even managed some decent burning coals?  This a disgrace.  I have half a mind to report you in the afterlife, you know."

The torturer snickered.  He gave a helpless sort of shrug.

"Well, you know how it is.  You try to set up the acid pool, but they end up delivering you salt by mistake, and of course that kills the deadly war carp you were going to put in the pool as well, and the salt water causes the mechanisms in the mincing machine to rust up and before you know it all the interesting torture devices have ground to a halt.  And what with the limited resources I'm allocated by the capital anyway, I'm afraid you'll just have to make do with me flaying you alive with a rusty broken blade."

"Brilliant," Kiku muttered, rolling his eyes.  "Death by a thousand budget cuts.  Well, get on with it then.  Some of us don't have places to be."

"You quite sure about that?" the torturer asked.

"Oh, come on!" Kiku moaned.  "You're trying the 'false hope' routine with me?  I've done that hundreds of times, and I know how this goes.  You'll give me a chance to tell you what I know, to swear allegiance to the dark lady, and then you'll get my signature and then you'll kill me anyway.  Give me a bit of credit."

"Actually, I was wondering if you were still into the whole treason lark."  Kiku stiffened up, at least as much as the hooks digging into his flesh allowed.

"Well, that's a novel approach," Kiku admitted.  "Let's say I am.  Is the torture going to get any worse than you had planned?"

"No," replied the torturer, "but it might get better.  I'm willing to offer you a deal."

"Ah, here it comes.  Alright, humour me.  What will you offer me?  A pension for my family?  Don't have any, wouldn't care if I had.  Chance to die honourably?  Sod do I care, if I'm dead?"

"I can get you off the hook," said the torturer.

"So to speak," Kiku supplied.  "So what do you want?  Out with it man, you've held me in suspense long enough."

"Your service."

"I won't be a slave again."

"A villein, then.  Indentured servitude.  You're mine, but you keep the rights of a freeman.  I need someone who can use a weapon and doesn't have anything to lose."

"Alright.  Say you let me out of these hooks.  What's to stop me killing you and leaving?"

"Self-preservation.  You're a wanted man, and everyone who wants your bounty will be after you.  So, everyone.  I have slaves, resources and a man of my own.  You stand a better chance with us, and we'll last longer with you.  What do you say?"

Kiku mulled over the offer for a moment, then broke into a wicked grin.

"I say, what are we hanging around for?"



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Alright.  Just one more goblin to go, then we embark.  Right now we have an iron crossbow and ten bolts, a bit of food, an old anvil, two picks, a whip and a bit of sand in the wagon.  We also still need a name for the group.

Uzulek Osnonsnodub

Uzulek's morning routine consisted of brushing his long, violet hair; disassembling his crossbow; polishing and oiling the parts; reassembling it and finally giving it a test shot, usually at a post but sometimes at a small passing animal.  This routine played out, exactly the same, every single morning come rain or shine.  He had once conducted it in a muddy, blood-soaked ditch on the morning after a battle, nestled into as comfortable a position as he could manage atop the corpses of erstwhile companions.  Performing the routine on the back of a wagon in the middle of a sea of unbroken ice therefore seemed perfectly appropriate, even if his fingers were a little stiff for the activity.

Feeling the pace of travel lag a little, Uzulek unfolded his whip and gave a warning crack at the slaves dragging it, then settled back onto the supplies and stared at the horizon, trying to recall how he had come to this point.

Uzulek had started out as a slave, like most goblins.  Unlike most goblins, he had won his freedom through the tried and tested combination of service, loyalty and carefully arranged blackmail.  After ten years beneath the whip, he had bought his freedom and ventured out from the frozen capital at Bendstolen in search of his fortune.  Not a moment too soon, either, as the underworld had all but literally broken loose shortly after he had left.  The then-dark lady of the Aching Seductions Vilala Urngraves, a creature made entirely of water and twisted into the shape of a bipedal iguana, had taken it upon herself to challenge one of the great hydra, Seggu Cleanedsnarled the Lurid Rawness.  The battle, Uzulek later heard, had lasted for a full hour in which Vilela crushed three of Seggu's heads before the hydra had stomped her into a wet puddle.

