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[diogo_alt_tab]

Greeting, fellow forumites. I have been lurking the forums for pretty much as long as I've been playing Dwarf Fortress -- about six years give or take -- but this is my first time posting after making an account last year, so forgive me for eventual fumblyness and lack of posting expertise.

Anyways, I fancy myself a pretty decent Fortress Mode player; alas, when it comes to Adventure Mode, I've always found myself suffering from constant anxiety, localized loss of motivation, chronic restartitis and general noobishness. However, after plowing through many epic threads, most of all the succession games, be them adventure or fortress mode, I've been wanting to participate and/or create one of my own for some time now; furthermore, I reckon the responsibility of maintaining a thread would provide the necessary motivation for me to actually get invested in an Adventure More playthrough; finally, I wouldn't mind practicing my writing a bit. Regardless, I reckon I won't last too much before my adventurer croaks, so if there's demand I'd love to turn this into a succession thing. If that's the case, we could discuss eventual rules and constraints for future successive playthroughs.

I will be starting the actual playthrough later today or sometime tomorrow at most, but I will leave y'all with a quick summary of the world I/we are gonna be playing for now. Behold, Mon Slospu, The Plane of Omens:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

As you can clearly see, it's not looking like the most hospitable world as of right now. There are healthy-ish human and elven populations, but the goblins are clearly the bigwigs pretty much all over the place. The dwarves of The Lucky Ceiling, however, are on a much direr situation: for the 237 years the history of this world has been recorded, they've never really been able to make it out of the mountain ridge known as The Admired Mountain, past an enormous evil swamp aptly called The Marsh of Death, which stretches all the way from The Plain of Ringing on the east to the northwesternmost reaches of the continent, bordering the frozen wastes of The Exalted Tundra. Their peculiarly unfortunate geographical situation seems to have also affected both their population development capabilities and infrastructural expanding abilities to the point where they've never managed to build any colony apart from their capital fortress of Smithpears; their other settlements shown on map seem to be fruit of mere speculation at best, about lone dwarven wanderers living in abandoned goblin fortresses and primordial caves from where some mystics and scholars say the dwarven race emerged in a time before time... In a world so fecund with secrets and mystery, opportunity for glory and death among its cursed marshes, desolate badlands and haunted ruins is surely abound!

Well, with that I leave you for now. As I've said, I intend on starting posting about my adventures either later today or tomorrow at most; and if there is interest, it would be my pleasure to turn this into a continuing succession game. Furthermore, my main interest here is in adventuring, but I'd surely be open to mixing it up with fortress mode for those who desire it.

Bye-bye for now, folks, see you again soon!

[diogo_alt_tab]

PROLOGUE

From the travel diary of Mestthos Bubnusgeshud, "Scourfortress", former bookbinder and current explorer and conquistador for The Dagger of Passion, of The Lucky Ceiling:

Even if a nest box is the proper dwelling for a poult, one cannot expect it to live its entire natural life huddled inside one, without stepping outside even once. Same goes for both a dog and the underside of its master's bed, a crundle and its crevice in the cavern walls, and a dwarf and its hovel in the deep stone; no matter who or what you are -- a rational, talking, two-legged creature or a beast of field or grotto --, you cannot inhabit the same limited, if familiar, space for an indefinite amount of time. The same logic applies, I think, to an entire civilization and its capital city.

Mestthos Bubnusgeshud is my name. I am a worshipper of The Moth of Terrifying, god of wealth, trade, trickery, treachery and lies, and the binding of manuscripts to their proper stone and metal covers has been my trade since my youngest days. Like pretty much all other dwarves in this wretched world, at least as far as I can tell, I was born in the great fortress of Eshtânmadush, "Smithpears", a big, ugly, obnoxious hunk of stone, sitting nicely where the dusty, barren peaks of the Admired Mountain meet the putrescent, beak dog-infested pools of the Marsh of Death and the sprawling basin of the Rankreleased river, where vicious snapping turtles and treacherous crocodiles make their roost.

