WARNING: By its very nature, this chapter contains massive and unavoidable spoilers for the endgame of Dwarf Fortress. If you do not wish for your Fun to be spoiled, turn back now. Unknown Date, Sandstone(?), 718.Everything over the past months, everything He has willed me to do, has led to this.
I stand before that black pit of evil in Deepvaulted, His axe in my hand and my arms laden with shields and armour, and I know what He demands of me – to descend into that infernal realm, and strike against the monsters that dwell there.
Their numbers are infinite, ever-replenishing so long as evil burns in the hearts of mortal beings, but every one of those abominations that falls is one less to stand against Him when the Final Judgement befalls this world.
I feel the antediluvian evil lurking in that pit beneath, yet I feel none of the fear that struck me the first time; my soul does not quake at the knowledge of what lurks there, but burns with righteous fury. My faith in Him will shield me from their blasphemous power, and my contempt for the Demonic shall be His blade.
To ensure this record survives the coming ordeal, I am placing it within the former Trade Depot of Deepvaulted. Hopefully, whomever may find this record shall ensure the knowledge of His actions spreads, even should I fall in this final endeavour.
If you find this journal without me or without further entries, then my faith was too weak, and the beasts of Hell have claimed me.
Run from this place, and do not return – spread word of the evil that lurks here, that He may find other, more worthy champions to fight against these black-hearted fiends, but never return.
The Mighty One Protects.
Lonelythrall dug his fingers into the Adamantine spire, finding the tiny imperfections in the smooth metal and using them to gradually lower himself down. The air pulsed with the corrupt power of the monsters that awaited below, accompanied by the increasingly bright glow of infernal light. He cursed under his breath as his fingers almost slipped, forcing him to dig his other digits in deeper than ever.
Even one as resilient as he would not survive several storeys of falling onto cold Slade.
It was a long, painful journey, and he nearly fell once or twice, but his armoured boots finally struck the cold stone of the ground. A few painful shocks vibrated up his legs, but the metal of the high boots had taken the bulk of the impact, allowing him to rise up full and gain his first look of the infernal realm he now walked in.
His first impression was one of faint surprise, or even disappointment – there was none of the fire and brimstone lakes, or the miserable howls of condemned sinners that His traditional gospel preached of; none of the unending torture or ironic punishments that even the looser interpretations featured. Beyond the massive pits and plateaus, it reminded him more of some great underground cavern than the image of Hell that he had expected.
The second was of evil. Every stone, every spiderweb, even the very air itself seemed to radiate malice as though it were a physical force, the hatred of the Demons’ primogenitor infusing every inch of its realm. The realm was alive, though in no conventional manner, and it hated him as much as those who dwelled within it.
He refused to let it faze him, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, beginning to walk forth into the hell before him. Time seemed to drag on, the realm itself conspiring to slow his intrusion, until even His constant presence seemed to fade to a whisper. He could feel his thoughts slowing against his will, his movements becoming sluggish and his legs dragging whenever he tried to move.
The sight of an enemy was what finally broke him from his stupor.
His blood immediately ran hot, his combat instincts kicking in once more to flood his body with furious power. The great brute did not notice him, the twisted abomination too busy snarling and slavering at one of its fellows. The spittle that ran from its razor teeth left tiny, steaming puddles on the stone whenever it dripped free. Its massive outline swelled and fell as he crept forwards, keeping his footsteps as light as possible and his weapons warily raised, ready for the moment that it would sense him and lash out.
Just as he stepped forwards to strike, the brute’s pack-mate let out a sudden hiss of rage, raising one massive claw – a claw that was pointing directly at him.
With subtlety no longer an option, Lonelythrall chose to hold his ground, digging in his heels and watching the two brutes as they began to rush towards him. He eyed up the lead of the two, carefully gauging the distance between the rushing beast and himself, before tensing to move as it drew into striking range. A single mistake would mean death, either under its immense bulk, or between its twitching jaws.
The brute’s massive fist lashed downwards towards him, a rabid howl of triumph bursting from the creature’s lips. The howl quickly turned to anger as Lonelythrall calmly stepped out of the way, letting the fist hammer into the Slade. The Demon made to turn, eyes ablaze with inhuman hatred, but it was far too late to save itself – his axe was already in motion, and the divinely-wrought metal cleaved through its throat with ease.
The beast’s colossal body crashed to the ground as its head went spinning away, but he paid it no mind. He kept his eyes fixed on the other Demon – far more cautious than its unfortunate brother, it was circling at a distance, beady little eyes fixed upon him. Every now and then it would give a sharp snap or swipe towards him, not fully daring to close lest it fall as its brother had done, but he could see the look in its eyes. Bloodlust and Demonic savagery warred with caution, and the latter was rapidly losing ground against its nature.
