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Silvereye stood ready at his post. He held his crossbow comfortably, refusing the finely-crafted steel that Skjald was now turning out in favor of the tower-cap crossbow that he had been using since he first joined. He was used to it, knew its feel, and liked the feeling of the bloodstained stock against his shoulder.

He felt quite different from the last time he had seen combat from behind the fortifications of Lanternwebs. Where before, he had been a new recruit, struggling with his bolts in the heat of battle, he was now a veteran, used to the sights, sounds, and emotions of battle. To his right stood Umir, an echo of himself two years past, fumbling a steel bolt into the firing groove of his crossbow. He smiled to himself, thinking of the difference that two years could make.

No mist lay in the valley this time, and he could clearly see the squad of hammergoblins approaching. Smaller and more frail than the orcs, a crossbow bolt would reliably take them down. He checked his quiver, happy to see a full twenty-five bolts ready to find their place in the guts of the oncoming goblins. At his feet lay a bin with two hundred more. Whatever happened this battle, he would not run short of ammunition.

"Hold your fire until they get close." He said, turning to Umir. "Wait until they are on the bridge. You'll have a perfect shot then."

Umir nodded, sighting along the crossbow and waiting. Silvereye turned back to the goblins, who were cautiously advancing up the road, testing the steel blocks for traps with their hammers. As if we would need them, he thought. Traps would just mean fewer of them for us to kill.

Satisfied that there were no hidden blades embedded in the road, the guard leading the goblins stepped up the ramp to the bridge, standing just short of the dolomite slab as he raised his sword and pointed it menacingly at the open gate.

"Stand and fight, you cowards!" he bellowed. "Drag yourselves from the filthy hole you call your home and face us on the field of battle. Or are you too scared?"

Aiming carefully, Silvereye squeezed the firing lever and a steel bolt seemed to appear in the guard's throat, blood leaking through the torn iron of his neckguard.

"On the day you are brave enough to set foot across our bridge, I'll fight you on your terms." Silvereye responded, slotting another bolt into his crossbow as he heard Umir fire next to him. Bringing his crossbow up again, he fired into the crowd of hammergoblins, hearing a sharp cry of pain as it struck a goblin in the chest.

The motion is the same as at the archery range, he thought. Draw the bolt, squeeze to the shoulder to bring the string back, sight on the target, and exhale as the bolt leaves, flying true to punch through armor, skin, muscle, and bone. The goblins were advancing now, stepping onto the bridge, but the motion came easily to him, long hours of practice letting his arms move naturally though the different positions, his sights bracketing a different goblin each shot as they stood on the bridge, unable to avoid the rain of dwarven-forged steel. Without thinking he reached into the bin, drawing a new bundle of bolts to fill his quiver as the goblins broke and fled across towards the east.

"Who are the cowards now?" Silvereye shouted contemptuously as he loaded a new bolt and fired into the back of a running goblin, watching him pitch face-first to the ground and flop pitifully for a few seconds before lying still. In the mountains, he heard the goblin horn sound again, signaling retreat. He smiled, satisfied with the battle and the demonstration he had provided to Umir. But when he turned to congratulate the marksdwarf on his skill, he saw only the back of his armor, walking down the hall towards the drink stockpiles.

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Pictures and movie up later. 36 goblins killed out of 48 engaged (the fourth squad retreated), not a bad ratio at all.

Movie available here. Pictures of the aftermath:


And Silvereye's kills during the second skirmish:

AND AN ARMY! AN ARMY OF SUPER SOLDIER CHAMPIONS OF THE RACE OF YOUR CHOOSING! AN ARMY SO STRONG YOU COULD CONQUER WORLDS WITH IT!

Lanternwebs has one of those now. Conquering is scheduled to start on Thursday of this week.

Ahead, Workerdrone saw the crowd of goblins ripple and part to reveal the mangled body of the hammerdwarf, his blood leaving misty red trails in the clear water. He saw the foul goblin leader raise his maul in victory, the spiked head slick with blood and speckled with white bone. He saw the goblin begin to turn, to urge his army toward the gates that still stood open. He saw the end of the spit of sandy clay that he had been running along and leapt, his legs sending him flying through the air towards those who had murdered a dwarf of Lanternwebs.

He landed with his feet planted firmly on the chestplate of the surprised goblin leader, the weight of dwarf and armor driving him to the ground before a powerful upwards slash sent the limp body flying, leaving a trail of blood hanging in the air before crashing into the far side of the valley with a crunch. Not pausing, he stepped forward to bathe his sword in the blood of a wrestler, the arms still futility scrabbling for purchase on his polished armor as the eyes dimmed and the head sagged, redness gushing from the stomach and staining the brook crimson as it frothed with his rapid and heavy steps.

He spread his arms wide, as if inviting the dozen goblins in front of him to try their luck against him, as he saw another armored dwarf charge into the side of the goblins, sending bodies and limbs flying as his axe flashed in precise arcs. His heart pounded in his chest, not with fear or anger but with the joy of battle.

Beneath that, though, he felt something else, an older, deeper feeling. A calling from the dawn of time, from the time when the blood of the dwarves and the blood of the mountains was one and the same. He could feel the ancient power of dwarven blood welling up inside him, lending him the strength of the mountains and the fury of their magma blood. He saw a speargoblin charge him, the point held rigidly in front of her as he caught the point on his shield, turning the goblin with her momentum and feeling a strange rush as his sword slid wetly though flesh to release Armok's holy water from its prison and let it flow upon the ground.

