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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WoMLT2OFqjo

Hail Metalll!

๎ ๎ ๎ ๎

THIS only happens in THIS forum.

Ooh vikings


Well, shield walls are pretty obvious, I suppose they'll make it...

Quote from: Dwarf on September 15, 2009, 11:37:10 am

Huzzah for simplification!

Indeed, praise be upon you, that the complications of explanation shall be reduced to an essence that is roughly equivalent in information content and yet packed within a smaller number of phonemes (and/or alphabetic characters, if you do not consider the internal narrative voice to be appropriately measurable in this situation, and must resort to the representation in abstract pseudo-phonetic symbology), thus possibly resulting in a better proportion between general understanding of the purpose of the communication and the total required effort required to convey, transport and absorb the informatic content.

Let us return on the matter of Conway's Game of Life, shall we?

Quote from: Dwarf on September 15, 2009, 10:33:25 am

The Game of Life is the only true life simulator. Best of all, it is, in theory, a simulated turing machine (aka computer)

Insofar as the relationship between Finite State Recognisers and implemention as 1-dimensional Turin machine tapes.  (Even multi-tape and multi-dimensional tapes can be 'reduced', IIRC.)  While not a 1:1 relationship, I could see a Conway-scape
emulated by a Turin-tape, but it'd be variable (and many) Turin-ticks per Conway-tick.  Increasing exponentially according the scope of the potentially inhabited Conway-space, and needing a pretty nifty dynamic multidimensional array emulation technique to map onto tape, unless you constrained the Conway space (or gave it wrap-around), in which case it you could simplify it a bit into a static representation.

But it's been a decade or two since I learnt about that stuff, so please feel free to correct me, or update me with any new thoughts on the subject.

I'm not an expert on the subject, but a computer can, in his own world, emulate anything. Including a finite state recognizer, that's pretty basic AFAIK.

I'm quite the writer and decided I should publish some of my stories. (I'm the type of person who needs appreciation for it's work...) Most of them should be DF-related, and the first two are only dwarven.
Above all, keep in mind that English is my tertiary language. (besides German and French)
Constructive criticism is wanted, of course!


The Story of Rigoth, the Axedwarf

The winds were howling around the frozen landscape, bitter coldness enveloping mountain and dwarf alike.
Inmidst of snowy trees, surrounded by towering mountains, stood Rigoth, son of Zasitsebur, woodworker and carpenter since 5 generations.
Sneezing, he rearranged his cloak, pulling it deeper across his face.
"This is the coldest damn winter I've ever experienced", he thought. His battle axe, the legendary battle axe 'Bloodquench', was forged six hundred years ago by his great-great-great-grandfather. It was passed on ever since, chopping down tree and foe alike.
With a sigh, Rigoth pulled it out of a tree trunk, its blade glimmering with resin. He gripped it tightly. He raised his axe above his head and struck it down with a fizzling sound. The tree was hit with an almost supernatural force. With a loud bang, the axe cut half through the oak. The oak was shaking, almost cracking. With another strike, the oak was falling with a mighty crack, the earth trembled as it hit the ground. Unimpressed, Rigoth went to further break up the tree, as suddenly, he heard a sound behind him. Startled, he swirled around.
Running towards him was Urist, his beloved wife. Immediately, the dwarf felt as if the weather got warmer.
"My love, what are ye doing 'ere?", he shouted, but Urist was not responding. As she came nearer, Rigoth remarked the worried expression on her face, suddenly gripping the axe even tighter. Exhausted and coughing, Urist hastily said: "Come in, <cough>, Rigoth, quick! The goblins are arriving, they will soon shut the gates!" Rigoth's eyes widened, surprised by the sudden warning. Then, he grabbed his wife by the arm and said: "Let's hurry then, we have no time to lose!"
As fast as their stumpy legs carried them, they ran towards the gate. Halfway there, they heard an enormous bang, sounding like wood striking against stone... their fears were soon confirmed.