Thereafter followed three years of civil war as every goblin took sides in a struggle for the position of dark lord.  Just as Vilala had killed and replaced Snamoz Profanestuttered before her, and Snamoz had murdered the first dark lord Zolak Vicemaligns two years into his reign, the position of ascendance by assassination was well-established in Seduction society.  Uzulek avoided the whole affair for the next three years, surviving on the land with his wits and his bow until a new leader, Zolak Sulliedpoison, had finally re-established order with an iron first.  Once that had happened, Uzulek had simply walked back into town and begun selling the pelts and ivory he had obtained during his exile as if nothing had changed.

Life went on.  Uzulek turned his hand to raiding and even briefly a spot as an overseer at one of the mines, mostly whipping slaves to do the actual work.  He eventually fell in with his current boss after a botched human rescue effort.  The boss had been impressed with Uzulek's aim and had offered him a job as whipmaster, with a decent wage and the option to take two of the boss' own slaves as pension when he eventually left.  Spurred on by dreams of starting his own entourage, Uzulek had accepted.

That was twelve years ago.  By then, the current dark lady Sheget Wanderbreached - may her fur be soft and fire, agonizing - had been securely entrenched on the throne for more than three decades, and the Seductions were looking to continue experiencing one of the longest periods of peace and prosperity in its brief history.  No doubt it still was for the most part, but Uzulek's slice of harmony had come crashing to an end with his boss.  One day everything had been going as normal; ordering the slaves to look after the herds, preparing for a coming raid, overseeing that half-eared girl's accounts on the boss' mine production.  The next day, a letter had arrived and the boss had given the order to clear out.  No time to get more than basic supplies, just grab everything at hand and stuff it into the wagon.  They'd had a couple of stolen horses to get them started, but the damned beasts had died of exhaustion by the third day.  After that, they'd had to hitch the slaves up to the yoke.

Uzulek awoke from his reverie and narrowed his eyes.  Figures on the horizon.  He readied his crossbow and hunkered down into the wagon for cover.





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Copy/paste with altered titles, mostly.  I tried using all fresh on a test embark and things went... poorly.  No admin, broker, exped leader, no military... yeah, it was fun alright.  There are a couple of changes, mind.  Noble positions aren't hereditary any more, so we'll see how that turns out.  Oh, and there's no re-elections for the mayor equivalent.  It's a position for life, with all that that entails.

20th Granite, 355

The same nightmare.  Always the same nightmare.

A battle.  Bolts, crossfire everywhere.  Struggling through the melee, through the press of shadows, he raised his axe and cut.  Shadowy figures fell apart, but there in the distance he could see one clearly, a shining silver apparition.  He fought towards it, the edge of his blade growing brighter against the shades.  Suddenly they came, the violet figures.  Three of them, from different sides, catching him on the mountain's edge.  The first crumbled into wisps of shadow as his blade passed through it.  Another caught him on the shoulder, but he shrugged through the pain and sliced away the top of its head.  A well-placed kick and the third was down.  He raised his axe to end it-

And then it happened, as it always did.  A bolt of black light, an impossible thing, passing through his chest from behind.  He turned, saw the shimmering silver figure standing above him, glaring brightly even as the darkness grew.  The silvered dwarf seemed to regard him for a moment, then it became liquid and drained into the ground.  He fell, tumbling through the shadows toward the endless sea of blue mist below...



Datan breathed in sharply.  He looked around, blinking, his muscles tense for attack.  He sat up, rubbing his face and moaning softly.  It was clearer now, clearer in his mind than ever before.  He spared a sad glance at the sleeping figure of Jora beside him, then sighed and fell back onto the bed, running his fingers through his hair.

Then the horn sounded and everything went to the underworld.