You can tell I don't exactly love it in here, can't you?

Well, to be perfectly fair, it's not that bad. For starters, without its protection, the dwarven race of The Plan of Omens would have never survived for as long as it has, let alone thrived as much as it has inside its hovels and hallways. That blessing, however, is also a curse: for nearly 240 years, the dwarves of The Lucky Ceiling have seldom risked stepping foot outside its looming limits, much less brave the wilds around it for no exceptionally good reason. Not that one doesn't have good reasons for doing so, of course: many a foolish young dwarf who has wandered too far on their own has fallen prey to wild animals, goblin kidnappers, or worse. Still, our comfort and safety have kept us locked inside our home for far too long.

Since my early days in the book binding craft I have had multiple opportunities to peruse through tomes of knowledge, old and new, copies and manuscripts, many of them teeming with accounts and records from the olden days, when our culture was younger. I've read about generals and diplomats of yore, of processions, ceremonies, of scholars and artists bent on both understanding the world and filling it with beauty, of a time when gods of light and dark spoke to us! It fascinated me, how much potential we had, how much energy and will to occupy The Plan of Omens with our greatness flowed through our veins! And yet, we were repeatedly beaten down by the cold, violent world until we reached the point where we are now: a timid, uncurious culture, huddled inside our cold fortress, much like the aforementioned poult that has never leaves its nest box.

But enough, I say! Enough, for this is the time for the dwarves of The Lucky Ceiling to venture forth once more, to carry the banner of the rectangular cabochons past the hostile wilds, through thick and thin towards our rightful glory!

---

After parlaying extensively with our elderly queen, lady Zasit Matchplanks, I have been granted permission to set out on an exploration mission, as well as a modest parcel of equipment. It's not much, but I do not complain, for I have always valued law and modesty. I have also been granted the right to recruit and take with me whoever wishes to accompany me in my explorations; surely an attribution of the utmost importance, for one's chances of survival get considerably slimmer when one is alone in the wilds.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

As shown on our admittedly outdated official charters, compiled mostly from the accounts of a handful of explorers of old and the rare merchant caravan that still dares brave the harsh way to our mountainside dwellings, our geographical knowledge of the world itself is shamefully lackluster. We know pretty much all there is to know about the Admired Mountain and the Marsh of Death alright -- not that there is too much to know about them other than they're deeply unpleasant and uninhospitable -- but the rest of the world is all a big unknown to us. Northwards is the monastery of Bloodbolts, built over one and a half centuries ago in honour of Tobul the Amethyst Crest; while not formally part of our state since then, we've kept close-ish relations until a couple of years ago, when rumours of the disbanding of the Tin Communion started floating around. We are in contact, too, with the elves of The Spring of Healing, a small group of three or so settlements in a surprisingly peaceful stretch of forest, right where the first nascents of the Rankreleased basin come down from the mountains, still not tarnished by the foul miasma from the haunted swamps. To the northwest there is said to be an unholy tower of evil, erected by a vile necromancer of name Goden Syrupmetals, who is said to be still alive to this day; needless to say, it's a place to be avoided at all costs, at least for now. Further northwest lay the icy wastes of the Exalted Tundra, home of the Heart of Pages, a smoldering scar in the face of the land, from where the blood of The Oily Fountains himself pours atop the world.

To the southeast lay most of the civilized settlements we know of. Well, "civilized" might be a bit of a stretch: it consists mostly of goblin pits and dark fortresses, foul lairs of ruin and laudation of curseful entities of a place different from ours. As far as we can tell, most of the kidnappings perpetrated upon many a dwarfling in the past seem to have been responsibility of these vicious creatures. Further south, finally, there are different elven and human settlements -- or so we've been told by rare travelers, at least; never have we made direct contact with these nations. Apart from that, though, it is all a big unknown, darker and more ominous to us than the deep caves below or the midnight sky above, but equally promising and enticing.