The gates were shut. And, worst of all, they already heard the twisted screams of bloodlusty goblins, nearing the gate. Desperate, Urist kicked and punched against the door, shouting "Open the door! Please! Open, Armok damn it!". Rigoth however only took his axe, strenghtening his grip on it. In the very same moment, the goblin siege came in view, immediately spotting the pair. With laughter, they drew their swords, hungry looks rested on the dwarves.
With a hand sign, the goblin leader commanded the goblins to stop, which then had a disappointed look on their faces. Slowly, with a triumphing pose, the leader goblin neared. He was clad in pitch black iron plate, blood red eyes piercing through the helmet's visor.
The goblin stood before the pair, he looked amused at the axe in Rigoth's hand. He raised his shield, drew his sword, stabbed towards Rigoth's torso... but Rigoth was faster. With superdwarven speed, he dodged the stab, swirled the axe around him and struck the goblin, cutting through the shield and hitting the head, which flew off in a bloody arc. Just upon the moment the axe tasted blood, it shimmered with a bloody glance, bathing Rigoth in a bloody aura, his eyes having an even deadlier red than the goblin.
Enraged, he stormed the goblin lines. With a single strike, he cut three leather-clad goblins right through the torso, his next strike swirled in a deadly circle around him, slashing another five goblins. In a wild berserker rage, his axe fell goblins as it fell trees. Suddenly, a goblin managed to stab him, passing right through his hip. He felt no pain, instead, with a terrible scream, Rigoth rammed the axe's shaft into the goblins head with mighty force, obliterating every bone its path. Meanwhile, another goblin slashed at him, leaving a deep cut diagonally over his back. Rigoth made another circular strike to gain air, killing many, but there were too much goblins. Although he felt no pain, he had suffered severe blood loss, which clouded his mind. The goblins remarked that and attacked him with increasing ferocity. Rigoth desperately struck around him, however, his strength dwindled. He was cut and stabbed at everywhere, and was about to go down, when suddenly the gate opened.
20 marksdwarves, clad in glimmering steel, cast their metal bolts into the vile force, immediately killing over a dozen. The goblins soon remarked the new threat, but were too decimated to do anything. Thus, they fled, running into all directions - but the bolts got them all. Just as the last goblin was struck down, Rigoth could no longer stand, his legs buckled. Crying and screaming, Urist ran towards him, the snow around him soaked in a terrible red.
Rigoth was covered with wounds all over.
"Oh, Rigoth, my love, please, don't leave me!", Urist cried. Rigoth barely held his eyelids open. He layed his hands on Urist's, and spole "Do not cry, my love. I have to depart on my final voyage. We... shall meet again."
With these words, he closed his eyes, never to be opened again. Later, he was bedded into a steel coffin, dropped into the magma river and drifted away, never to be seen again.


Clearmead, the Fortress of Warnings (Excuse the somewhat strange title, but it's expressed in the also somewhat strange way fortress names are)