One of the marksdwarves had seen the first group approach, a dwarf and pikegoblins sneaking up on the lone miner, Ascubis, as he was trying to perform a little late night digging on the foundations for the southern district of the town.  The scout had cried out in time for Ascubis to dodge the arrow the enemy dwarf sent toward him and start running for the town gates.  He almost made it before another cry called him back.  Another dwarf, the mason Eshtan, had also stayed on to work.  The pikegoblins had him cornered, edging toward him with their spears.  Letting out a cry of fury, Ascubis lifted his pick and charged toward him.

Perhaps Eshtan might have lived a few moments longer had he not attacked, had he not scared them into stabbing rashly so they could focus on the mad miner approaching them - but it is unlikely.  The pikegoblins turned Eshtan swiftly into a fresh sieve, then attempted to do the same to their second foe.

Ascubis proved a little harder to manage.  With a mighty swing of his pick, he shattered the shafts of their weapons, then began laying into them afresh with the sharp end of the tool, mining fresh seams - into their skulls and chest cavities.  Oblivious of the bolts from the dwarven defenders around him, even of Jora's arrival and decapitation of the bowdwarf who very nearly shot him in the back, Ascubis dug deeper and deeper into the mounds of grisly flesh around him, immersing himself in an orgy of gore.



Unseen until it was too late was the second squad, an elite pack of bowgoblins sneaking toward the new apartment complex as their pike-wielding brethren served as a distraction.  By the time they were noticed, the first arrow had already planted itself in a dwarven chest.  Terrified citizens began running across the Onolite bridge in an effort to save themselves, but the goblins merely shot them through the gaps in the statues flanking the edifice.  Iden, the captain of the marksdwarf defenders, called for his squad to take cover as they began their own return fire.

Datan rushed toward the goblin archers, axe at the ready to save the day.  His breath felt cold with rage at the attacks, his chest beaded with sweat.  Perhaps, had he not been so intent upon his goal, the axegoblins would not have ambushed him so easily.  As it was three of them sprung up from hiding, each concealed behind rocks on the mountain's steep slope.  They closed in on Datan, hacking savagely as he did his best to try and fend them off with his shield.



The world went grey...


And suddenly they weren't goblins at all, but three violet, shimmering figures, their eyes burning with purple light.  They had not axes, but blades stemming from their very arms, and in Datan's hand his axe had become a thing of bright fire and fury.  He saw them move to attack and then he foresaw where they would move - no, he remembered where they would move.  And he struck.

The first goblin's scream was cut short as its jaw crumbled away beneath the mad dwarf's swing.  His chest and guts followed suit.  The other two froze momentarily in fear; the dwarf no longer seemed to even notice them, as if he were someplace else, some place in his mind filled with death and horror.  That moment was enough, as the second's arm came away even as he tried to swing.  The third, Olngo, pushed his former companion in front to catch the axe's next blow, but lost his grip on his weapon and cowered before the bloodstained terror before him.

Datan paid the second spirit little heed as it unravelled into the shadows.  He raised his axe to end the cowering third and then-

Then he remembered, and swung around instead.

The marksdwarf sneaking up behind him let out a gasp of anguish and surprise as the blade bit into his hip.  Almost on reflex, the crossbow discharged.

The silvery dwarf extended his hand, and a spear of black light passed through Datan's chest, stealing away his life.  He staggered weakly, brought up the axe, and as it passed through the dwarf the apparition melted into shimmering silver.

Olngo screamed as the halves of the marksdwarf tumbled down the mountain's side, but his scream was cut short when he was, and his head rolled down along with it.  And then, soon after, did the dwarf who had killed him.

The blue shadows swam up to greet him now, promising their cool embrace.  He could feel dirt and rock, his body tumbling over them, but all that felt like a passing dream now.  Here, in this place of shadows, he flowed like crystal water toward the sea below.

Not yet.

He didn't know if he thought it, or if the thought was placed into his mind.  He grabbed with one hand, and his fingers found purchase.  There was no breath in his chest, there never would be again, but somehow he found the will to hold on.  And bit by bit he dragged against the rock, the blue mists coming up and flowing into the holes where his chest had been, giving him strength, spurring him on.