The main objective for this first expedition, then, consists of the chartering of terra incognita and prospecting of favorable positions for a possible colonizing venture; furthermore, diplomatic relations with rulers of so far sparsely contacted civilizations are to be established, and all possible knowledge about relevant matters of all sorts is to be acquired and returned to Smithpears for the further advancement of dwarven science. Since it would be a wise move to get out of the Marsh of Death as soon as possible, the proposed route would be along the Rankreleased river, further southwest until the swamps are behind us, and then south and southeast, avoiding goblins and such menaces at all costs while moving in the direction of these rumoured uncontacted settlements. Expecting everything to go according to plan, of course, is but a foolish notion, and every venture is subject to all manners of unpredictable turns, but this is as decent a preliminary plan as any, and so it shall be followed to the best of our abilities.

For now, then, I shall rest and collect my strenght; tomorrow, on the 15th of Granite, I shall look for a companion and we'll set out for the great unknown, with the blessings of The Moth of Terrifying and whichever other deities above that shall heed our plea, for the glory of The Lucky Ceiling!

[diogo_alt_tab]

Part One

15th of Granite, 238
Fortress of Smithpears, The Marsh of Death

Well, this is it. This is the day I, Mestthos Bubnusgeshud, finally set out from the gates of old Smithpears, past the terrible swamps and unyielding mountains, towards... towards what? Well, towards the future, of course! The future of all dwarves of The Lucky Ceiling, and of The Plane of Omens as a whole! It is surely a responsibility of the utmost importance that has been deposited upon my doubtlessly willing shoulders.

First, though, the final preparations for the trip must be completed, e.g. getting a, preferrably armed and combat-savvy, traveling companion; some extra food and drink couldn't hurt as well. On my way up I make a point of passing through the halls of commerce, large chambers littered with varied wares and the merchants responsible for peddling them over to each other.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

By a couple of farmhands and artisans, I spot a most imposing figure: it's Nil Vosutzuntîr, mighty macedwarf and fortress guard of The Dagger of Passion, a most brave and valorous warrior! How convenient it would be if he agreed to join me in my trav-

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

...huh. I guess the true adventuring life is not for everyone, now is it? Bah, no matter! I need no protection from a coward who fancies himself a warrior. Not to worry, though: not a pair of minutes later, I cross Id Kikrostengig, swordsdwarf, who agrees to travel with me. Finally, a truly brave soul! Just a couple floors down, however, a scene most grim crosses my sight: Tekkud Abantölún, our dear baroness, lays wounded on the floor, bleeding and faint!

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

After some careful questioning, it is revealed to me that her bruises are the result of a common brawl, stemming from a quarrel or discussion. True, it is written in our codes of law that consensual, non-lethal fisticuffs do not consist of a transgression; still, to me it seems like bad manners to run around throwing hands for no good reason, even if I myself have admittedly partaken in more than one sportsmanly altercation in the past...

Bah, but I digress. No time to waste with my fellow dwarves' subterranean quarrels; I have done so for all my life, and now is the time for greater goals! Me and Id qickly make our way topside, only stopping to, as is custom, roll the divining dice at the shrine of Tobul the Amethist Crest, god of mountains:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The mountain deity Himself blesses my journey, it seems! There could not be a more fortunate omen. With renewed focus on the path ahead, we quickly make our way topside; as if the grace of Tobul was manifesting itself, as we get one last drink at the tavern known as The Teeth of Lashing (which is coincidentally tended to by Obok Såkzulozkak, Id's nephew), Domas Imushzes the hammerdwarfess offers us her invaluable companionship. With our wills and waterskins bolstered, we make our way outside and set foot on the road northwards to the monastery of Bloodbolts, our first stop. Queen Zasit personally asked me to check if everything is okay over there; there have been rumours of foul going-ons at the abbey, and today's traveling monks, she says, are not to be fully trusted.

