Bay 12 Games Forum

Well, since it's pretty slow over here I guess I'll re-post my Thob drawings:
Comments and critiques welcome.

Cities of the Dead

A wide paved road led between rows of houses, all run-down, some falling in on themselves. As in the small village, the houses were sized for someone noticeably taller than Thob. They seemed to look down on him as he passed between the rows.
He walked through the desolate streets until he came to a high wall of white stone, encircling an inner town. The towering gates opened slowly, creaking on hinges almost rusted through, and Thob stepped into the narrow streets beyond.

Here the houses were bigger, and older. Two tower-like mansions stood side-by-side by the road, overgrown gardens lying before them. The towers were in absolute shambles, a mess of collapsed walls, fallen pillars, and broken stairways. But among the ruins Thob saw the remains of grandeur, such as the vast feasting tables in the southern tower.

As he surveyed the wreckage Thob noticed that, while much of the decay was due to time, in many places the destruction seemed deliberate. Evidence of burning, battering, and the blows of axes and hammers still marked many of the torn-down buildings. This town hadn’t been abandoned on a whim: whoever had lived here had been driven out.

He wandered up the main hill until he reached the fortress at the top, surrounded by a curtain wall of the same white rock. A nearby sign called it “The Invisible Palace,” which Thob didn’t understand—he could see it perfectly.
   The palace was deserted, like everything else. In the dark throne room, though, he found a few books lying around: if these people kept some records he might find out what had happened. He picked up a small book called “Factual Human”:
He didn’t know why anyone would write so incriminating a document: was this some sort of confession, or were assassinations a thing these “humans” took pride in? Either way, at least he knew what these tall folk had been called. Maybe he’d meet one yet.

He went back down into the outer town, still on the hunt for a tavern. Just as he passed through the eastern gate, however, a detestable smell met his nostrils:
He didn’t see anything dead, though, and the smell was faint, as if… as if something dead had been here a while ago. But there was no sign of scavengers feeding either…

At last, as evening was coming on, Thob spotted the unmistakable sign of a tavern! And what a tavern—even in its ruined state, it was enormous, and he could only imagine what a place it would have been in its day:
But his joy was short-lived. Although the place was stocked with dozens of huge casks, not a single one had even a vestige of alcohol. What sort of booze-draining plague had struck this country? No wonder the town was abandoned.

Night was coming, and Thob looked for a relatively stable shelter. As he drifted through the streets, he heard a shuffling noise—then came the awful smell again, but far stronger. Suddenly, something shambled from the ruins:
It—she?—it was clearly dead a long time, although well-preserved—yet there it was, walking towards him. Walking? No, it was running, straight for Thob with its claw-like fingers raised. Its black mouth gaped horribly.
   There was no time to run. Thob swung his pick and struck the thing’s foot. The desiccated flesh gave way, tore, and the corpse collapsed to the street. But it kept fighting. A scratch barely missed Thob, and he sank his pick into the thing’s abdomen with a sickening squelch. But he couldn’t pull it out; it was stuck. As he was trying the corpse kicked him across the face—the blow bruised him, but it also wrenched the weapon free. With a final swing Thob broke open the creature’s skull. It lay still—but he watched it for some time afterward, just to make sure.

So maybe the town wasn’t abandoned just from lack of booze. Just maybe it had something to do with dead things coming back to life.

I love this update!

Glad to hear it! It's good to have feedback. And I agree, it's a pretty good one (the book is my favorite part, because of course Thob would write a book about stealing books )

Here's another brief intermission - I'll still do a proper update sometime this week:

---

Again Thob passed down the dry valley to Dawngloves. It was now midspring.

When he showed his only find, the artifact mug, to King Urvad, the spooky noble recognized it at once:

   “Thank you for returning my—ah, our treasure… the treasure of the Sandaled Key.” He turned the beautiful goblet over in his bony hands. “And where’s the rest?”
   “That’s it,” said Thob.
   “What do you mean ‘that’s it’? That’s not it. I told you to bring all the artifacts from Scarredpaddles, yes?”
   “Well, they weren’t there. That’s all I found—and not even in Scarredpaddles.”
   The king screwed up one eye very tightly, and his thin lips started to quiver. “You aren’t… holding out on me, are you? Because that would be… most unwise.”
   “No, I am not holding out on you,” Thob replied, exasperated. “I walked all the way to Scarredpaddles and back, at your request, and on the way I got lost in the caverns, attacked by monsters, ambushed by hyenas, whipped in the chest, and rained on—and all I found was that cup! You should have guessed that stuff wouldn’t stay put for three hundred years, if it’s really so all-fired valuable! You ought to be glad I went at all!”
   The king was visibly taken aback by Thob’s vehemence. After a pause he seemed to relent a little, though his voice was markedly cold. “Perhaps… you are right. No doubt some of my rivals got to Scarredpaddles before I.” He looked at the mug again. “You have done well, considering. You may go.”
   “Wait a minute,” said Thob as the king turned away. “What about the booze? And the brewer?”
   “Don’t fool yourself,” Urvad snapped. “You’ve been out there, you’ve seen what it’s like. There’s nothing left—nothing—no kingdoms, no towns, no breweries, no booze. It’s all gone, and it’s been gone for a long, long time.”
   Thob was stunned. “No booze… anywhere?”
   “Nowhere anyone knows.”
   “How… how did you survive?”
   “Me?” Urvad shrugged. “Never touch the stuff.” And with that he walked away.

A dwarven king who didn’t drink. Thob guessed he had seen everything now.

The temple at Quakegloves was probably a good place to store books for the moment: after all, it had kept these ones safe for a thousand years. Thob stowed his collection before turning in for the night. If he came across more books in his travels, he’d try to bring them back here.

When dawn came Thob felt… creative. All this reading had given him an idea: why not try his hand at some writing? He’d read enough to have a general idea of what it should look like. He found an empty scroll in the old library, and a guide on how to write:
In a few hours, he was done:

---

---

Well, it wasn’t perfect—but not bad for a first attempt, he thought.

Before he left Quakegloves, Thob wanted to try one other thing. His dealings with deities had so far not been very fruitful, but now that he’d found a shrine of his own goddess, Egesh, he thought he might try again. Maybe she’d be more helpful—he was a member of her religion, after all. He went down to the shrine, stood before the golden statue, and rolled the twelve-sided die:
Huh. Maybe the gods were good for something after all.

Thob could head almost straight west to reach Stoneclasped again, and find his way back to Dawngloves from there. But between him and the western mountains was the tower of Brightplums, citadel of the Plates of Scouring.
King Urvad had said he shouldn’t go there, but Thob felt confident after his exploits against the hyenas. He could at least scope the place out. But he would wait until dusk: he could see well in the dark, and any hostiles might be at a disadvantage.
   The tower itself was a ways off, surrounded by a field of smaller outbuildings. Thob knew some of these structures might hold treasures: maybe Chieftess Onget had stored some artifacts in them? He snuck up to the nearest and peered inside:
   The entrance was guarded by a terrifying beast: a six-legged feathery thing with two long horns. But it didn’t seem to notice Thob. Keeping himself pressed against the wall and taking small steps, he worked his way to the stairs across the room. And it worked—he climbed to the upper chamber.
   There was indeed some treasure up here, but it looked to be mostly armor of a size too big for Thob. Still, he stepped over to take a closer look—and suddenly:
The whip flew out of the central pillar and caught Thob right in the solar plexus, punching the wind out of him. Dazed and gasping he retreated down the stairs and, cautiously, out of the building. Maybe the king was right—this place was too dangerous. He crept away, trying to get his breath back, towards a nearby stream, where he camped for the night.

With the dawn Thob was back on the road. The way back led near an old monastery in the desert, which Thob stopped by to check out. It was called “Moonpillars,” built for the Hateful Sect, a religion worshipping—who else?—Ôggon Bridemenace.
   Thob looked in at the local shrine, a small structure named the “Temple of Tentacles.” An odd name for the temple of a lust goddess, he thought… until he saw the artwork:
Well, that was an image he’d not forget soon—however much he wanted to. Thob hurried on his way.

Midmorning came, and water began falling from the sky again. Thob was crossing a grassy plain, keeping to the sparse tree cover to stay reasonably dry, when a shriek brought him up short. He glanced around for the source—
One of those feathered things with branching antennae was bearing down on him! But this time Thob would not run: he steadied the hand on his pick and readied his buckler.
   The demon swung a fist at him, but he caught it on the shield; in the same movement he struck the creature in the hollow of the knee. The force of his blow and the razor point of the steel pick sheared off its leg, and it fell; it grabbed for him but he dodged aside, planting the pick into its ribs; another strike punctured a lung. The beast gasped and lay still, but Thob’s weapon was already aloft again, and the plunging point smote through the creature’s skull.
   Thob was victorious—but he didn’t feel like it. This wasn’t like the hyenas: they were animals, but this… despite its feathers and antennae, it was almost dwarf-like. They could think and speak like dwarves. True, it had attacked him first, but that didn’t change the fact that he had brought death to a sentient creature. It made him feel…
Thob drew quickly away from the grisly scene. He would not be the same dwarf when he returned to Dawngloves. He would be changed, somehow older—a hardened individual.

