Bay 12 Games Forum

Hey, I'm not touching adventure mode. Too much "You bit the bogeyman on the tongue" for me... Once is enough! So, if ya really want to write there'll be plenty of stories there.

The rest of you: Keep the reports flowing. There's a decent balance to be had: two lines is not nearly enough unless you want me to completely wing it, but six pages is a little much.

Bah, a good writer would have had ideas for the guy wailing on a wooden elf, the battle with the alien insect, the grasshopper man and the goblin murderising the lamb.

Hang on...

Hey. I get given weird crap in an attempt to confuse the hell out of me?

I give you even weirder in revenge.

I'm going to be honest with you folks, I only really care about the combat report itself. xD You can give me extraneous details if you want, but that doesn't mean I'll use them...



C'mon, you offer comedy gold like that and don't expect me to take advantage?

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You hear a knock at your door. A tingle races up your spine; you peek out of the window and see him standing there, covered in purple paint and wearing nothing but a ragged loincloth. Your mouth is dry. You timidly unlock the door and open it and give him a sunny smile. He seems uncomfortable. "So, yeah... I, uh, well..." He gestures down at the paint covering his hairless, finely-muscled chest. "I think I look kinda like a bogeyman, huh?" You nod. You don't have any words. It's finally happening, you've finally found someone crazy enough to help you live out your fantasy. You've waited so long for this moment! You grab his hand and pull him inside, slamming the door eagerly.

With a gentle shove, you press him up against the door and lean against him. His skin is faintly clammy; he's understandably nervous. You try to reassure him and run one pale, soft hand down his chest. "It's okay. You don't have to hurt me," you murmur as you try and nudge him into playing his role properly. After all, he agreed to this for your birthday. The least he could do is follow the script.

He seems to get into the swing of things, now. His fingers, so long and fine, grip your shoulders a little harder than is comfortable. His eyes bore into yours and you wonder what he's thinking. As much as you want this, you want him to be having fun too. Gingerly, timidly, he leans down and kisses your forehead and it's like a fire is ignited all through you. Your hands clutch at his shoulders and yyou let out a sigh as you feel his tongue trace down the side of your face.

The velvety softness of his tongue tracks down to your jaw and begins to wander back upwards; you turn and bite his tongue. You give him a wicked glance and tug playfully on his tongue, only for him to scream in pain. He lets go of you and you fall over in shock, vaguely realising that his tongue is still in your teeth. You spit it out. "What the fuck, Bruce? What the absolute fuck?" He's too busy clutching at his mouth to answer you, so you look down at the tongue again. Was it a fake? You prod it with one toe. No, it's definitely a real tongue. But... He doesn't seem to be bleeding much. "What's going on?" you ask him again. "What the hell is going on?" He glares at you angrily. "Bruce... Are... Are you actually a bogeyman?"

His glare softens, fades. His hands drop away from his mouth to reveal a nearly bloodless injury. He looks around uncertainly before giving you one quick nod. "Oh... Oh my God. You're really... you're actually..." He takes a step back and half turns to go, but you leap for him and slam him against the wall. "That is so hot." You have time to see the surprise in his eyes before your lips press against his. Hands run down your back again and you shudder against him. This is so much better than you had hoped, so much more than those dirty books you had stolen from a necromancer's tower suggested.

You leave a trail of kisses down his purple skin, marvelling at the dry flakiness. It tastes strange, but so so good. His muscled arms are so inviting, so you trace your lips down his left shoulder; his other hand slides up your back to stroke your hair. You kiss your way down his arm to his wrist before biting it gently, lovingly. His wrist is spongy, not what you expected. You bite a little harder and for the second time that night, you feel his flesh give way. His hand tears off in your mouth; all you can taste is the rough, fibrous muscles and tendons of his body.