---

Ah, the Marsh of Death. Just as I remembered it: a humid, tangled mess of overlapping trunks and branches, dead leaves and drenched grass and roots; permeated by the sickly odour of rotting fruit, slimy mud and a certain otherwordly, deathly scent that seems to exhale from the innards of the swamp itself. Not much in the way of animal life is to be seen apart from the occasional roosting eagle or lost yak that has strayed too far from the mountains; thankfully, the fearsome beak dogs seem to have migrated to another region for the spring. The journey to Bloodbolts is short and uneventful, and I am greeted by a shining statue of the dwarf that has been the abbot of The Tin Communion for the last eighty years or so:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Inside the nearest building, apparently the dormitory, we find ourselves face to face with peasant who introduces himself as Domas Taremcatten. When inquired, he claims to not know much about anything, instead providing us with vague commentary about the surrounding marsh. He does, however, state that there is no organized government in Bloodbolts anymore, confirming our suspicions that The Tin Communion is not in charge of their monastery anymore. My questioning seems to have got Domas in quite the crabby mood, and he doesn't want to parlay anymore, preferring to sulk in his bed. Frustrated, I turn to Id and ask if he knows something about Rakust Coppertheater, the head of the religious organization; you can imagine my surprise when he reveals that Rakust is actually his uncle! That does not mean, however, that he knows where he is. Alas, we shall keep looking.

In The Shrine of Amethyst, the temple proper, we find a dwarfess presenting herself as Bëmbul Atêkoddom and claiming to be a pilgrim of Tobul, on a pilgrimage to this very temple since... the spring of 181? Has she been living here ever since, in constant, unwavering servitude to The Amethyst Crest? This level of devotion is truly remarkable, and even if I dedicate my devotion to another deity, I remove my pig tail cap out of respect to such a zealous person. When asked about Rakust Coppertheater, another surprise: she is also his niece, and consequentially, Id's cousin! Such a coincidence is not that unlikely when you remember that our entire civilization as a whole consists of little more than 150 dwarves, but still, what are the chances? That does not mean, however that she knows where the former head of this abbey is. We leave the pious woman to her prayer, and go look somewhere else.

The entire monastery seems to be deserted and devoid of inhabitants other than the pilgrim Bëmbul and the peasant Domas. The mystery thickens: how and why did the head of one of our largest cults just up and left his former domain at Bloodbolts? Where is him now? What are the reasons behind this man's actions, and why does no one seem to have a clue where he is? I must remind myself, however, that this investigation is not my main goal, and I should prioritize my exploration of the Plane of Omens. Bidding farewell to Bloodbolts, we head east until we find a shallow creek flowing northwards, surely a tributary of Rankreleased, the river we plan to follow until we're out of the Marsh of Death. We tighten our boots, adjust our backpacks and trudge forwards, into the unwelcoming wilds ahead. May the Nine protect us.

Next up: crossing the Marsh of Death!

---

OOC: Is anyone actually reading this? Not that I mind talking to myself over here, but it'd still be nice to have a little bit of confirmation. Thanks in advance.

[Salmeuk]

I am :]

Even if a nest box is the proper dwelling for a poult, one cannot expect it to live its entire natural life huddled inside one, without stepping outside even once. Same goes for both a dog and the underside of its master's bed, a crundle and its crevice in the cavern walls, and a dwarf and its hovel in the deep stone; no matter who or what you are -- a rational, talking, two-legged creature or a beast of field or grotto --, you cannot inhabit the same limited, if familiar, space for an indefinite amount of time.

can relate~

Ah, the Marsh of Death. Just as I remembered it: a humid, tangled mess of overlapping trunks and branches, dead leaves and drenched grass and roots; permeated by the sickly odour of rotting fruit, slimy mud and a certain otherwordly, deathly scent that seems to exhale from the innards of the swamp itself

You should give us a map with markings so we know where the marsh is

[diogo_alt_tab]

I am :]

Thanks, that makes me very glad!
I believe I'll be posting the next part sometime tomorrow; so far it's looking like it's gonna be a good one.

You should give us a map with markings so we know where the marsh is

Good call, here it is:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

I just marked what is currently known, so to speak, to the dwarves of The Lucky Ceiling. As the adventure progresses, I might make new additions based on Mestthos' findings.

