I got here just as everyone was running around like headless chickens. No idea what the hell is going on. We set out from the Town of Stroking months ago. We were headed for Painturns, but apparently Obok "I Know How To Get Everywhere" got us completely lost. On the 3d of Malachite, two days after the last of the food and booze were consumed, we smelled smoke. After a brief deliberation, made briefer by the complete lack of food, booze and supplies, we headed for it hoping it wasn't goblins. A fort! I gave Obok the benefit of the doubt... right before we got close enough to see that here was a group of dwarves in the middle of something terribly important, viz. shitting their pants in fear. I present, as Exhibit A, the fragmentary record of the last overseer:
"... so they told me they didn't know how it got in but it was in. I was SO MAD. I told them and told them to seal the caverns, but they didn't listen. So I gave the order to head back upstairs and seal ourselves in the old fort. Everyone grumbled, but I got them moving. We might make it! Then I told them they could go back down, but only if they were carrying blocks to seal the snail-thing in the memorial room where it was wrecking the tombs. I felt bad for the dead, but I didn't feel bad enough to want to be one!
All these dwarves ignored the "carrying blocks" part, and started trying to go about their daily lives! I don't understand! There's a horrible monster in the middle of the fort and people are talking about planting food in the basement? And they say I'm stupid! I've had about enough of this. So I demanded we go back upstairs. But then the"... and bloodstains.
First of all, what sort of bloody idiot is scribbling away while his fortmates are dying? Seems I arrived just in time. The conversation went something like this:
"Right," said I, "You lot, stop pissing about. We've a fort to save. Can anyone tell me how many stairs lead down?
*crickets*
"Anyone?
*shifty silence*
"Very good! Well done! Well planned. Amazing any of you are left alive, considering what a complete collection of tossers you are. I'm Longshanks, not related to the last dimwit, because I'm tall, see? I'm also wearing the purple hat, which I happened to pick up off the floor from where young Lord Scribbler dropped it when his guts were torn out his arse. Everyone stays upstairs except one; all things below the third deep are completely forbidden to be touched or even thought about, on pain of being snailed to death. The only exception, only mind you, is the lucky bastard what is tasked with bringing me the body of Mate the Snail Kisser! That would be you, Urist... off you go now, while I tag along behind ye."
Following yon fool, I quickly determined that there was only one roundabout path left open to the deep halls, and I revoked my order and got them to seal it up. All in all 57 of us survived; seems that 38 met their end below in the main halls. Considering the stories the survivors tell, seems to be par for the course here. I also mandated a new military, and set them to training. Not sure what sort of pantywaists they were here before, but they won't catch a fort with me in charge sleeping! I also demanded that everyone spend some time outside so as to slow the process of all the stumbling and puking going on when their eyes touch the light o' day.
The rest of Galena and Malachite were spent building a new trade depot, opening new farms, digging larger food storage and building new craft workshops. There was a brief alert when someone saw something moving in the woods, but it turned out to be a tribe of hedgehog people wandering through. Nothing worrisome there.
I'm sure we've got something to trade, and I'm ready for the merchants to come. We need cloth and thread, but more than that we need hope. I'm going to send letters to some people I know and tell them to send as many victims dwarves in need of a better life as they can reach. I can make this a better place. I can, and I will.
- LONGSHANKS
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Topic: The Hastening of Doomforests (Read 437828 times)