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One hell of a birthday present.   

Worldgen seems a lot faster, even if the initial movie is a lot slower.  Ohh, but this is goood.

Toady, you are brilliant!

Jora's Journal
13th Moonstone, 354

Ragna's alive.

She came at the head of a column of goblins, a couple of dwarves amongst them.  Not Stonebreaker's lot; the dwarves were feral, beardless.  Snatcher-kin.  They used to tell us stories about them in the mines.  All the strength of a dwarf, all the cunning, but the malice of the gobbers, the hatred twisted so bad they call it love.  Onol's tin beard, I hope to never have to face one of those myself.

I watched things from the parapet with the marksdwarves.  We thought she'd pulled a Broose on us, turned to the enemy, until we realised they were chasing her, trying to pincer her between two groups.  Chasing and losing.  She doesn't fight the way I do.  For me, the sabre's a skill, an art-form.  I take pride in a clean arc, a graceful cut.  She's a soldier, like Broose.  Technique isn't important, so long as it gets the job done.

The first of the snatcher-kin was down the moment the pincer closed, both legs cut out in a short half-slash.  She barrelled through the gobber shock troops, grabbed one of them and flung it straight into an archer's chest to stun it before she cut its head off.  Marksgoblin got her in the shoulder - she pulled it out, stabbed him in the eye, kept going.

The whole thing was over by the time Broose and Stug got to the field.  Broose held back and shot at the gobber reserves, Stug got out there with his spear and just started stabbing and stabbing, screaming curses in that foul tongue the gobbers use.

Gods, I'd almost forgot he was one of them.  He speaks so dwarfish now.  You'd almost think he was a real person.

They all dogpiled onto him, so thick I couldn't see him.  Ragna started going for him, but before she got there he just threw them all off, shaking them like a pup after the rain.  After that he jsut started ripping into them, crippling their hands, their feet, making them scream with pain and rolling over.  He didn't even set about to finishing them off until all of them were lying screaming on the field.  When he did, the way he looked... like it was a duty, like he was bored of it.  A clean stab for each one, through the heart then let them bleed out onto the stones.

Everyone crowded around her in the evening, of course.  You could barely move in the hall for dwarves.  Turns out she got trapped under the rubble at Meadowfort, took her a day to dig herself out.  Got lost after that, ended up in the north part of the desert living off prickly pear juice.  That's where she ran into the gobber nation.

They're calling themselves the 'Evil Thief', led by some she-demon.  It's them that Stonebreaker's been slaving gobbers from, and they crushed Milecamps to make room for her.  There's an occupation force at Lanternwebs too, now.  This war just got a lot harder on everyone.

But at least she's back.  That's giving us all a lot of hope.

Danielle's Inventory
24th Limestone, 354

Astesh has finally left the blockworks, and has a brand new bed to show for it.  Granted, the bed is carved entirely out of bauxite with a depiction of an historic battle in cameo on cave lobster shell, but we all agree that it's a very nice bed.  Astesh was mumbling something or other incoherently about 'ergo-gnomes', so I suppose it must be divine inspiration.  Or gnomish inspiration.

The trade wagons arrived today, as well.  The Liason, Datan, managed to get one of our dwarves to carry a message back to the Searing Crypts.  The wagon leader seemed... surprised.


------------


The elf stepped off the lip of the wagon, garbed in a rich spidersilk brocade and deep royal purple coat, trousers and slippers.  Like all his kind he was a picture of health and beauty; tall, graceful and ever-youthful, with immaculate hair and stunning blue eyes.  His features were marred only by a gentle furrowing of the brow.

"Where is he?" the elf demanded as Emerin approached the wagons.  The mayor, wanting little to do with the affairs of elves, simply gestured to the currently vacant Guard Captain's apartments.  Blustering past the small crowd of curious dwarves, the elf wrenched open the stylish bauxite doors and gasped, the furrow of his brow turning to a mask of horror.

The creature that stood in the doorway was undeniably an elf, and yet no Elf could consider him kin.  Dressed not dissimilarly to his fellow, save that his clothes were in deep prairie rose scarlet and fashioned as of a higher rank, the elf still looked imposing, even handsome.  Nevertheless, the elemental grace of his kin seemed to have left him.  His hair had grown paler, robbed of the richness and vigour of youth, and his skin seemed thinner and more translucent.  Faint wrinkles were visible around his eyes and lips and there was the suggestion of bags beneath the former.  The greatest physical change was to his irises, a pale scarlet to match his clothes, but the most noticeable change was to his expression.

