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« on: October 08, 2008, 03:44:58 am »
Author's note: I have made a conscious decision against absolute fidelity to the dynamics of the game; I'm leaving out the exploits, bugs and other oddities and adding in certain concepts that haven't been implemented yet, but hopefully keeping a DF 'feel' to the story. Think of this as a DF v1.0 fanfic.
Dedicated to the original StarkRavingMad, who did it first and best, and the other survivors of Boatmurdered.
Chapter 1: Breaking New Ground
I must say I've had more auspicious starts to an outpost. Young Urist insisted it was the first day of spring, though I'm damned if I know how he could tell; the weather was just as gloomy, overcast and generally depressing as it had been for the last fortnight, though at least the rain had eased off for a bit. An imposing hill of grey dolomite rose before us, the southernmost true mountain in the long range known to the humans as the Smooth Points of Pride, the Goblins as the Great Eastern Hunting Grounds and us dwarves as home. This wasn't the wealthiest site I've ever been posted to; the nearest flux stone or coal was a couple of hundred miles away, and the prospector's report suggested there'd be sod-all in the way of gems or precious metal. Not that I was complaining. There was plenty of good iron ore, more trees than we'd use for charcoal in a dozen lifetimes smelting it, a fast-flowing river with good fishing and a well-travelled road a few miles downhill. Most importantly, as far as I'm concerned, it was safe. The site was easily defensible -half a day's work with pick and shovel and we'd have a passable moat- the nearest goblins were the better part of a week's forced march away through bad country, and there was nothing more aggressive than the odd fox or deer for miles. A better location for peaceful semi-retirement after forty years behind pick and blade for Ral Swaeringen's Roaring Boys and another ten in the Fortress Guard was hard to imagine, and since my darling Rith had returned unto the Earth five years past and the kids were all grown and moved away, I felt it was time to make a fresh start and get in a few more good years before I saw her again.
We turned the animals loose and got a fire going for some hot food, and I spread the map out on a handy seed barrel. The survey team had drawn in the approximate borders of each rock and soil type, and I'd spent the trip sketching out a rough plan for the settlement we'd christened Ironbends. Nothing too grandiose, just workshop and living space for about thirty, with storage space for enough food to get us through a bad harvest or two and a sizeable underground reservoir.
"Okay everyone, first order of business after lunch is to get the food under cover and sort out somewhere for us to doss down, not to mention something to doss down on. Urist, you have the wagon down and start knocking up some furniture; we should have enough lumber for everything we'll need for the time being, but if not then give a couple of oaks the Last Rites or whatever."
"Right you are, boss; just leave me a list of what you need." Urist had been a bit of a lucky find on my part. He'd grown up in some one-anvil backwater in the foothills on our border with Elven lands, near one of their more neighbourly settlements, and had taken such an interest in their culture that he was actually considered an honourary elf. Literally; he'd performed a bunch of rituals they normally keep pretty close to their chests, particularly the ones about their supposedly highly secret methods of ethically harvesting wood. I wasn't hugely surprised to learn that the crux of these elf-kosher methods boiled down to them being the ones doing it, but Urist was one of them in all the ways their priests were supposed to care about, and that meant one less diplomatic headache to contend with. The fact that he was a bloody good carpenter, a better woodcrafter than most dwarves twice his age and a top-notch herbalist didn't hurt either, and once you got past the shyness and the air of quiet mysticism he was a nice enough kid.
"Cog and Zan, you two do what you do best; we're not short of food but as far as I'm concerned the more the merrier. Besides, there's only so many ways you can cook plump helmet."
"Right y'are, boyo," replied Cog, taking a collapsable wooden rod from his pack and snapping it into position. 'Arrowhead' Zan just grinned in a faintly worrying fashion and cocked his crossbow. I was beginning to have my doubts about bringing him along; his fieldcraft and marksmanship were beyond reproach and he'd come with good references, but he was a lot happier in his work than I was entirely comfortable with. I've seen eyes like that on the battlefield.
"Good lads. Everyone else, you're on digging duty. Dastot, you're with Reg, Likot's with me. And if any of you lot sneak off and crack open the booze before we're done it'll be my boot up your arse!"
"Blimey, guv'nor." Likot remarked. "I heard you were a hard-driving bugger, but they didn't tell us the half of it!"
"You're the one who wanted to get out of dear old Uncle Ral's shadow, lassie," I chuckled. Ironically, it was actually old Stark Raving Mad himself who recommended his niece to me, and I have to admit she wasn't exactly pioneer material at first glance; damn good mechanic and a better bookkeeper than I'll ever be, and even pretty handy with a crossbow down on the butts, but younger than all my kids and hardly a day spent away from the Mountainhome. Still, she was keen as mustard and quick to learn, and her utter refusal to trade in on her uncle's name said a good deal about her spirit.
We ate quickly, conscious of the lingering chill in the air and the wind whistling up and over the hills. It was coming straight in from the sea, which augered for yet more shitty weather; did I mention that one of the reasons this site went for a song at the bidding was because it's in the biggest rain-shadow on the continent? Ah, well, I've bivouaced on glaciers and dug twenty feet a day in the burning desert; it'll take more than relentless battering rain to get me down.
I drew my pickaxe from the special scabbard sewn onto one side of my pack. It was the traditional pioneer's pick, a cheap copper one that was just about good enough for the first season or two before it wore down to a nub. The first one I ever had was on its third new blade when the handle broke and had to be replaced, and the question of whether it still counted as the same pick occupied many a long boozy evening in taverns when we were on the road.
"Okay, lads and lasses! We've got shitloads to do and not a lot of time to do it in before the rain kicks in, so let's crack on. Strike the earth!" I called out.
"Strike the earth!" they answered, raising their own picks high and proud. I selected a likely-looking spot and swung my pick, a deep and jagged crack as long as I'm tall springing from the point of impact. A good omen.
It was good to be back.
When they're half-way across the map from the fortress when they're spotted, I tend to just let them run; closer to the fortress it's another matter.