Stug stabbed furiously, trying to fend off the waves of goblins crashing against him.  Where were they all coming from?!  He twisted, shoved, but they just kept piling against him, dragging and clawing with their bare, dirty fingernails, blotting out the light.  He lost grip on his spear, heard it fall to the ground somewhere away from him.  He dived toward it, but the wrestlers piled atop of him, crushing him beneath their weight.  In the moment before he died, he could see nothing but their mud and bloodstained green bodies, smell nothing but their sweat and hear nothing but their curses.

And then instead he heard their screams.  Light flooded back into his world as burly arms pulled them away, freeing Stug's arm so he could reach and grab the spear he had lost.  He wriggled out of the desperate melee, stabbing and punching where he could until he could catch sight of his saviour.  And there he was.

Datan, the bright starlight gleaming against the slick blood on his platemail, cutting away the goblin horde like so much wheat to a farmer's scythe.  He fought as if in a trance, as if in some other place, some other more beautiful world.  And even Stug could see that he would never return.  Two holes had been pierced in his breastplate; one at the front, one at the back.  The path would have passed through both lungs.  There was no way he could have been alive.

Stug drove his spear through the throat of the last greenskin and turned to his companion.  He called out to him, but he did not hear.  Instead Datan trudged across the barren rock toward the tiny brass shrine on the town's outskirts, dragging his axe at his side.


The light shone brightly from the citadel, a gleaming blue edifice of glass and cobalt stone.  Datan could feel it upon his skin, a cool, refreshing sensation like fresh spring water.  He trudged towards it, and some part of him knew it was hard, but he did not feel it.  His axe fell from his fingers and dissolved into light.  He passed through the great archway of the tower and stood before the brilliant light between the brass pillars, basking in its beauty.  And then the story ended.



Stug watched in silence as his friend knelt before circle of rude brass pillars.  Datan seemed to look upward at something in the sky, as if in recognition.  Then he slumped sideways to the ground, and he moved no more.





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Far too long coming, this one.  Pretty much accurate, though.  Datan got ambushed during the attacks, held his own easily against the axegoblins but got a bolt through both lungs.  I thought he was done for then, but he followed the marksdwarf that had killed him all the way down the mountainside (with two red lungs, I might add) and killed him, then dragged himself all the way up to the top of the mountain to kill the goblins ambushing Stug.  He lasted about a day longer before finally dying, keeping himself alive through sheer legendary Toughness.

Skrunge Osmospslonan, Scavenger

Skrunge stood on the edge of the world and looked out.  Naught remained of the land he had once known, taken now by fire and shadow.  Where once great cities had stood, green fields now rolled.  Forests grew where seas had once lain, and the mountains had become valleys and deserts.  Of his people, he alone had survived.

He stared at the tattered violet rags clinging to his shoulders, trying to remember some of what they meant.  The memory hurt, and his eyes wandered instead to a half-buried knife, stuck in the ground.  Feeling the need for a weapon, he sank to his knees and started scrabbling at the dirt.  For a moment he felt revulsion at the act, at lowering himself to this, but a part of him thought; Why feel regret?  This is what my kind do, isn't it?  My kind... who are my kind?




Skrunge stood on the edge of the world and looked out.  It had been a year now.  It had been a year, hadn't it?  Yes.  Yes, the trees were green again, the sun was back in its rightful place.  He could feel it on his bare chest, across his arms and legs and even through the loincloth of rabbit pelts he wore.  He tried to remember that first day, but the images came back hazy.  He had been smaller then, hadn't he?  His skin pinker.  He scratched at the wisps of hair still clinging to his chin and vaguely remembered that he had once had a beard.  Yes, a beard!  Long, and flowing, the envy of... of who?

Skrunge shook his head and sat down on a rock, pulling up to him the bundle of possessions he dragged every place he went.  Tied together with shreds of violet cloth and reeds, it held the various objects he had scavenged from the places he had travelled.  Interesting shells, bones, gourds hollowed out and stuffed with pressed berries and nuts, and here and there a precious half-remembered tool or broken artefact from the time before.

Skrunge picked up one of the gourds and picked nuts from the hollowed centre, crunching them between his teeth.  His teeth had grown sharper, too.  He seemed to remember some of them being flatter before, more suitable to-

A heavy crunch, then darkness.