Lonelythrall breathed out, lowering his shields and axe for a moment. It was an temptation that the Demon could not resist.
Roaring in hatred and bloodlust, the monster closed with him; its sweeping kick was blocked, the shield absorbing the massive force with ease, and his axe bit into its neck. The beast shrieked like a wounded animal, leaping away before the blade could bite any deeper. A thin arc of whitish ichor sprayed from the wound as it went. More blows swiftly began to rain down, and were just as swiftly blocked: kicks, punches, and the occasional bite, the monster trying to devour His champion whole.
Steeping aside to evade the beast’s latest charge, Lonelythrall let his axe fly once again. The demon’s leg gave out as the blade tore through muscle and nerve alike, leaving the axe-head coated in a thin film of ichor. With his foe brought down to its knees, he rushed in to deliver the killing blow, ignoring the efforts of the realm to bog down his movements and slow his strike.
The wounded monster’s jaws swung wide as it made a final, desperate lunge towards the bug attacking it, venom already dribbling from the teeth in anticipation of its bite meeting flesh.
He saw it coming a mile away. The beast moved so slowly it was almost painful, and he span aside to let its snout smash hard into the ground. A quick pivot and another strike of his axe, and the Demon’s head fell free from its twitching corpse. Another roar rang out, and his head whipped up to face it.
Atop a nearby plateau, more Demons were gathering. Some were massive, hairy, humanoid lizards like the two he had just slain, while others were quadrupedal and cyclopean, two scorpion-like stinger tails rising above their frilled backs in a display of aggression. Above them soared warped harrier-birds, their beaks replaced by mandibles and their forms composed of super-heated steam; others stalked forth across the ground, their warped forms forged from tightly-packed ash. A few lumbered and flew as they pleased, rising plumes of poisonous gas wreathing their forms.
All of them were looking directly at him with murder in their many eyes.
The massive dinosaur-like creature that led one of the packs flung back its head and roared again, tails twitching in fury. Its pack joined in kind, filling the air with a harrowing chorus of chaos. Their hatred and evil was almost a physical force; a wave of pure, murderous emotion, rushing at the intruder to drown it and weaken the prey for their attack.
Lonelythrall answered with a roar of his own, letting His holy rage flow through him as the Demonic horde came screaming forwards to attack.
The great, steamy birds were easy prey – their insubstantial forms fell apart at the slightest touch from his axe or his shields, drenching their comrades in boiling water or superheated steam. The few ashen fiends that fought beside them were similarly weak, limbs tearing apart and bodies disintegrating at the lightest blow of his weapons.
The kinglet-like abominations, however, were another story entirely. Whatever the foul miasma that hung around their form was, he didn’t know, nor did he desire to experience whatever vile illnesses it carried. Whenever one came close, belching pale smoke from its open beak, he was forced to leap away from the expanding cloud before he could be caught in it, before lunging forwards to hack at wherever the monster was most exposed. Two lay dead already, one decapitated by a lucky blow, the other having bled to death from a dozen wounds.
The remaining three were attacking him as a pack, using their flight and their gas to control the direction of the battle. His axe and shield rose and fell, rose and fell, blocking kicks and snatches before returning slashes and hacks to any exposed limbs. The creatures were battered and bleeding, but they showed no sign of discomfort – they just kept attacking him, with the same mindless hatred in their eyes.
A moment’s distraction almost cost him dearly as one of the remaining Demons charged him outright; he barely had time to plant his feet and drive his shield into the ground before its bulk slammed into him, sending him to the ground. The foul, stinking miasma of one of the kinglet-like Demons flooded his nostrils as a retaliatory slash from his axe forced the attacker away, but its fellows were already closing in to take advantage of their comrade’s actions.
In the moment before they were upon him, he managed to stagger back to his feet; a lucky strike to the leg sent one beast to the ground, before he was forced to block the kick of the second. Its chest heaved as it drew upon the reserves of gas within its bloated frame, preparing to flood its surroundings with gaseous poison once again.
His axe tore through its neck before it had a chance. Two remained, the third’s headless body joining the others on the Slade. A few pathetic bursts of gas blew from the neck-stump, ignored by the combatants as they closed in against one another once more. Blood flew, his axe flashed, and two more corpses joined those upon the ground in short order.