[diogo_alt_tab]

Part Two

15th of Granite, 238, early afternoon.
The Marsh of Death

When idle, one's mind tends to get somewhat lost in divagation. Seemingly random questions, some interesting, some frankly inane, repeatedly pop up in one's train of thought, bothering the consciousness with a certain irritating itch, much like a collection of singular blood gnats that eventually grows into a swarm. During my days as a bookbinder, even though it wasn't a profession I minded much, such questions would constantly appear before me, undoubdtedly aided by the ever-growing pile of to-be-bound codices under my responsibility.

In that sense, trudging through a fetid swamp in the company of two armor-clad companions, one of which constantly lags behind in a particularly annoying manner, can be surprisingly similar to sewing pig tail sheets for hours on end under a dimly-lit hovel; the main difference being that, while during the latter the questions seem to be mostly about abstract philosophical concepts and such, during the former these thoughts have a tendency to steer towards more grim and pessimistic, if also more objective, directions.

Such an activity, if nothing else, does provide excellent opportunities for the keen-eyed observer of nature. Many a different animal species, from low-flying barn owls to yelping capybaras, robust wild boars and even monstrous avians in the shape of a common sparrow, inhabit the shallow pools and muddy slopes of the Marsh of Death. They certainly pique my interest -- I've always been told how uncanny my interest for the natural world is -- and of my companions as well, though, in their case, in a somewhat different way; a more violent one, if you will. That does remind me that, while well-stocked on beverages, my food supplies are not looking so good. Maybe I should try to hunt something if an opportunity presents itself.

---

After a few more hours, our shallow babbling brook takes a dive into a fairly deep, if not too wide, proper river. With it, though, we make a much more unsettling discovery: a few pools of a repellent green slush, of unknown origin, already starting to taint the waters with its foul stench, as well as a group of capybaras witless enough to come into contact with it.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Not pictured: Id and Domas going after some stray rodents in a murderous rage.

Before I realize what's happening, more of the vile substance starts pouring down from the very sky! What a revolting, disgusting turn of events. Not even the majestous trees can protect us from this noxious slurry, for its apparent oilyness grants it the ability to slide down inbetween branches and leaves. Luckily, my trusty yak leather cloak and hood seem to do a good job of keeping it from coming into contact with my skin; Id and Domas' armor sets seem to have a similar effect.

---

As we traipse forward, I suddenly hear a strange noise from behind, like a guttural, low roar... When I turn back, an immense monster in the shape of an alligator is already setting upon my companions! Before I can even recollect myself, turn around and run to their help, the beast has already ripped Domas' left lower leg cleanly from its socket! However, Domas puts on an incredible display of fighting spirit, and by the time I reach the fray, the monster is already considerably bruised up by her unrelenting war hammer.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

After a few more moments of frantic battle, Domas manages to end the monster's life with a well-placed hammer blow to the head.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The biggest threat is gone, but Domas is still in grave danger. Her entire lower left leg was brutally torn out, and she's suffering from heavy bleeding. I quickly turn to her and express my worry about her situation, to which she responds with... a joke? She has always been quite inclined to buffoonery, yes, but now, of all times? Coming down from a shock state myself, I slowly realize the distant, dopey grin Domas wears on her face... Upon further questioning she states to be feeling good. Is it possible that her mind suffered such a shock from the violence she suffered that it has entered an anesthesized state? It doesn't take long, however, for her to come to her senses and realize the gravety of her situation.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

It doesn't take long, too, for Id to show up from behind a tree. The sniveling coward! Running off during such a violent attack? Abandoning his comrades to their sorry fate out of pure cowardice? I don't even want to look him in the face. Had I half a mind to do it, I'd push him into the river without a second thought!