Where elves had regality, Datan showed dominance.  Where elves had dignity, Datan showed coldness.  His lips pressed back into a perpetual sneer, his eyes narrowed slightly in continual suspicion and barely-restrained aggression.  With barely a handful of changes to his expressions, Datan's beauty had been robbed of him, replaced by cruel, dark power.

"By the Force," the visiting elf breathed.

"Yes, it was," intoned Datan coldly.  "Embrace me, Sarvesh."  The elf did so, albeit after a moment's hesitation.  Datan clasped him tightly, if stiffly, then released him.

"So it is true," Sarvesh said, his voice tinged with awe and fear.  "You took the forbidden step."

"And lost my right to be known as an Elf, yes," Datan confirmed.  "My need was great, however, and we have given up so much already in the name of peace with the dwarves.  How are things in the Mountainhomes?"

"Strained.  Heads are rolling over the recent losses, but the army's mobilising for retaliation.  Who are this lot?  This place isn't on any of our maps."

"Strays, scavengers and criminals.  Exiles, but I owe them.  It's not on the maps because I kept it secret.  Now it needs to be."

"Why keep it secret?  The Queen will throw a fit when she finds out."

"It was a good place to shift the liquor surplus, and if she wants to throw a fit then she can throw it at me!" Datan snapped.  "But as far as she or anyone else in the Crypts needs to know, it's just a struggling outpost.  If I hear mention of walls, or guards, or especially the damned militia they've got set up, I'll hunt down each and every member of this caravan myself!  The last thing the kingdom needs is to believe there's another threat out here; Her Majesty will need all her troops just fighting off Stonebreaker and the goblins."

Sarvesh pursed his lips, looking around the little walled town and at all the short, dirty dwarves glaring up at him.  He glanced upward as well; three dwarves were apparently just lounging on the nearby town walls, but their crossbows were quite visible.  He sighed and raised his hands.

"As you wish, Datan, but I cannot promise it will be without consequence.  For you or this place."  He signalled to the wagons to proceed toward the covered market in the brightly coloured Nishan chapel.  "For now, join me, brother.  I am sure you have much to say."

"Not so much as I do not," Datan remarked, but followed the wagons regardless.

Eilam peered over the parapet, frowning at the slight column of dust.  He started and immediately began shouting out the alarm.  Up ahead in the distance, approaching the town from the east was a thick column of soldiers, eagerly pursuing a handful of desperately fleeing souls.

The first of the figures, a tall and emaciated figure with red eyes and dead, white hair, raced ahead of and apart from his fellows, but not without pursuit.  A small contingent of goblins and an axedwarf had broken off from the main column, gaining ground on the runner.  One of the goblins, an unarmed smang, managed to grab hold of the runner's arm.

Something flashed in the runner's eyes, an animal snarl twisting the elven features, and the goblin's stomach lurched.  By the time it realised what was happening, the elf had already fractured its arms in three places and was several strides back in the lead.  The goblin slumped to the ground and writhed as its fellows trampled across its broken form in their chase.



The second and third figures, a swordsdwarf and axedwarf both fleeing with surprising grace for their heavy plate armour, had rather more on their plate.  More than ten times their number charged after them, raging and waving their weapons in ill-contained fury.  At their rear, a handful of uniformed figures strode purposefully after them, armed with heavy crossbows and grim steel breastplates.  Two held back, studying the battlefield.

"We should not be here," one of them muttered.  "I feel you made a mistake, Captain."

"Perhaps that is why I am the Captain, and you are the Sergeant," Broose replied.  He glanced down at his crossbow.  Loaded.  Good.

"There is no tactical advantage to bringing this few men this close to such a marginal target,"  Petra noted.  She glanced at the advancing figures, calling the marksdwarves around her to a halt.  Only the goblins, bowgoblins and a handful of dwarves were still running.  She ran a thumb along the holster of her own bow.  "Do you suppose you don't make mistakes in your plans?"

Broose looked away.

"Do you suppose I don't?" he asked, as if something else was on his mind.

"No."

Both swung their crossbows to face one another, each levelled perfectly at the other's head.  A moment of shock, then the remainder of the marksdwarves had raised their bows as well.  Out of the corner of his eye, Broose counted where the bows were pointing.  A third at him, two thirds at Petra.  Good enough.

"Join us," he commanded, and around him the marksdwarves shifted so they were facing their kin on the other side, almost as a wall.  "There's a place for you here, Petra."

"I already have a place," she replied coldly.  "You saw to that."

"Perhaps, but a dwarf can change where she stands."

"Maybe I think a dwarf should pick where she stands and stick to it."