He howls at you in pain and tries to push you away, but you don't care. There's a fire in your belly that isn't going out until he damn well puts it out; you're not going to let him escape. Hell no. He's a bogeyman, a creature of the night and he's all yours. You're going to push him down onto your bed, you're going to tear that stupid loincloth off and you're going to ravish him until the sun rises. Then, to stop him vanishing, you're going to tie him down and have your way with him all day. You've waited so very long for this moment that you're not going to let some stupid injury wreck it for you!

He seems to realise this. Or maybe his hand is not actually hurting him all that much. Do bogeymen even have pain nerves? Who knows. You feel his right hand run down your back again, harder this time. He's getting rougher now, he's no longer acting like a human. Fine hands grip at your waistband; you invite him in by kissing his neck hungrily. Fingers slide down inside your skirt; your skin feels like it's going to burst into flames where he's touching you. Your legs feel all shivery and you're no longer thinking straight; you bite down hard on his shoulder, trying to keep the pleasured scream from ripping our of your mouth.

His shoulder gives way. You stumble in surprise and fall to the ground and the remains of his arm fall next to you. The hard, cold floor shocks some sense into you and you look up at the bogeyman of your dreams, now missing his entire left arm. He seems angry. Your stomach twists. "Bruce, I'm sorry... I'm really sorry, I don't know what happened... What came over me, I... uh..." The voiceless bogeyman just grunts at you unintelligibly. He bends, picks up his arm and turns for the door. "No, Bruce, don't go! Please! Please, I can be good... Just... don't leave me..." He halts for a second before straightening his back and walking resolutely for the door.

"Will... Will I ever see you again?"

The look he gives you tells it all. Don't go out alone at night.

---

So, yeah, I'm off to purge my brain now.

By the way, I hope you're happy. Because of you I went and read "Dropped a Bridge on Him" on TVTropes.

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Thikut was positively glowing as she strolled along the small garden path to her beehives. She carried a basket hooked over one arm, her other hand resting on the large bulge that stretched her dress. The time was fast approaching for her baby to be born and she had never felt so happy in her life. Thikut hummed to her self as she plodded around her hive, cheerfully waving bees away from her silky locks. She deftly tapped the hive, drawing out the glistening chunks of honeycomb and placing them delicately in her basket. The sweet odour of fresh honey perfumed the air around her and the bees thrummed as they frantically worked to replace the honeycomb that had mysteriously vanished from their hive.

The beekeeper kept humming happily as she headed back for the great fortress doors. The path was long and meandering, but she didn't mind the walk. Being outside was nice occasionally, and besides-- Oh. Thikut rested a hand on her stomach. "Och, not now," she murmured. "Ye're joking, right?" She felt another spasm ripple through her distended stomach and panicked slightly. "Och, no, not yet!"
***
She panted slightly as she cradled the small, red, wet... thing. The baby was surprisingly small and even more surprisingly loud. She tried to hush the boy, rocking little Fikod gently to try and soothe him. And finally it hit her. I am a mother! she thought excitedly, a flutter of joy skipping through her. Thikud climbed to her feet and cradled Fikod close to her chest, the basket of honeycomb forgotten. She had to get back to her husband, now. She wanted him to meet the little boy.

The fastest route back to the doors of the fortress passed through the garbage dump. Thikud worried momentarily about her baby getting sick from the waste, but cast the thought from her mind. A good shot of wine would purge any sickness from the little boy, she knew. She made up her mind and began jogging towards the fortress, hiking her skirt up to avoid the shrubs that grew in plentiful quantities around the garbage pile.

The garbage area appeared to be nearly deserted, with only one dwarf purposefully walking through the yard. He didn't see her, which was good. She didn't really want to stop and show off the baby just yet, she had to show her husband first. She stepped onto the garbage pile proper, deftly avoiding discarded pieces of cat bone, trying not to breathe in the sme-

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Now, see, this is badass. This one will be GLORIOUS.

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They came for him in the night.

