Dumping of shoes and corpses continued under the overseers order, but the overseer herself didn't seem to be around. The self-styled corpse empress had vanished, but her orders yet stood. Dump the mittens, kill the kittens, burn the corpses. Not difficult, just time consuming.
Nobody thought to dump the rotten cheese, but by now the dwarves of Smallhands had become accustomed to horrific smells in the halls, and nobody wanted to touch the cheesepile for fear it might go for the throat if they disturbed it.
The dumping process was not without it's casualties...
... and Elpho regained her faculties enough to fill out the paperwork needed to re-register as a citizen of the Smallhands...
... but for the most part, the fortress of Smallhands functioned uneventfully without it's overseer present. Winter passed. A herd of terrified giant capybara passed by outside, oblivious to the industriousness happening within.
Elpho learned a new trick.
Morul's stress continued to rise, while Urist, the forlorn ghoul surgeon, slowly forgot his, passing below the threshold of tantrums...
A train of dwarves continued to carry a string of clothing items up to the trade depot.
And eventually, the first signs of spring started to appear in the wastelands above Smallhands.
reveal their secrets... take the power... save the fortress...Hehehehahahahahaha... yes, it's under here... just a bit further...
"Enough, Dastot. Stop," Recon stepped into the poorly dug tunnel, where Quasar's pick was just was mining out the back of a carved wall. Several other former overseers and citizens joined her. "We knew you were down here. It's the 28th of Obsidian. It's time for you to surrender the overseership."
"Hahahahah, I knew it! It's a
plot!" said Quasar, clutching the pick to her emaciated chest. "A scheme! A machination, a subterfuge and an intrigue of
cabals. You're defying me, that's what you're doing! You're all defying your immortal empress! How dare... how dare y..."
Quasar stopped, giggling and gasping raspily for air. Her eyes seemed wild, unfocused, and she was visibly trembling.
"Alright, that's enough! I told you to
stop! Put down the pick!" Recon said aggressively.
"I don't think that's necessary," another dwarf stepped past her and gently lifted the pick from Quasar's trembling hands. Rather than trying to hold onto it, the dead dwarf burst into laughter, rolling around on the floor, before abruptly sitting up, clutching at the nearest dwarf, who stepped back.
"You.. you don't understand... the blind eyes... they scream at me... the gibberish... it
meant something..."
"Come on. Let's get you back out of this tunnel."
"... the necromancer knew... he
knew... Radiofort, you're so fucking happy... none of you understand... we need it, the power, we
need it... please don't stop being happy, Radiofort... don't become like me..."
"What's going on here?" asked Recon. "Why isn't she resisting us anymore? Is she
sober?"
One of the dwarves in the rear interjected. "Sounds like babbling ta' me. Proper madness, that is. Didn't know ghouls could go insane, but I guess the stress can catch up with anyone eventually. Even the dead."
"Hahahahah... Recon... you,
Recon, you're going to die
last, Recon... dying a little bit more every day in your little dyers workshop... hee hee hee funny joke... She's coming, Recon... the real queen... She told me, in my mind... She's coming for you, Recon...
She's coming for all of you... ha ha ha..."
"If she's finally gone properly stark raving mad, there's nothing to be done about it. We'll take her back to the crafting floor and let her run about until she... oh. Wait..."
"
hee hee hee... can't die, already dead... just like you... just like Smallhands... ha ha ha..."
"Well, whatever. Let her run. She's harmless now, at least."
Gruffly and firmly, but not entirely without compassion, several of the dwarves helped Dastot to her feet, her head lolling aimlessly this way and that as she continued muttering gibberish to herself.
"It's weird, she's actually smiling again. I don't think I've seen her smile since... well, you know. D'you... d'you think she's happy right now?"
"Pfff, do I think a maddwarf's happy? An' a ghoul at that? How the hell should I know?"
"Yeah, right. Sorry, 'm speaking nonsense. But she's been through a lot. I... I just hope she's not suffering anymore."
"Yeah, I hope so too."
OOC: And that's that!
A few notes worth noting:
1. There is a quantum stockpile of shoes, mittens and other garbage right next to the trade depot. You can unforbid it and trade it all away to get rid of it and, presumably, free up some CPU cycles. I didn't get all of them, but I got many. I undumped the remainder and turned everyone's hauling duties back on so as to not make it impossible for the next person to dump specific items.
I meant to also move the garbage dump over to the incinerator, but I forgot. It's still by the trade depot.
2. Everyone's equipment orders are set to "over clothes" once again. Maybe you'll have better luck than I did, or maybe this'll just make the 'Pickup Equipment' epidemic even worse. Regardless, it's not my problem anymore. Have fun with this fortress' comical lack of hauling capacity.
3. Morul, (who, incidentally, is Nezclaw's wife), is probably doomed. Nervous wreck is a heck of a trait. If it gets too bad, ghoulify her before she starts toppling workshops and ruining all my carefully laid work orders.
To murder a dwarf, put them in the drowning chamber, then pull the black lever twice and the red lever once. I'm sure you can work it out.
Finally: 'Quasar' is running about babbling on the craftsfloor. I never saw her on any other floor, so I think she'll be safe without being locked up. And if not, well... so be it. Dastot's earned her rest.
Save file can be found Here.
Author
Topic: Smallhands - nearly 40 years and still tiny! (Read 409434 times)