Armok! The name had been passed in hushed whispers from parent to child since the dawn of time. An ancient god, a god of blood and chaos, death and destruction, but also a god of life and growth, of love and emotion, of all things that were driven by the vital spark of His holy red water. It was said that the power of Armok flowed strongest in the dwarves, that He favored them most of all, and that He could inspire them to feats unmatched by any other. But Armok was not a god to be chosen and worshiped in the hope that He would favor the faithful. Armok chose his worshipers, drove them until they glowed with inner power or lay like cinders on the ground, inspired them to unmatched feats or let his power dance within their skulls as they descended gibbering into insanity.

And now, Workerdrone felt the hot glow of Armok's power rushing through his veins. His sword and shield seemed weightless, his armor merely the shell that would contain his power and trap his skin, so that it would not be torn away from within by the glow. The goblins before him were but offerings that he could make to sate the hungry god, blood that had been wasted in life and must now be released in sacrifice that it might be reborn in a creature more worthy of life. He heard himself shouting orders, but did not understand them. He felt his sword moving, the blade cutting through goblin chain armor as easily as it did their flesh, each stroke staining the sword a bright and moist red before the speed of its travel swept it clean for the next stroke.

The goblins on the east slopes had reached the valley, and he turned to charge them, his blood driving him onward without thought or pause. He reached them and his blood pounded through him, bringing him rhythm as he danced to the glory of Armok and all who serve Him, the sword dipping into each goblin vessel and anointing the dwarven warriors with blood as he spun and dodged, thrust and cut, danced and sang in a language older than the world itself.

At last, the heat in his veins subsided, his sword stilled, and he was left, surrounded by his squad but still feeling alone. Around him, the dull earth was stained bright with the blood of slain goblins, the warriors covered in sprays of red, slowly drying to brown. Breathing heavily, Workerdrone lifted his sword.

"Fall back!" He said, his voice strangely hoarse. "Fall back to the gates. Let the greenskins come to us!"

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Movie available here.

Workerdrone: The poetry I was thinking of was going to be more in the vein of Norse or Celtic epics, in terms of lots of recounting of past victories and urging the foes to face them with honor, and such like that. Not Haiku at all.

Fake edit: I was warned when trying to post this that there had been a new post. Kind of odd how closely they line up in intent.

Real edit: fixed grammar errors.

I mostly only cook pasta, stirfry, and curry.

Ah, my three staples of cooking when I was in college. Well, those and some of the middle eastern stews that you throw a bunch of stuff into a slow cooker in the morning and return after class to have hot stew waiting for you. Mostly Thai curries for me, since coconut milk is delicious.

On questions, I've been trying to find a decent vindaloo recipe for a while, since I have had good vindaloo before but my attempts thus far have come out entirely too acidic. Does anyone have any pointers for that?

Currently, invaders from the first goblins to sully your newly-founded fortress to the goblins that attack your decades-old fortress filled with the finest in all things come to you barely out of whatever passes for goblin military academy, with barely the skill to hold a sword by the handle and hardly a stat increase to their names, their crudely-forged equipment barely clinging to their bodies.

These goblins, then, are sent against the legendary warriors of the dwarves, equipped with the finest polished steel, trained since the dawn of adulthood in the ways of war. It is no wonder, then, that the average "mature" fortress can afford but a handful of guards (a handful simply to reduce the chance that they are all eating, drinking, or asleep at the same time), since a single one can slay an entire goblin siege without breaking a sweat.

Thus, I propose that in addition to sending additional goblins, the skill of the warriors sent should also rise with time. More slowly to be sure, the first wave being nothing more than a scouting party. But soon, when word of the wealth and power of the fortress spreads, goblin generals will begin to plan more than simply rounding up the first eighty goblins they see and marching them off to war. More skilled goblins, trained under the harsh eye of their generals or drawn by tales of glory and plunder, will compose the armies. An advanced fortress might even expect to see a legendary goblin or two among their foes, warriors able to confidently challenge a dwarven warrior to single combat in melee.

The flowery language aside, it's kind of ridiculous that the gobins that siege and ambush you have less than a month of training (based on dwarven training rates). I propose that once the sieges cap out at 80, the skill levels of the invaders start rising instead, so that they continue to provide something other than comic relief once you have your first legendary solider. While it doesn't do anything to address the problems posed by traps, magma, drowning chambers, atom smashers, or engineered cave-ins, I think that it would do something to make goblin sieges more of an event.

Mods allowed?

If so, I suspect that Ender goblins, the Insane Difficulty mod, and other such things will become quite popular with these. There might need to be some limits imposed there.

If not, a whole variety of existing games have demonstrated that you can survive just about anywhere, with the possible exception of places that light your dwarves on fire or freeze them to death on embark.

Once the guidelines are a bit more established, though, I'd be happy to throw a world at this.

Is that the second one or the first one... I read the one that is translated as "a happy world".  The one about the indian being moved to civilization and the little Alpha guy that is inferior and feels apart.  That book is great.  How they give drugs without bad consequences to control people, "SOMA" in spanish... How the leader knows everything but sacrifices himself for the order... 

Yep, that's the one. The annoying part about it was that through the entire thing, Huxley was trying to say "Isn't this a horrible world? Look at the Betas, brainwashed from early childhood! Look at the old people, on mind-altering drugs until they die painlessly of liver failure! Look at the people enjoying themselves in the sinful porn feelies!". It's preaching about how bad a world that really isn't that bad is. Contrast 1984 (or Darkness at Noon), both of which do a much better job of portraying a hideously bleak future, and neither of which spends nearly as much time saying "Hey look how bad this is, they do sex and drugs all day and laugh at Christians!"

Sorry, missed the question in there. Focused on the croco-orcs.

Quote from: Jim Groovester on May 14, 2009, 06:28:33 pm

Amidst all this useful discussion of magma versus lava (lava is magma exposed to the surface), I'll tell you how to find it.

Can there be an aquifer above the magma? Never seen it myself, but that doesn't define what's possible...

Magma pipes will sometimes penetrate aquifers, sometimes not.