There was once the Fortress Clearmead. Lying far, far to the east of the Mountainhomes, it was built to block the only passage through the high mountain around. The first years had been adventurous, with armies of thousands of goblins clashing against unprepared dwarves, but the dwarven stubborny and endurance won. In the times of this story, it has become quiet around Clearmead. There was no goblin or troll foolish enough to run against its towering walls, and the fortress, which had no significant export products, was nearly forgotten by the far away cities and fortresses.
However, the fortress still was the greatest example of dwarven ingenuity and masonry. Its masons, although not necessarilly masters of decorations and engravement, were the finest men when it came to building huge, tough and stable buildings. This fact reflected in the walls, which span acros the multiple mile broad passage.
They were, and this is understated, enourmous. They stood amazing 300 yards high, the towers in between even 500, and were at least 70 yards thick. The finest granite was delievered from all over the world, and the walls had a coating of Lonsdaleite, the hardest stone known to dwarf. Amidst this great, but dying fortress, Rust, the Grand Champion and leader of the armed forces, rushed to his meeting with the Fortress's leaders.
His plate sabatons clacked on the marble floor. He stopped before a door which two plate-clad dwarves armed with hammers guarded.
"Rust. Stay aside", he commanded, and the guards stood aside in an almost synchronic movement. Rust opened the door not too quietly, so that everyone would see that he had arrived. Proudly, he marched to his seat at the top end of the table, next to the Grand Leader of Clearmead.
"Now, that even Rust has arrived, we may finally start" These words came from the leader of industry, which could almost be considered his personal enemy.
The Grand Leader, an old but nevertheless proud and strong dwarf, stood up, and spoke: "Leaders of Clearmead, I welcome you to the meeting of the month of slate. Our servants may brings us our drinks. Has anyone got matters to discuss?"
"Yes", the leader of industry quickly shouted, and he hastily stood up. He had a small and slender stature, and a face one could easily associate with murder, robbery and corruption and other bad things.
"I must once again point out all the working forces we lose through our military", he said and looked at Rust with a fiendish glimmer in his eyes, "every third dwarf is required to enter the military, this is simply too much! Lacking so much working forces, it is hard to have a thriving and succesful fortress, not considering that these soldiers live on the backs of hard-working dwarves. The days of war and destruction are long gone!"

Rust had to face this question many times before, and once again, he had to give the same answer: "Dear Urist, leader of industries, the army can not support any diminishments. As you may know, we're the only door to the Inner Land, and we are in responsibility when it comes to protecting it. I hope the Grand Leader understands that any less military personnel lowers our defensive capability and a neglect of our responsibility."
Uris was giving him the evil eye, and Rust was almost smiling, defeating him with the ever-same answer.

But it came out differently.
The Grand Leader stood up. His dark, sonore voice spoke: "As much as the army is the pride of Clearmead, we must see that the times of grand sieges are over. Adapting our armie's forces to the current circumstances - namely, no sieges at all! - I hereby state that only every fifth dwarf may be drafted now. You must understand, Rust, that without a stronger industry, our fortress will sink in to oblivion"

It was very quiet for some time. Rust was boiling with anger. Slowly, he stood up. He walked to the door. Opened it, stepped through and slammed it shut with such a force that it shattered in half.
He was heading to the walls, where he often relaxed when he was upset. Many stairs later, he stood upon the magnificient Great Wall. Miles long it was, being like the ar๊te of Mount Clearmead. In the distance, he could make out Foghorn on one side and Caveholed on the other, bordering the pass. But today he felt like going on the tower to see even more of his land.
He stood on the tower. He half-heartedly greeted the guard. Looking over the crennelation, he saw dwarves small as ants. The height somehow drawed him down, he felt like jumping down to embrace his fall. But then, he innerly slapped himself. Having a smaller army is of course no reason to even think about suicide!
"Sir? Leader Rust, there's something strange going on, Sir!", the guarding marksdwarf said.
"What's the matter", he toke a quick glimpse at the runes on the guard's tag, "Nako Argathalk?"
Nako handed the telescope to Rust. He took a look through it. There was fog about one and a half mile away, but amidst the white sea, he could more or less cleary make out an enourmous silhouette. It was about as tall as the wall blocking the pass.
"I've got no idea what that is", said the Leader. "We'd bette-"
He suddenly stopped. Was his mind playing a trick to him?
No, he saw it again.
"The damn silhouette is moving. Slowly, but towards us.
By the demons of adamantine, there are even more of those!"
"Sir, what do you think what these are, Sir?" the guard asked, clearly excited.
In this moments, a small breeze swept through the pass. It was mere seconds in which the fog lighted slightly, but it was enough for Rust, which was still loking through the  spy-glass.
"Armok damn them! These are siege towers! Blow the damn horn!"
Nako stood still for the fraction of a second, but then rushed to the enourmous horn mounted on the tower. Not unlike a bellow, his cheeks filled with air and his face turned red as he was blowing it. About two seconds long, a dark, tinny sound swept through the valley. Then a second one, and after the third time, the guard stood aside, clearly out of air.
"Nicely blown, Nako. Now get your quiver ready and be ready for anything!" he shouted as he already rushed down the stairs.
Not to say, the situation was awkard. In fact, when he thought back, orcs and goblins had never, ever used larger siege engines. Primitive rams? Yes. But catapults or even siege towers? Something was going on...
Without noticing, he reached the bottom level. All hell was breaking loose. Like workative ants, hundreds of dwarves hushed around, picked up equipment, formed up or were talking with each other. A squad of marksdwarves was marching past him, leaving clacking sounds in the staircase of the tower.
Just then, Ilgor, Rust's right hand, popped up. "Sir, what is going on? I see you were on the tower the horn was blown on", he said.
"Correct, Ilgor. It's strange. They have brought siege towers - maybe even more siege engines." Ilgor's eyes widened. "How's that possible, Sir? Orcs and Goblins aren't the brightest. How did they make such titanic constructs?"
"Got no idea. Let's just rush over to our armoury and get ourselves dresses!"
Running, they got to the General's office, passed right through it and entered the private armoury. "Help me get dressed!", Rust ordered.