The plus and minus symbols don't mean much: it's just the game's suggestion of what would be a good (plus) or bad (minus) attack. It's based on the combined strike difficulty and solidity, which you can see for yourself.

The exclamation point indicates an opportunity attack on that body part. These opportunity attacks will have a much higher chance to land a more solid blow, usually in the "simple strike, very square" range. They're worth checking out, as they can give you the chance to do some critical damage, but more often than not it's just, like, a better chance to bite your enemy's little finger or something.

Has Thob recovered from the shock of these dwarves' culture yet? Looked like he got a little thrown for a loop there when the king cheerily mentioned he was worshiping a goddess of lust.

He's coping alright, though we haven't heard the last of Ôggon yet.

Also, is it me or does Thob have an unerring tendency to run into kings?

He's had that dubious pleasure more often than usual. Although whether they're truly "kings" is its own quandary.

---

There was a small building in the north corner of the cavern: in it were a few tables and chairs, and a chest full of blank scrolls and quires of parchment. The dwarves at Quakegloves said it was the old “library”—a place where books used to be stored, and where scholars would come to research and write. It sounded just like the thing Thob wanted to start himself. There were no books in it now, but the dwarves said that some were scattered here and there through the fort.
   The temple of Ôggon stood to the south. Despite his reservations about the lust-goddesses cult, Thob decided to check it out. A series of ramps went down into lower and lower basements and sub-basements, one after another, for several floors; when finally Thob reached the bottom, he found to his astonishment—another massive pile of books:
(Author’s note: this is nowhere near the full list of books there were)
The titles ranged over all conceivable topics, and several inconceivable ones as well. Thob began searching the stacks for the most promising works.

   Among the scientific and technical treatises Thob read: Secret Breathing (on pulmonary medicine); Mysteries of the Voice (on the source of the voice); Surgical Tools, My Love (take a guess); To Glue and Glory!, a manual about preparing glue that somehow managed to convey “a hint of viciousness”; and, Thob’s personal favorite:

Then there were works of philosophy, questioning or promoting all sorts of dwarven values:
   The History of the Truth, an essay on the value of truth (despite its bombastic title);
   The Wizard’s Guide to Ignorance, which emphasized the value of knowledge;
   Better Rules, on the value of laws; and
   Toil: My Only Mistake, an essay on the value of hard work.

But perhaps the most interesting, to Thob’s taste anyway, were the histories—biography, chronicle, cultural comparison, and many other forms. These he read voraciously, eagerly soaking up their knowledge of the ancient world. Among these works one name stood out, more prominent than all the other authors: Shorast Blademansion, apparently an ancient dwarven historian of no small renown. Quite a number of the histories were his work:
   The Dwarves, Abridged: a serious cultural history of the Ring of Chance, covering the first fifty years of its history, from the very foundation of Quakegloves in year one.
   On The Dwarf: a history of the first general of the Ring, Shem Lockhelms. It was serious enough, but rather self-indulgent and not very well written—perhaps it was an early work?
   Meditations on the Dwarf: another history, this one about an infamous cheetah attack in year 88.
Shorast also wrote about his craft, in several manuals of historiographical practice, like Family in the Modern Era (how to compile family lineages and display them) and Could It Be Reliability? (about finding reliable sources of information).
   There was also an interesting biography that Shorast had written about himself—a form called “autobiography” which Thob had never heard of before: Shorast Blademansion and the Spattered Ear, a dense five-part volume covering Shorast’s career, from his start as a historian in 36, working at the Quakegloves library, to his retirement fifty years later, and discussing some of the discoveries he made along the way (he was, apparently, the very first dwarf to write a biography).

   According to his autobiography, Shorast had taken an apprentice late in his career—another historian named Mafol Crabguild. Mafol’s works were also well-represented in the collection. Many of them, despite being histories, also supported Mafol’s own philosophical views: his Book of the Ring of Chance, a cultural history, emphasized the value of truth, while his autobiography The Dwarves emphasized the value of knowledge—a good thing for a historian to value, Thob guessed.
   Mafol also wrote a biography of his old master: The Birth of Shorast Blademansion. Despite the title, it began with Shorast’s marriage, not his birth. Thob guessed it was metaphorical—Shorast’s “birth” as a historian.
   Thob was impressed by what he learned of Shorast and the other historians. What knowledge and scholarship the ancients possessed! To think that it might all have been lost, in the thousand years between their time and his. More than ever Thob realized how important his “library” would be, if ever the world were to be resettled.