Ignoring the weight of exhaustion starting to settle upon his shoulders, Lonelythrall gripped his axe tight and prepared for the next wave. A group of Gila Monsters, rushing towards him at full tilt. They looked at him with pure hatred in their eyes, mixed with a lethal spark of intelligence that set them above the more bestial creatures to have attacked him. Even so, their natural bloodlust looked to be superseding some of their reason.
In its haste to reach the intruder, one of the lizard-like fiends had managed to become tangled in webbing; the monster was thrashing furiously as it tried to break its bonds, but the Fiend that had spun it knew its craft well. Its packmates charged ahead without looking back, teeth snapping at sulphurous air as they closed in on him.
His axe flashed forwards for a moment, only for him to be forced to jump away almost instantly as the Demons swarmed him. They moved as a pack, attempting to surround him and cut him off from escape before attacking. Up close, the evil pouring off them was an almost crushing presence, something not helped in the slightest by their twisted, unnatural shapes.
One of the brutes, young and impetuous, rushed forwards with slavering jaws and eyes ablaze with hunger. It collided with one of its elders, sending the two of them sprawling to the ground in a heap and earning the younger Demon a sharp bite to the back. It would have been almost comical, were those involved not so deadly.
Lonelythrall wasted no time in going on the attack, aiming for the legs and arms – with this many attacking, crippling them to slow them down would be vital. His weapon tore through muscle and sent blood or ichor arcing through the air with each strike, but the beasts showed no signs of pain. If anything, each blow seemed to only enrage them further, their strikes growing increasingly wild as they attempted to squash the irritating bug beneath their feet.
Leaping away from another punch, Lonelythrall hit the ground hard, rolling towards one of the pits that dotted the landscape. For an instant, terror flashed through his heart as he almost fell into the crimson abyss, before he managed to scrabble back upright and half-stumble, half-sprint away from the edge of the drop. The pack had stopped their assault, suddenly wary as they recognised the danger they were in – a single misstep, and the unfortunate Demon would plunge into the void below.
All of them knew that. Well, all but one.
The impetuous Demon, freshly untangled from its elder, rushed him again, barbaric fury blazing in its eyes and its massive jaws yawning wide. Its bloodlust and desire for revenge had stifled its intelligence once again – though this time, the consequences would be far greater than a painful bite.
Lonelythrall stepped aside, with an almost casual ease.
The Demon’s eyes bulged in shock, suddenly realising the danger it was in. Its massive claws frantically scraped against the Slade, throwing up streams of sparks as it tried to slow its forward momentum.
Its efforts were futile.
The massive weight and bulk of the Demon, a lethal weapon against most creatures, worked against it, preventing it from slowing quickly enough. The crimson abyss before it yawned wide as Lonelythrall rushed past the Demon; with a final, discordant shriek of terror and hatred, the massive bulk of the Gila tumbled fully over the lip of the chasm. Its howl soon cut off as it plummeted out of earshot and into whatever waited below, but he barely registered it, too busy gauging the distance between the onrushing pack and his weapon.
Many of them were looking weaker than before, slowed by the gashes across their legs and arms, but he could hear the cawing in the distance, coming closer all the time. More of their kin were closing in to attack, and he had no time to bleed them out. This time, he was aiming for the necks from the start.
One of the elders of the pack lunged in for a strike; its massive foot whipped past his head, close enough that he could feel the rush of shifting air. Lonelythrall twisted himself into a slash to the throat, letting the axe bite deep into the flesh once again. Blood flew as the Demon roared in shock and rage, staggering as its damaged spine sent conflicting signals to its bleeding limbs. A second blow finally took off its head, the massive carcass crashing to the blood-slick stone to join those already there.
He risked a quick look off to the side: the flock of ash-forged fiends and steamy birds was almost upon him, and a few of the cyclopean, dinosaur-like brutes were closing in fast, tails coiling overhead in preparation to sting. The Gila Monster pack was weakening rapidly, though – only one was still standing, swaying drunkenly on its feet, head lolling on a boneless neck.
In spite of all that, the accursed thing was still fighting, lurching forwards on failing legs to try and bite him. The last, spiteful actions of a doomed beast.
Gritting his teeth, Lonelythrall sidestepped the latest attack and hammered Angelbane into the last Gila’s head, hearing the satisfying crack of bone shifting. He would need to finish this quickly if he was going to survive against this new horde of threats. Another punch missed him by centimetres, his counter-stroke barely dodged as the Demon lurched away on a previously-damaged leg.
He dug in his heels, raised his weapons, and let the beast come to him. To charge it would be the height of folly, even with the Monster dead on its feet and a horde of Demons closing in. It obliged, rushing forwards with a gargantuan claw raised high to strike.
