Well, a brief update.
The Lucky Thirteen quickly became the Lucky Twelve after I appointed a new Captain of the Guard. Evidently, Butacara, my butcher, didn't make what the long-dead mayor had requested. Zharilia decided, against the wishes of the other survivors, that an abrupt execution via her artifact crossbow was appropriate. The new mayor, Nasher, who'd managed to keep it together throughout the Madness, was pushed so close to his breaking point that I feared we'd be burying two corpses instead of one. Through some divine grace, though, he managed to forgive Zharilia her infantile and disgusting zeal for Order, and buried Butacara at the base of the waterfall with all the other dead.
Weeks slowly trudged by. We managed to finally pierce the flooded children's burrow. The heart-breaking work of burying them needs no description. Kidalia, the last of the ghostly dwarf children, was finally laid to rest on the 10th of Slate. No memorial service was held.
A week after that, a wave of migrants turned up. Forty-four of them. Despite the terrifying probability that they would all die, they packed up and came here, children in tow. Things must be bad back at Mountainhome. The new comers are very tight-lipped whenever questioned. We'd like to believe the influx has to do with the economic possibilities offered by the deep earth here, but we remain suspicious. There are mutterings of succession problems, among other things.
One of the migrants was an expert macedwarf with 167 kills under his belt and a burning desire to teach. He's our new Captain. Nasher was only too happy to strip Zharilia of her title.
One of the children was taken fey soon after their arrival. He would neither eat nor drink until we finally let him out of the new (and hopefully safer) children's burrow. He promptly carved an exquisite amulet of bone, engraved with an image of Ishgasol Sankestkudar, our famous golden cabinet. I suppose that artifact has become somewhat of a symbol of hope for our troubled land. Especially, I think, for the children.
It's Felsite now. The elves arrived in the midst of a sudden Spring snowstorm. Thankfully, and for the first time in many years, they weren't tailed by goblins. Perhaps even they have heard of the horrors of Atolunol Thatthil. Or, perhaps, there are so few children that they don't find us worthy of a siege.
Regardless, with the help of our new migrants, we managed to clear out the halls of gore that were once the first-floor apartments. The elves, more out of pity than anything else, I suspect, took all the blood-caked rags and trinkets in exchange for much needed food and booze.
Pity. Pity from the elves. Armok has a very dark sense of humor.
But they have done us a kindness, as much as it irks me to say. It will not be forgotten.
Now, my children, we grow. We grow deep and strong, plunging our roots down into the wealth of the black earth that surrounds us. For we only ever broke through the first of the caverns, and there are stories, my children, stories of fantastical riches and wondrous things that lie deeper and deeper still.
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Topic: My first tantrum spiral. Wow. Just wow. (Read 11899 times)