For as much pain as Domas seems to be in, her bleeding has stopped; she will likely survive her wound, provided she doesn't get an infection. What is undoubtedly done for, I'm afraid, are her adventuring days: with half a leg lacking, she'll never be able to stand up again, much less perform in battle. For throwing herself so selflessly in front of danger, the least I owe her is to carry her back to Smithpears and make sure she'll be treated right for her bravery. However, as incredible as it may seem, she puts on a never-before-heard-of display of warriorly honour and refuses the escort! "Don't worry, Mestthos", she says. "I was given two legs by the Nine, for if I ever misplaced one, I'd still have another! You and Id go on ahead, for your mission is of the utmost importance. Don't you worry about me, I'll crawl back to Smithpears on my own, and if I get a move on right now I reckon I'll be there before dusk!"

Very well. Many things might be said about Mestthos Bubnusgeshud, but one thing none shall ever accuse me of is disrespecting the wishes of a brave, battle-proven warrior. There is one thing, however, that I can and will do for Domas, and I won't take a no for an answer. She is the one that put an end to the fearsome giant alligator, and, by the right of hunt, is the one entitled to its spoils; while the transport of such a humongous carcass is obviously impossible, I can still make sure she receives the most important part of every prey: its still warm, quivering, blood-gushing heart, where, as is known, the essence of the opponent's bravery and strenght resides.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

May the Nine protect you on your way back home, Domas, and may we meet again under more auspicious circumstances. Farewell.

[diogo_alt_tab]

Part Three

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

That's right, two parts in one day 

16th of Granite, 238, morning.
The Marsh of Death

Nearly a full day has passed since we said our farewells to Domas, and along the stinky banks of the Rankreleased we have trekked ever onwards. Not far beyond the place of our encounter with the monstrous alligator, the formerly flat terrain slowly transformed into steeper and steeper hills, from atop of which the river flows more and more rapidly, forming waterfalls and canyons here and there; it seems like the upper Rankreleased watershed, where Smithpears is located, is in actuality a plateau, of higher average altitude than the rest of the Marsh of Death. As strange as the topography might be, however, much stranger are the inhabitants of this place.

While not a common sight at all, every dwarf from Smithpears has seen their share of animal people throughout their lives -- be it high-soaring eyries of white stork men, timid herds of capybara men or daring groups of mountain goat men, such creatures have bashfully stalked the surroundings of the fortress for as long as anyone can remember. Interactions between our races, though, have always been on the reserved side and consisted mostly of nervous staring and waving from afar, with the occasional careful exchange of stone baubles for fresh fruit at most. One can picture, then, a dwarf's surprise to see many groups of multiple animal people roaming the wilds without a care in the world, unfazed by their presence, chit-chatting their days aways.

Most interesting were a group of sponge people -- I wasn't even aware of the existence of such a thing as a sponge to begin with, let alone sponge people -- living underwater in a river bank, seemingly involved, day and night, in ceaseless, redundant displays of shameless adulation:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

While such unabashed sycophancy would be seen with disgust among the dwarves of The Lucky Ceiling, it seems to be the norm among certain groups of animal people. It is a reminder of the necessity of caution when dealing with different cultures, with different values and ethical concepts; a lesson we are constantly reminded of whenever we deal with our elven neighbours of The Spring of Healing, and that we should better keep in mind if our nation is ever to break through and establish itself as a power in The Plane of Omens.

---

Since Id's outrageous display of cowardice, I've made a point of treating him with just the bare minimum of respect and recognition, and not a urist more. So far, he has at least had the common decency of respecting my silence and has not tried to strike up conversation, keeping his yellowbellied thoughts to himself. I would frankly hope for him to recover his warrior's honour and fighting spirit, for both his and mine sake; however, I do not realistically expect so at all. It is no surprise, then, that he would immediately flee as soon as a small pack of beak dogs set their beady little eyes upon us:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