Stealing in on noiseless boots, the goblins crept through the sleeping fortress like ghosts. There was a man in this fortress, a Dwarf said to be the bane of all Goblin-kind, and they had been sent to kill him. They were assassins of the highest order and many hundreds of Dwarves, Elves and Humans had fallen to the pair's deadly iron weaponry.

They slunk from shadow to shadow, effortlessly evading the sleepy patrolling of a lone guardsman. A silent scuffle, a wet thud, and the Dwarf was dead before he even knew what was happening. The lasher dragged the body into the deepest shadows of a stockpile, leaving the corpse to rot among barrels of pungent mushrooms. From there, the two assassins encountered nobody as they prowled ever closer to the commander's bedroom.

***
A gentle 'click' woke Ber from his slumber. His silvery eyes flickered around the room before coming to rest on two odd shadows that he had never seen before. There was no noise, no betrayal of movement when all of a sudden a hammer appeared overhead and streaked down for his head.

He didn't think, he just dove out of bed and into a headlong roll, coming to a kneeling standstill next to his weapon rack. Ber's hand found his trusty sword hilt and he gripped it tightly, his left hand taking hold of the scabbard. As he began to rise he sensed movement behind him; again without thinking, he launched himself upwards and drew his shortsword in one smooth motion. Blood sprayed through the air and his bronze sword formed a gleaming arc in the candlelight as he swung cleanly through a goblin's left arm.

The appendage fell uselessly to the ground as the goblin's face registered a look of surprise, but not quite as much surprise as Ber felt. "Who are ye?" he barked in his authoritative tone, a voice used to terrifying new recruits during training. The goblin stepped back involuntarily and Ber pressed his advantage. "Identify yeself!" He raised his sword and levelled its point at the goblin's throat. "If ye do not tell me who ye be, I will end ye miserable life right here and now, I promise ye that."

Fire ignited all up his left side and Ber fell to his knees, gasping for breath. A glance behind revealed a second goblin, wielding a whip. The second goblin glared icily at the kneeling commander. "We're here for your life, Ocherstroke. That's all you need to know. We never talk to dead men." The Goblin's guttural voice hurt Ber's ears, but at last he had an answer. Assassins, and skilled ones at that to have penetrated this deeply into a fortress. But good assassins never talked, unless...

Ber turned his attention back to the Goblin in front of him just in time to catch sight of the mighty iron warhammer soar towards his skull. Ber gritted his teeth and caught the hammer square on the sheathe in his left hand, feeling the heavy impact of the hammer drive into his forearm. Something in his arm snapped and Ber growled in pain. He leapt from his knees, lunging forwards with his sword for the Goblin's throat. The sword passed harmlessly over the Goblin's shoulder but Ber carried on forwards, colliding with the Goblin and latching onto the hapless creature's throat with his teeth. He growled savagely and wrenched the hammergoblin sideways, feeling the tender flesh around the carotid artery give way beneath his teeth.

A shake of his head cast the corpse aside. He tasted bitter blood in his mouth and spat as he turned to face the lasher. The remaining Goblin's face was pale in the wake of the unruly savagery that Ber had just displayed, but the lasher didn't back down. Ber was glad. His blood was up and a fleeing opponent didn't present an honourable kill.

Ber slid into a combat stance, his left arm held out in front of him with the scabbard still clenched in his outstretched hand. His arm hurt like hell, but there would be time enough for that later. His right arm hovered above his head, the sword held parallel to the ground. "Come on, then," he taunted. "If ye think ye're good enough."

The whip whistled as it cut through the air and Ber was already moving. He caught the whip on his scabbard and felt the force dissipate harmlessly as it wrapped around the leather. The iron whip slid limply to the floor and the Goblin pulled his arm back to strike again, but Ber Ocherstroke was too quick; he wasn't the commander for nothing. He felt the moment of perfect serenity hanging in the air, like autumn leaves on a tree. The opening, the settling, the perfect moment.