Skrunge stood on the edge of the world, leaning heavily upon the worn copper pick, and looked out.  The chains at his neck chafed, and he bore deep scars from the years his collar had worn against him.  It was hard to see in the twilight, or it should have been.  His eyes pierced the veil of night more readily than before, much more so than the harsh light of day.  Had he once smiled upon the light of day?  No, no, he was sure of that.  He had found it repulsive even before.  Before what?  No time for such things; the masters allowed scant hours of rest, and he must take them.  He slumped to the ground and slept where he fell.


Dreams, dreams and troubles stumbled through his mind.  Flashes of cold, great chambers, of hard lines instead of the rough curves of caverns.  A figure standing above him.  A powerful figure, a creature of authority.  Father?

"We are all slaves," the figure was saying.  He could not make out the creature's face.  "Slaves to duty, you and I."

To duty, father?

"A great burden rests upon our shoulders, but we must carry it for the sake of our kind."

Our kind, father?  Who?  Who are our kind?

"Wake up, child."

What?

"I said wake up, slave!"


Consciousness, and with it the harsh sting of the driver's whip.  Another day in the mines, toiling for the glory of... of whom?  Goblins.  That's what they were called, wasn't it?  It was now.  Skrunge struggled to his feet and lugged the pick after him, but instinct made him stop.  The master spat and cursed at him, then swept his vile lash, but Skrunge scrabbled down the hill's edge and scrabbled in the dirt, first with his hands and then with his pick, until at last he retrieved it.  It was...  Skrunge did not know what it was, but he held onto it tightly, despite the driver's whip.  He would give it to the master, to the master alone.  The driver beat him until he could not move, but he did not release his grip.  At last the driver spat upon him and summoned the master to his presence.  Skrunge released his fingers and raised the gift to the master.  Then darkness descended upon him.




Skrunge stood on the edge of the world and looked out.  His collar had grown smaller, these many years, from the heavy iron yoke of the mining pits to the slender steel ring around his neck.  He scanned the valleys until his eyes fell upon the prize he sought; a broken wagon.  Corpses surrounded it; short, bearded corpses, their entrails strung out across the hillside.  Here, there, an eagle's feather, broad as a man's hand.  Skrunge scurried down the valley's side, keeping as best he could to the greenery.  There were riches to be found here; jewellery, food, tools.  Anything his strong green back could carry.  He loaded pans and tongs into a sack he carried, even a keg of stout ale.  He drew an old, rusted knife, its handle bound with threadbare violet cloth, and cut away a thighbone from each of the short, bearded creatures.  He and his knife would pretty them later.

Just before he turned to leave, Skrunge heard a cry.  One of the little creatures had not yet died.  It hid behind a sack in the very corner of the wagon, smaller even than the rest.  A child.  Skrunge flashed his sharp, yellow teeth, and the tiny creature squealed.  He seized it by the shoulder with his long fingers and stuffed it, too, into the sack and departed.




Skrunge stood on the edge of the world and looked back.  Times changed, the master's fortunes had not held forever.  Gone were the green valleys, gone the freely found meat and bone to chew and suck.  Gone even was the azure infinity of the ocean's edge.  Only white survived now.  White, as far as the eye could see.

White, and trolls.

Restrictions on Embark

The good news is that we basically have nearly 900 points to spend on equipment.  The really good news is that trolls only cost a point each.  We can also buy any colour of sand we want at a point per bag as well. 

The bad news is that goblins don't farm.  Period.  Technically I did reactivate planting in the labours menu because I can't access butchering or tanning otherwise, but I'm laying that one as a flat rule now.  No farming, only hunting and gathering.  To reflect this, there is neither seed nor plant nor (sob!) beer in the embark menu.  This could be a problem, since there isn't a running water source in this region either.

The worse news is that this goes double for wood.  Wood is not available to buy on embark.  The only wood we will have at the start is the wagon wood, and most of that's going toward beds for the free goblins.  And it's a glacier, so good luck finding any to cut.


Any questions?