Quickly, Ilgor removed both pauldrons and various other armour parts. It was heavy and more designed to impress than anything else. After the metal and his underware were removed, he quickly put on new underware. He took a fesh linen shirt - linen is grand for combat - and light leather pants. After that, a knee length gambeson was put on, protecting him quite well from the force of the crude orc weapons. Whilst Ilgor put on his greaves, Rust wiggled in to his ankle-long hauberk. Even in this situation, he got a smile. He thought about elves and humans and their way of doing things wrong. Making a hauberk out of tens of thousands miniscule rings! Good maille had to be made out of large, strong rings. Slitting it in the front! Orcs were also in posession of the magic parts and thus knew their sensitivity as any male. But of course, they had to ride their high horses, making side slits impossible... But his mind swept off, and he concetrated on the task at hand. His Right Hand was already strapping on the battle pauldrons.
Then came the breastplate, followed by vambraces and the coif.
Finally, the helm topped of his battle outfit. It was scratched and not nearly as decorated
as his more ceremonial parade armour, but he had already fought with it nearly a century ago.
Ilgor had less armor. He put on his gambeson, a slightly shorter hauberk, some greaves, vambraces
and his helmet. Finally, both of them took their battle axes, which hanged on a wall-mounted rack.
They seemed unwieldy to humans, but were just right for splitting armor and skull alike.
"Ready to go, Sir", Ilgor said. Rust only nodded.

Just then, they heard another blown trio. It meant that the enemy had just passed the one mile mark.
"Hah! Ilgor, they may have brought siege engines, but this will still be an orc slaughterfest!", he shouted running.

When they arrived on the courtyard, most of the soldiers were already in position and not to be seen.
Haulers were carrying bags with pitch, pots of hot oil, packs of bolts and other supplies up to the towers and walls.  A marksdwarf was running towards them. It was Nako. "Why aren't you on your post?", asked the Leader with his stiff, military voice. "Sir, I was sent by the squad commander that you should immediately come on the tower, Sir! The siege engines are only the tip of the mountain."

TBC

I don't think infants actually actively suicide.  I think they just get washed away by even small amounts of water.  I had a motherless infant grow to childhood even though there was an easily acessable handrail-less drop into the aquifer for her to drop from.  She just crawled around and at some point adopted a cat. 

Maybe cats prevent infant suicide. 

See, cats prevent fun. Another reason to kill them!

This reminds me of an awesome short story I read a while ago.

Found it.

Pretty heavy stuff.

Whoa. Depressing.