His shortsword arced once more, tracing a line of brilliant light as it caught the candleflame for the second time that night. Ber slid effortlessly past the Goblin as though it were a statue and he came to a rest beyond the Goblin, not bothering to look over his shoulder at his opponent. The fight was already over.

He slid his sword slowly into the waiting scabbard and it seated with a faint 'clink'. As though the sound were a signal, the goblin's head toppled to the floor.

---

So, yeah, Ber is basically a samurai.

Am I the only one who finds the representation of time to be a little puzzling? If my grasp of DF time is accurate, dwarves sleep for 3 to 4 weeks at a stretch; carrying a stone from one z level to another can take a dwarf a full week; and many savage battles can stretch on for six months. Has this been explained? Are there plans to address or amend this? In a game which prizes such painstaking loyalty to detail, this seems like a strange and glaring inaccuracy.

Yeah, this is one of those 'suspension of disbelief' things. To get things moving at a good clip and to make sure arrival of caravans is timely, time flows quickly.

Basically, what we actually witness on the screen is a little abstract. We see the dwarves eat once a season, but we're actually seeing all of their eating at once. So one unit of food is actually a hundred or so meals over three months, but to streamline things and to avoid having ten thousand strawberries, things are simplified a little.

Glad you like, Franky.

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Robert loved being outside. It didn't matter what season it was - they all offered something new and exciting. Spring was his favourite, with all the new grass and leaves and happily singing birds. Every year, he tried to convince his Master to hold classes outside. But his Master got the sniffles from springtime pollen; privately, Robert suspected that this was why he had become a Necromancer in the first place - to curse all that was lively and lovely in the springtime months.

Robert supposed that as a Necromancer, he should love winter the most. He liked winter, since the snowflakes were pretty, but he didn't really enjoy it because his Master got grouchy whenever he ran outside to play in the snow. Robert loved the snow. he loved dancing in it, playing in it, throwing snowballs at the zombies... He had once convinced the entire tower's zombie army to head outside and have a huge snowball war. After all, common sense dictated that dead flesh was preserved longer in the cold, right? He figured that he was doing his Master a favour. But no, his Master had all been "Worship of death and murder" and "show dignity" and "look, they're all frozen into fleshcicles".

Robert twirled in the falling snow. He had taken the day off from necromancing and headed outside to toboggan down a big hill while his Master did some weird dead stuff. Today was far too nice to think about his grouchy Master! When he got to the top of the hill he spun again and fell backwards into the snow, chuckling as he waved his hands to make a snow angel. Yet another thing his Master would not approve of, he guessed. He laughed again and stood up to admire his work. This was too much fun! With a smile, he picked up the shield he had 'borrowed' from the tower and took a running leap down the far side of the hill. He bounced on the snow and skidded along, a rooster tail of snow flying up behind him. The ride was long and glorious and he yelled out gleefully as he slid all the way down the hill and along a flat stretch.

He finally came to a halt and climbed off the shield. He wanted to do that again! As he bent to pick up the shield, there was a terrible crackling sound and the ground gave way beneath his feet. He plunged into icy water that drove all of the air from his lungs. He panicked and floundered, trying to get to the surface, but the cold sapped all of his strength. He felt his brain slowing down as the cold waters refroze around him. His final thought was I really don't like winter anymore.

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That's the saddest DF story I've ever written.

@Loudwhispers: I'll do yours after class.

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The Axedwarf bounced his axe a few times, loving its trusty weight. The wicked edge to the axe invited him to swing at anything handy, and who should he have bumped into? "Ye know," he said amicably to the thief that he had cornered. "I think the miners call this i-ro-nee." His axe whistled as it cut through the air; it did not whistle quite so much as it cut through the goblin's leg. "See, 'tis irony acoos I am goin' to kill ye wit' iron." The goblin didn't answer, sadly. The axedwarf had hoped to have a good battle of wits with the goblin. Just like in those stories of spydwarves, well dressed in black silk, who had verbal duels with evil Elves before shooting them with a crossbow. They always somehow found something pithy to say when the elf was dead, too.