In the distance, bows twanged and unseen combatants cried out.  There was a slaughter going on, but for whom?  Petra held Broose's gaze, steel for steel, then finally lifted the tip of her crossbow an inch.

"Stonebreaker's going to know everything that happened, you know," she said, carefully taking steps back along with those marksdwarves still loyal to her.  "He'll hunt you down like a purring maggot, even if he has to tear down this place to do it."

"Maybe," Broose conceded, "but he'd have gotten to that eventually anyway.  For what it's worth, I hope we never meet again, Petra."  Petra nodded soberly.

"So do I, Broose," she said.  "Because that day, I will kill you."



Eilam cranked back the winch on his crossbow.  Most of the squad pursuing the elf had been taken down in the first volley, but Ascubis had already rushed out there with a spear to lend aid.  He had done so by displaying as elegantly as possible the intestines of two of the goblins.  Just as he drew back his spear to take out a third, Eilam's bolt sailed through the air and caught the goblin neatly through the eye.  Ascubis turned to face the parapet and waved a fist.

"Kill stealer!" he yelled. 

Eilam laughed, but it was cut shout by a piercing wail from the west.



Ousire wrenched the alarm whistle with all her might, glaring furtively at the heavy iron door to the smithy.  Since the disaster those months before, she had forged a barrier herself, but from the plaintive whining sounds the guard dog had already fell foul of the invaders.  A sudden cessation and distant crunching sound confirmed it.  She planted her back against the wall and picked up an iron, stabbing it into the magma furnace until it burned.

She waited, hoarse breaths threading through her lips.



The smithy siren wailed through the city, through house and home and even to the tiny dark room of a solitary dwarf that nobody had seen for months.  Alone in his bed, a silent figure lay as if in sleep, troubled by unending dream.  The cry sliced through stone and air and even through such dreams, for in that moment poor Dastot the soaper awoke, freed from comatose slumber!  He breathed, he cried, he thanked the gods for his relief!

He burst through the door into the streets and cried praise at the miracle of his awakening, and then a crossbow bolt slammed into the wall next to his face.  Dastot, of course, screamed and ran like a little girl.


Eilam ducked down behind the fortification and black barbed arrows and steel bolts rained over it and into the city beyond.  He could make out figures running, screaming - hey, was that Dastot?  He'd heard he'd been in a coma for years.  Huh.  Eilam's mind snapped back to the moment when he saw Thob, one of the furnace operators, in a bloody heap in the street.  A bolt had cut through his hand, and the broken shaft of an arrow protruded from his back.  It looked as if the latter had cut cleanly through his heart.

"Get to the smithy tower!" one of his fellows cried, raising his crossbow and rushing toward the Onolite platform over the magma tube.

"No!" Eilam cried out.  "The walkway isn't fortified, you'll-"

A hail of arrows thudded into the markdwarf's body as he tried to cross, clattering through the many statues on the bridge.  Eilam let out a bestial roar and wrenched himself to his feet, firing down at the archers; one, two, three bolts and suddenly his quiver was empty.  He fumbled for one on the ground nearby, but as he tried to winch back the bolt he saw in slow motion the archer drawing back his bow, the arrow ready to sail in a perfect arc to him and cut short what little defense he could still offer.

The bow snapped, the arrow twanging harmlessly away, as an arc of steel swept through the goblin's body.  Jora stepped past and into the fray of archers, her sword cleaving long swathes as not far away the dwarf Datan brought his axe down upon skull upon skull of attackers.  Eilam opened his mouth to order another volley upon the goblins.

"Fire!"

Bolts rained down on the invaders, halving their numbers in a single stroke.  Eilam gaped, blinking in surprise at the blonde-bearded figure at the crest of the hill, a detachment of marksdwarves behind him, each reloading their bows with mechanical efficiency.  The dwarf gave the order again, and a second volley cleaned away the last of the goblins.

Eilam took off his dented helmet and scrambled down the side of the walls, running across the blood-soaked field and wiping the sweat from his brow.  He scrambled up the side of the embankment and became aware that Jora and Datan were close behind.  Jora asked the question first.

"Broose?  Is that you?"

The blonde dwarf nodded.

"Aye, and I've brought friends, and plenty of news about Stonebreaker to boot."  He frowned, looking about.  "Where's Ragna?"




----------------

A short FAQ

Why did you go?

Frustration, work commitments and frankly cowardice.  One of the biggest problems I have with OK is that much of it's written in advance (or rather, the game events) and I have to keep filling in the gaps.  The heavy update schedule was kind of making it difficult alongside a second three-a-week story to update too.  But cowardice would be the reason I didn't say any goodbyes.