The claw raked across the metal of a secondary shield – strapped to his arm for extra protection, it sharply jarred his arm for a second before he swung with his other hand. The Monster collapsed, its neck cleaved almost entirely in two.
Just in time, too, as the next wave of Demons had reached him.
The opening steps of the battle repeated themselves once again – the Fiends fell apart at the slightest touch, showering the combatants with ash and boiling water alike. It formed a filthy grey layer over combatant and environment alike. Superior numbers swiftly fell, becoming far more evenly matched until he faced only three of the dinosaur-like Demons.
As with their predecessors, they fought as a pack. The biggest of the group – the one that had roared at him, right at the start – hung back as its subordinates attacked, one attempting to sting him while the other lunged into a kick.
The sting missed as he dodged out of the way, the stinger hammering into the ground beside him. A retaliatory slash from his axe bit deep, sending blood and venom alike spraying in an arc. It bit firmly, lodging in the wound before being pulled free amidst a further spray of both as he was forced to dodge away from the second’s sweeping kick.
Exhaustion was finally catching up to him – his breath was starting to come in sharp, hiking gasps, and sweat ran in runnels down his scales. Despite their supernatural lightness, his weapons and armour felt like weights, tied tight around his limbs and slowing his movements. The Demons could sense his exhaustion, too: their eyes lit up with malevolence, and the sense of bloodlust about them intensified even further.
Lonelythrall could feel his swings getting clumsier and weaker with every passing moment. Blows that would have torn through muscle and into the bone now merely skimmed the muscle, sliding free almost as soon as the blade bit. The shields covering his arms rocked with every blow, weighing his attacks down even further as the trio of One-Eyed Brutes renewed their assault on him. Weighed down by exhaustion, trapped by the Demon pack with his back against a wall, he knew it was all too likely he would meet his end.
A single memory ran through his head, overwhelming every sense and every other thought: the memory of a long-slain Roc, and the barbaric rage that had overcome him then. The rage of the Beast, his greatest sin - and now, the only thing that could save him from death.
With that, he let the chains he had so meticulously crafted through prayer and flagellation slip.
Fury flooded his veins, hot as magma – he had not come this far to fail, to die like an animal in the bowels of Hell! New strength suffused his flagging body, heart beginning to thunder in his chest until it felt ready to tear loose. A bestial howl of rage tore halfway free of his throat as he reared up, lashing out at the Demons with axe and shield alike while simultaneously doing all he could to wrestle the worst excesses of the Beast back into its mental cage.
One of the fiends went down almost immediately, the axe shearing through its neck and throat in a spray of ichor. The remaining two stopped their attack, newly wary at their supposedly-weakened prey’s sudden burst of savage power. The three of them circled one another, bloodlust wrestling with logic in each combatant’s mind. The Beast was screaming for blood within his mind, barely kept in check by the fear of the predators it saw before it, while the Demons wrestled with the animalistic fury and bloodlust integral to their souls.
It was a question of whose discipline would give out first – his, or that of the monsters before him. And from the way his heartbeat was rising higher than ever, the Beast trying to force him to charge them and indulge its maddening bloodthirst, it was going to be the answer fatal to him.
The beasts’ discipline broke at the exact moment as his. He was already in motion as the first of the two lunged for him, slashing for its thick neck as its claws descended towards his head. Blood flew as the blade bit through muscle and bone, taking the Demon’s head clear from its shoulders; its claws barely missed his head as the body crashed to the ground. The other’s bite fouled against one of his shields, falling a few moments later as a square blow to the head sent it flying off in an arc.
Breath hissing in his throat, Lonelythrall slumped to the ground. His chest still hiked with exertion and he was drenched in sweat, ichor, and Demonic ash, but he was exultant – His presence, faint as it was, pulsed with greater approval than ever, driving back the sense of malevolence that saturated the air. His task was fulfilled, the Demons delayed in their plans; all that remained was for him to return to the world of the sane and faithful, with a final tribute to Him in hand.
He wasn’t sure how long it took him to gather all the skulls. The Demons’ massive size made them painfully slow to butcher, even with his experience so far, and their skulls were so massive that merely moving became as intensive a task as fighting them in the first place. The way the hatred saturating the very stones seemed to drag at his limbs, bogging him down and slowing his movements didn’t help, but after what felt like a small eternity, he stood beneath the Adamantine spire once again, staring up into the tomb of Deepvaulted.