The goblin refused to say anything at all, really. He just sort of fell over. It was kind of sad. "Ach, come oon. The least ye could do is curse at me, bloody thief!" The prone goblin's left hand twitched towards the dagger strapped to his leg. "Ye're as eloquent as ye need to be," the axedwarf chuckled. "I'cn respect that." His axe dropped onto the hand,tearing the fleshy wrist open. The goblin screamed as blood pulsed out of his arm. The iron axe pinned the goblin's wrist to the floor, lodged firmly in the bleeding mess. "T'would seem I have a-wrist-ed ye!" the axedwarf quipped, wishing that he had been wearing a sliver-black silk suit instead of clunky platemail. Puns didn't sound right in armour.

A barbed wooden bolt thudded into the goblin's arm. "Private, git yer head out of yer arse and joost kill the bloody thing!" the commander barked at him, tossing the crossbow aside. "Tch, fancy custom job and the bloody thing still pulls to the right." The commander drew his sword and stalked forwards. "Kill the damn critter or stand aside and let me. This isn't one of ye damn books."

The axedwarf grumbled under his breath. "Fine, dad." He wrenched the axe out of the goblin's hand, twisting it maliciously. "This is all yer fault," he muttered to the bleeding thief. "If ye had just responded like ye were supposed to ye'd be dead already!" He swung at the goblin's chest, opening a long, jagged rip in the pectoral muscle. A buckle on the thief's really awesome looking cloak - which the axedwarf quietly hoped to appropriate from its cooling corpse later - deflected the axe blade downwards; black blood spilled out of the wound. "Ooh, t'would seem I got ye liver! I guess ye won't be liven fer much longer, eh?"

The goblin glared at him through bloodshot eyes and raised his right hand with his middle finger extended. "Just goddam kill me already. It's less painful than your damn puns, you asshole!" The axedwarf growled and slapped the thief's hand down hard enough to split the skin open. he could see bruising already spreading as the hand flopped uselessly to the ground.

There was a schlunk as the commander's iron sword cut through the downed goblin's right leg. The next thing the axedwarf saw was the goblin's left glove streaking towards him; it hit him solidly in the face with a disturbingly wet sound. "Oh, god, the damn hand is still in there!" he yelled and flung the heavy glove away. He glared at the commander with what he hopped was an icy look, not wanting to admit how jealous he was of the commander's speed. Axes were awesome, but swords were just so cool with how fast they were. Not wanting to be outdone, the axedwarf let out what he thought was a mighty yell and swung his axe as fast as he could into the goblin's chest.

The blade of the axe was nothing but a blur as it sheared through the ribs and jammed deep inside the goblin's pleural cavity. He could see a shrivelled, pink... thing inside the opening, pinned down by his trusty axe, Chopper. Yeah. Chopper was a good name. All cool weapons had a name. Now, the goblin must be dead... he just needed a good one-liner. Something breathing related. Ooh! The axedwarf drew himself up to his formidable three feet of height and planted one steel-booted foot on the goblin's chest. He wasn't going to try and tug the axe out until the commander had left, since failing would be unbearably embarrasing. He gave the goblin his best sly smile as he had seen on so many engravings. "So lung, thief."

The thief coughed. He nearly screamed, which would have been totally mortifying. One bloodshot eye opened on the thing's face as the rest of it screwed up in pain. "Fuck... you..." it grunted, the speech making a horrendous gurgle emanate from the opened lung. Next to him, the commander sighed. "Sloppy, private. Ye're sloppy." The commander reversed his sword and as fast as lightning, jammed the hilt of his weapon right between the goblin's eyes. The hapless thief's eyes glazed over and he slumped to the ground, the sword sticking out of his forehead like the world's worst flower. "With skills that rusty, ye'll never get ahead of me."

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