Why are you back?

People kept bugging me.  I received such a heartfelt outpouring of appreciation for the story that it rekindled my desire to write it again.  Everyone hates writing to a vacuum.  But this time, perhaps we'll take it a bit slower.  1-2 updates a week, or maybe short updates to make it easier.

So, let's try this again.

Actually, everyone's posted their turns that's active, so this is entirely my fault.  Quite aside from the increase in hectic activity in my life outside these boards, there's a significant power imbalance in the raiding system right now - the yetis are trumping every raider they meet.

So that's getting fixed before I do kinseti's exploration rolls.  Basically everything else is done, but if I don't get that coding done, he'll have a significant army of wolves at his disposal (moreso than he does already, I mean).

Other rift yetis, yes.  Also, I'll accept new players if they make a submission.


29th August Edit:  Update tomorrow, busy weekend.

The liason signalled a retreat for the remainder of the troops into a large, bin-filled room.  Ragna, Jora and Datan pressed their backs against the wall by the storehouse doors, Ragna slamming the heavy bar down across them.  Jora looked to the outpost liason.

"So what now, elf?" she snapped.  The elven Datan smiled wanly.

"Well," he said, "I thought this was the north storehouse, but it looks like we've just barred ourselves in the wrong bloody room."

"What's so great about the north storehouse?" the dwarf Datan asked.

"Secret passage through the walls," the elf shrugged.  Outside, the heavy creak of metal sounded the troops bursting through the portcullis.  "Fat lot of good that'll do us now."

"Check the bins for weapons or shields," Ragna ordered.  "Try and get hold of anything we can use in a fight."  Datan put his axe through one of the bins; a small hill of millet flushed out.

"Ah, crap.  Farming supplies."  He ran a hand down his face and through his beard, then readied himself by the door.  Somewhere beyond it, deep screams were coming from above.  So much for the marksdwarves, then.  "Well," Datan grunted, "I'm not bloody well going to die here."

"You seem pretty sure of yourself," Jora pointed out, readying her sabre.  Over by the bins, the elf was rummaging through bins.

"Let's just say I think my appointment with Deler's already been set.  What's the bleeding elf doing?"

"Aha!" cried the elven Datan, pulling a single seed from one of the barrels.  "Got it!"

"Got what?" Ragna asked, rubbing her wrists.  She was starting to get a bit tired from all the killing.

"Our ticket out of here," said the liason with a grin, albeit a humourless one.  "All I need to do is debase the sacred teachings and renounce any vestiges of my heritage as an elf."  He snorted.  "As if joining a bunch of dwarves and living underground didn't already do that."  Jora tilted her head.

"Which involves what?" she asked.

"Mud," said the elf.  "I need mud, and as much of it as you can get before the soldiers get in.  Everyone, kick the mud off your boots into a pile!"  Bewildered, the garrison dwarves began scraping mud from their boots as the elf turned to Ragna.

"Captain," he continued, "what I need from you is simple.  Blood."  Ragna raised a bushy eyebrow.  "Goblin blood for preference, but once this gets started any blood will work.  Even yours, if you get cut down.  Do you have some idea what I'm going to do?"  Ragna nodded slowly.  Suddenly the door began to shudder with heavy banging from the other side, splinters of wood cracking from the bar.

"Steady," the captain growled.  Around the room, the dwarven troops readied their spears and axes, and the elven Datan placed the seed he had found in the clump of soil.  A palpable tension hung in the air as the door continued to splinter and crack.



Ragna held herself, back to the wall, sword in hand.  She could feel her senses sharpening, a looseness entering her muscles as it always did just before a fight.  The heavy breathing of her fellow soldiers across from her, the harsh grunting of the goblins in between the sharp cracks of the ram.  The bitter tang of blood in her mouth, the polished grip of the longsword in her fingers, the subtle reverberations of the Force through her feet.  Something shifted, and her arm began to move.

The door exploded open and the first goblin charged through, clutching the end of the ram with both hands and raging a terrifying war-cry even as Ragna's blade cut through his throat, reducing it to a wet gargle.  Dark crimson shimmered; from the blade, from his neck, from the pool spreading in slow silence across the floor.  The moment it hit the dirt, chaos erupted.