His presence intensified once again, the familiar comfort of the God of Gods’ presence returning. It was a relief, after His presence had been reduced to little more than a whisper for so long; even as he exulted in His touch, there was a sharp jerk directly behind his spine, and –
Boltspumpkin, Unknown Date, 718.My journey is at an end.
I have become something no longer accursed and tainted in the eyes of God and Mortal alike, but rather something that He may look upon with pride.
The shame I have fought and flagellated against all my life is not erased – that will never happen so long as I live. But for the first time since my ‘birth’, the Beast seems quiescent. Silent, even.
I have fought against the Demons of Hell, wielded arms and armour forged by the Heavens, and slain some of the greatest Beasts that wander the world, all in the name of His glory and will.
And yet…
For the first time since my adventure began, I am without His guidance. He is silent for now, attending to other Champions in this world, or matters beyond mortal ken.
Though I have faith that He shall call upon me in time, I find myself wondering what I must do now. I never put any thought as to what I should do after fulfilling His command, focused as I was upon my duty.
I cannot return to the Monastery – though I did not go out of my way to seek fame, tales of my prowess have begun to spread in some regions. I fear what would happen should I lead any ambitious glory-seekers or greed-driven mercenaries back to Wanecloistered. They wouldn’t hesitate to slaughter my fellows and burn it to the ground, if only in the name of petty glory – a fate unacceptable on every level, spiritual and mortal alike.
Similarly, the life of a wanderer holds no appeal. I must be ready to answer His call again, should He find a task that requires my skills, and the ravages that such constant travels would inflict on body and blade alike would weaken me unto uselessness. To say nothing of what might threaten this place in the absence of a defender…
…That’s it!
I shall stay here, in or near the Castle of Relics, for it must be defended against those who would seek to pillage it. Until He calls upon me for a task, I will remain here and ensure that no artefact gathered in His name is defiled.
The Mighty One protects.
You look up from the pages of the codex before you, over to the displays in the south-west of the Castle’s hall.
The tale seems unbelievable, a fantasy spun from whole cloth by some fanatical or desperate preacher to promote faith in the God of Blood, but the evidence before you is undeniable: built around a cryolite pedestal for structure, a throne of skulls stands.
The base of the throne consists of a once-great Titan’s corpse, crushed and compacted to provide a foundation for the massive skulls that rest atop it. The bestial, distended skulls of lizard-like beasts and a few avian ones – some small enough to be held in your hand, many so large that they are more akin to boulders – form the main shape of the throne, crudely piled together to provide the construction its seat and back; the skulls of a pair of Rocs fuse with others to create the arms of the chair, curving beaks sloping forward and downwards to act as armrests.
More skulls, those of twisted Night Trolls, have been smoothed and piled together to provide a foot-rest for any who would sit upon it. Capping the construction is a final skull – kept aloft by the upturned beaks of three of its avian kin, the elongated skull of a dinosaur-like fiend hangs directly over the place where an average man's head would be, jaws still gaping wide in apparent warning to anyone who would dare to sit upon the crude throne.
Turning yourself back to the table, there remains a final page of the codex bound in rotted fabric and decorated with blistered metal. A single sentence adorns the page:
“Let this be my epitaph, in the name of His glory: I was born a nameless, mindless beast in a heretical madman’s tower, forsaken by the Divines and the mortal races alike, yet His grace has allowed me to conquer the Angels of Heaven and slay the Demons of Hell itself.” – Lonelythrall the Penitent, Hand of Planegifts.
Taking on the HFS was more of a one-by-one basis – get one Clown's (maybe two, if careless; the entire pack, if unlucky) attention, kill them by aiming at the neck, then take on the next (with the exception of the steam/ash ones, who joined in as they pleased and died from a mean look). I apologise for the relative lack of screenshots, and any clashes that may occur between the writing and the logs - in my haste to finish the turn and survive the Circus, I forgot to take certain shots from the log and have improvised as a result.
Unfortunately, I had no choice but to DFHack-Teleport my way back out in the end. The Candy Cane had enough z-levels between it and the ground for me to be unable to climb without a set of upwards stairs – which, of course, Deepvaulted didn’t have – and carrying the skulls was sending my FPS deep into the region of 'borderline unplayable'.
Everything else, including a couple Gila Clowns getting stuck in webs and one falling down that bottomless chasm (that was good for a laugh, though it was it dodging from my attack rather than a charge attack against me that sent it down) was left as unchanged as circumstances permit.
My thanks to everyone who read these entries. Good luck with your adventures!
(And, if I may ask: how was this for a final chapter?)
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Topic: Museum III, adventure succession game (DF 0.47.05) (Read 409677 times)