When he had read his fill, Thob went down the central stairs to explore the rest of Quakegloves.
He was surprised when, on the way down, he found a small shrine to Egesh, goddess of his own religion, the Communion of Saints. He wasn’t particularly religious, but it was comforting to find a familiar image so far from home.
Lower Quakegloves was, intriguingly, open directly to the cavern road—unorthodox construction, and in Thob’s opinion pretty bad security. It must date from a time of prosperity, when there were still strong dwarven armies to guard the depths.
The main hall was littered with scattered scrolls, for some reason not kept with the others. A few of the Ring nobility lived down here, including two very old-looking dwarves. Thob introduced himself to one. “Ah, hello,” he replied gruffly, “I am Inod Atticbreached, baron of Glazetin.”
   “Wait a minute,” said Thob, “I know that name… yes, I remember! You wrote all those books—I found them in a monastery!”
   “Yes, I was a rather prolific author in my day. Now if you’ll excuse—.”
   “But that can’t be right,” said Thob, mostly to himself. “The books said Inod Atticbreached lived in the fourth century…”
   “Scribal error.”
   “…and that he could raise the dead.”
   “Oh… ah… sorry, I must take my leave.” Before Thob could ask another question, Inod had disappeared down the hall.

   Thob was still wondering about this strange encounter when another very old dwarf hailed him. “Greetings, stranger!” he said with a flourish. “I am Count Deduk Pleatedpage—humble servant of Ôggon Bridemenace. My!” he exclaimed, regarding Thob, “that ostrich leather cloak simply makes the outfit!”
   “Uh, thanks? My name's… wait.” This was too weird. “Deduk Pleatedpage? I’ve read some of your books, too.”
   “Oh… really?” said the old dwarf, suddenly looking nervous.
   “The ones you wrote about three hundred years ago?”
   “Ha, ha! What a joker you are! Well it’s been a lovely chat, Mr.…”
   “Thob.”
   “… Mr. Bob, but I’m afraid I must be off!” And he, too, disappeared.

Very likely, thought Thob, neither dwarf was who they claimed to be. He bet they weren’t even nobles. They’d picked up these old names somewhere to impress the king and get a place at court. That’s why they bolted from Thob—he’d caught them in their lie.
   That had to be it. Dwarves couldn’t live for three hundred years. Right?

---

Apologies for the wall of text in the middle. I didn't want to take pictures of all those books.

As to the wrong forum, this is not a mod..

Well, it's not a community game or story either. You'll get more help in the modding board, because that's where the people who know how to manipulate the game's systems hang out.

So, unless I'm mistaken, your problem is that humans (and other mortals, like dwarves) continue to become "obsessed with their own mortality and seek to extend their life by any means" despite their being no actual ways to immortality. I'll just offer my thoughts:
   1) I don't think this is as big a problem as you're making it out to be. AFAIK being obsessed with mortality doesn't interfere with them doing other things or pursuing other goals (such as "dabbling in local politics" or "getting married and having children"). As it stands, it's more or less just a flavorful way of getting people to learn secrets. So if it bothers you that much I think you can just ignore it, because it doesn't really affect the world in a meaningful way.
   2) To expand on Cathar's comment: in real life humans have often - pretty much always - sought for ways to extend their lives through magic: alchemy, searching for the fountain of youth, etc. etc. And they did these things despite the fact that, as you say, "it is not possible for humans to live forever in the real world." But they didn't know that. Similarly, your DF world may not have any actual secrets of life and death - but your humans don't know that. So, to be honest, your situation actually sounds extremely realistic.
   3):

these humans do not seem to understand this universe I'm trying to build.

Welcome to DF modding/worldgenning. The game will fight you at every turn. The more specific you want a world to turn out, the more hardship and suffering you'll have to endure to make it do so. And some things just aren't possible -- this may be one of them. A lot of stuff is simply hard-coded and can't be altered, and mortal races seeking secrets of life and death might be one of those things. But, as I said above, I don't think it really interferes with much, so my advice is just to ignore it. However, do ask the modding board, since they're likely to know more.

Also, are you running any mods on this world? I ask because "copper golems" are not a vanilla creature. If you are, it's best to tell people that up front, as sometimes it's the mod causing trouble, not DF itself.