Ragna's senses exploded.  Instead of the crystal clarity she always felt in a fight, everything sank into confusion.  She became aware of herself swinging wildly, hacking at goblins and dwarves with an almost lunatic bloodlust.  Somewhere distant from her, she could make out the forms of Jora and Datan in the haze, the blend of elgant swordplay and brutal axedwarfship holding out against the onrush of attackers.  Something slashed her arm and her blade cut deep into a dwarf's collarbone, severing his beard and driving a deep gash through his windpipe.  His scream seemed sharper than the others, echoing through her skull like a beating mace.  She could feel herself sinking away, all senses fading except for one.


Rage.  Pure, unadulterated rage.  Something was tearing at her, wounding at her.  Somewhere above, somewhere in the world of little things, little things were killing one another.  She reached up, reached up from the dark, dreamy slumber to see the cause, to look through eyes and hear through ears and taste through lips.  She found an opening and began to perceive.  At first dull, unfocused, then with rapid clarity.  Pain, pain here too.  Cuts, gashes in the flesh.

She flicked the dead metal in the creature's hand, sending the annoyance flying across the room.  The eyes lingered on the sight for a moment, on the body with the hair upon its face cloven and the flesh beneath it rent, and the ichor seeping from it.  Something was wrong here.  The blood was burning up, turning into crimson gas and flowing through the room, the body drying and dessicating and burning with fire, and how it hurt!  How it hurt her!  Was this the cause of her pain?

She flicked the dead metal again to maintain her eyes a little longer, sending three more creatures to a similar fate.  Once more their blood boiled and flowed through the air, and this time she forced the eyes to watch the path.  The blood, the smoke, the living force flowed to a seed, a seed forced into growth unnatural.  A thick, bulbous vine pressed against the raised and dead stone, forcing it apart, forcing a hole in the wall on the dwarf-made cavern.  There, next to it, a creature stood, eyes red as the boiling blood.  The source of the pain, of the unnatural growth.  Tormentor.  Betrayer.

She moved the figure forward, cutting with the dead metal anything in its path, moving it toward the creature that dared to do this, that dared to tear at her flesh for its gain.  Something was holding her back.  Many somethings.  Dragging the creature down with them.  She struggled with the creature, to little avail, but there were other ways.  She eased herself out, moving away, moving back into slumber.  First, though, she roared.


"Ragna!" Jora yelled as the horde of goblins began piling over the dwarf, frantically slashing at them with her sword, an unexplained madness in her eyes.  Jora began advancing toward her, cutting at the goblins to try and get to the captain, but suddenly found her footing askew.  She tumbled to her knees as a thunderous tremor surged through the earth beneath her.  Grains of mortar shook loose from the ceiling, but the tremor only kept growing.  Datan grabbed Jora's shoulder.

"Jora!" he shouted.  "We have to get out, it's a bleeding earthquake!"  He pointed to the corner of the storeroom.  Dried, dessicated bodies of dwarves and goblins alike were strewn across the room, some turned to grey dust, but a vast and strangely ugly-looking green vine had spread across the room, laying its tendrils in them.  The vine had forced through the mortar in the wall, breaking open a hall just wide enough for a dwarf to pass through.  Draped over a bin close by, an exhausted and haggard elf showed only the faintest glimmer of life. 

Jora supposed by the clothes it to be Datan, but this was the only clue.  What glamour and youthful beauty the elf had possessed was gone, drained away and replaced by a wrinkled, aged figure with translucent skin and hair, bright blue veins traced clearly through his skin.  Jora glanced back; she could not even see the captain any more under the press of greenskins.

"Gods damn it!" she swore, grabbing Datan's arm and running with him to the makeshift exit as the ceiling began to crumble above.  She hefted the frail, almost weightless elf onto her shoulder; for all that had been sacrificed, she might as well get the damned payload.  The liason opened his eyes and stared at her for a fraction of a second as they passed through the hole; the blue had been leached from his eyes, replaced with a pale pink.  He shut them the moment they passed into the sun, cringing at the harsh light.

With a cacophanous roar, the inner bailey of Meadowfort collapsed.  Far from a spectacular crumbling, the corner of the building appeared at first to sag, then with the slow inevitability of an avalanche began to slide to the ground.  As Jora, Datan and the elf made their escape, a handful of lumps of masonry cartwheeled after them in a final parting shot by the keep.  When they had reached a safe enough distance, Jora turned to look back.

Nobody crawling out of the wreckage.  No survivors escaping by the skin of their teeth.  Just dust, settling.

They turned and began the long trek home.




---------------

And now I'm back in England, where I do have my notes again.  I've made my sentiments about holidays known elsewhere on the boards, so I shan't repeat them.

Hopefully, that means we'll be back onto a more regular update schedule again, soon.  In the meantime, here's a little sketch to go with the post.