3rd Granite
I have a plan. The zombies outside bay for blood, the blood and meat of the living…They are so frantic they pull the rotten flesh and limbs from their own dead to satisfy their needs. But it doesn’t, and the ripped limbs rise anew and join them. Ripping, tearing. Feasting. Their howls penetrate the gates and even walls of the fortress. They penetrate my dreams, dreams which had been so blessedly peaceful before they came. But I have a plan. They will see. I will not be tormented, not when paradise was almost in my grasp! I will cleanse Necrothreat of this onslaught of the dead. I will see the fields of the fortress again populated by the living and make Fain rue the day he sent his minions to our land!
But…but first I must ready us. Too long now have we cowered in the depths and allowed our realm to be ruled by foreign forces. Too long have our weapons only pierced flesh in the arena. Too long, much too long. I must create a new squad, one which will defend the troops as they once again wet their blades with blood of the enemy in combat. Going to NAV, the beersmith in our fort, I ask him to become the leader of a group of crossbow wielding maniacs who will no doubt be in the thick of he battle, shedding blood, taking hits. I explain the honour of the position, the power to be had from it. I also explain the death rate of the military, how mutiny is common, how he will have to carry the dead of his squad back on his own shoulders. And then, I drop the worst news of all on him. I tell him of the scarcity of food, the restricted rations....and also the lack of booze. He looks at his flagon of ale. He looks at me, drunken befuddlement writ large on his face. A dim understanding dawns on him, and he looks down and then back to me again. He sputters and starts to shake, lips twisting. I am tempted to back away, for he looks like a volcano with red cheeks flaring. From his writhing lips come the first words he has said since I came in. "Well bollocks," he whispers and, blood draining from his face, faints in his chair, head lolling backwards and drool dribbling down his chin. The Light save me for doing this, but who better to command them than another lunatic?
4th Granite
I walk far into the bowels of the earth, trying to find Apiks. He is elusive, the creator of the fort. And well he should be, for many look up to him and his presence may be seen as a direct challenge to the Overseer. And yet I now seek for him. It is hard; I myself have only heard whispered tales told around roaring fires as Forumites raise tankards of ale in his honour. They say he shall one day rise from his mines and once again take control of the fort. I wish he would, in some ways…to rule is to be needed, and to be needed is to let people down. Me especially…my previous rule of Necrothreat I was a puppet, a mere tool to be used. I could barely help myself, never-mind everyone from the smallest baby to the mightiest warrior. That is my burden. I must bear it, or be crushed.
I come upon a junction in the mines, the first I have seen. Forumites rush past me in a tide, leaving a gap around me as they travel deeper towards the warm glow of the forges. They fear me. It is not only Apiks who is mentioned in their stories. They say I am a monster, a thing of the shadow. That I have hewn or killed my way to the top, that my rule is drenched in blood. They say I am a servant of ancient and fell powers; that I cannot look at sunlight without being burned. They say that I am not fit to rule. They respect Apiks. They fear me. I will show them that I am not evil, but it will take time. I will earn their respect eventually.
I turn down the dust-covered never-used path, for anyone who doesn’t want to be found goes to the deepest and least trodden area of the fortress. I follow it through many twists and turns, down towards the deep magma sea. Soon the rocks become hot to touch and gold spiders through the rock. As I travel I listen to my heart beat, a reassuring tempo which lulls me into a sort of trance. I walk to the sound of it, drifting in and out of reality and thought. Beat! Beat! Beat! I round a corner and I hear the scuff of boots on stone. Suddenly the beat stops and, startled, I open my eyes to find that I had been walking aimlessly through a maze of tunnels towards the pounding of what I had thought to be my heart. It hadn’t been, as I could now see.
Apiks, converser to Gods, seer of the future and light of ancient days when Necrothreat was but fire and grim shadows flung far and wide. When first a Forumite came to these halls, Apiks was there already. And now he stands before me, dressed in simple clothes of simple make, with no decoration and a pick in his hand. I shrug in my elaborately embroidered robes of office, ashamed to show them here in this place of practicality.
I have stood under the blows of gods and never truly worshipped or admired them. Their hands have been on my body and mind, allowing me no reprieve awake or asleep, but I didn’t break. I stayed straight, unbent. I kept my honour. But before this man I am as close as I have ever been to kneeling in the stones and mud, fancy clothes or no fancy clothes. He smiled faintly as if he understood what I was thinking then wiped the sweat from his brow. “You wish to speak to me?” he said in a gravelly voice. We speak long on matters small and big, and I explain the situation outside. I then lay down my plan. Nodding, he hefts his pick and starts grimly down his path, the path I now realise he made with his own hands. I follow, awed. Surely the gods cannot win as long as we have this man? With Forumites such as these, the gods would best be worried.
Apiks comes to the place I had told him of and he nods, eyes intent on the rock. He lifts his pick, and it seems imbued with the power of the ancients. Muscles like cord straining in his arms, he raises his pick and sinks it deep into the skin of the earth. The first part of my plan is in action. I smile and walk away, the sounds of Apiks piercing stone and soil fading behind me.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Just so you all know, the opinions expressed are purely about the dwarf and not the person. For example the bit where I say NAV is a maniac. This is obviously not true....er....I hope? Sorry if the writing isn't that good, it's getting kinda late. I will probably look through it in the morning and fix any grammatical mistakes.
Poll
Author
Topic: Necrothreat II - A Fort Cursed by the Gods! (Read 447606 times)