I curse Id's worthlessness and steel myself for the upcoming battle. A beak dog is an infinitely more innofensive foe than a giant alligator, sure, but the monster me and Domas dispatched was already pretty beaten up by her mighty war hammer, and the beak dogs, pack hunters by nature, are together in a group. Oh, how I wish the brave Domas was still with us! Alas, no way around it: the river between me and the foul beasts is still frozen up from the cold night, and presents no real barrier that would stifle their advance upon me; besides, my journey is only beginning, and more and more fearsome foes are sure to beset me in the future. Sooner or later I will have to get used to fighting for my life; might as well start now. My trusty bronze spear, itself an allusion and homage of sorts to Rerras Ngotun, "The Fissure of Cults", the bronze spear crafted by the necromancer Goden Syrupmetals herself and made a sacred symbol of the might of our nation by Kol Granitesoared, our second queen, praised be her everlasting memory, shall strike always true and protect me from danger, in the name of all my dwarven ancestors of The Lucky Ceiling. I mutter a quick prayer to The Moth of Terrifying under my breath and cross the ice sheet over Rankreleased towards the beak dogs.

I clash with the beasts. It seems as I've caught them by surprise just as much as they caught me, and their hunting formation is broken by my advance. Their powerful legs, columns of muscle and sinew that drive them at high speeds across the swamps and fields, prove to also be easy targets. One by one, their mighty limbs get broken and torn by my thrusts and jabs, and soon three of the beak dogs are but a trashing pile of varmint over the cold reeds. Two of their compatriots watch from afar, while one more, still standing, advances upon me.

We tussle, metal against beak, skin against scale, tooth against talon, in a furious dance of death. Despite its ire, the creature manages not a true strike upon me, and after many punches, scratches, kicks and stabs, the beak dog finally bleeds out and expires -- not my first fight, yes, but my first kill, both in my journey and in my life. As the beak dog's lifeless body hits the wet silt, something awakes inside me.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

I feel infinitely calm and irate at the same time. Time seems to be simultaneously slowing to a near halt and whirling furiously around me. In but an imperceptible twitch, my eyes scan my surroundings: previously unnoticed exposed spots in my opponents' bodies, small grooves and depressions on the ground where my feet may find purchase, the slight movements of the breeze, the icy rays of sun around me. My spear, an extension of my arms; my yak leather armor set, a part of my skin. Is this one of the famed martial trances, sudden bouts of controlled fury said to overcome all brave dwarves, from the lowliest peasant to the most honourable warrior, when they find themselves fighting against seemingly unsurmountable odds? I had never witnessed a martial trance before, much less experienced one myself, but somehow, at that moment, I knew exactly what was going on.

Without dallying any more, I set upon the remaining enemies. Honestly, there's not much to be said about the ensuing battle: one by one, the wicked beasts fell to the ground under my dance-like strikes; none of them ever had the slightest of chances. As the last carcass slumps down on the slime with a wet thud, I feel my body and mind going back to normal. I inhale one breath of cold morning air after another and the results of my ire lay themselves before me: a six-score of beak dogs, all dispatched quickly and swiftly via bronze spear to the throat. Collecting myself after such an intense experience, I calmly assess the damage received -- a few scratches in my lower legs and a couple of frayed garments, surely nothing to worry too much about -- and proceed to butcher one of the animals for my personal supply of food, and lay the other corpses for any predator or tribe of carnivorous animal people that might pass around this place later.

As I skin the corpse of a beak dog, Id predictably appears from behind a mound, wearing an apologetic grin and muttering some half-hearted alibi. I, in turn, am surprised by my own sudden lack of despise towards the so-called swordsdwarf: whereas his spinelessness would previously make me rage, I now let it go through me, seeing Id for the sad excuse for a combatant he truly is. Id is not a warrior, nor will he ever be; he lacks the inner fire a true dwarven hero must have, and his obsessive little ramblings about will never amount to anything. And it's fine, it really is! Some people are just not born for the higher calling of battle, that's just how it is, and I understand it now -- I just wish his inane and clearly empty aspirations at warriorly glory hadn't cost the left leg of Domas, herself a proper fighter if I've ever seen one. He seems frankly astonished by my lack of anger, as I merely glance at him with nothing but contempt and indifference in my visage and utter a cold "let's keep going".

[Salmeuk]

Very well. Many things might be said about Mestthos Bubnusgeshud, but one thing none shall ever accuse me of is disrespecting the wishes of a brave, battle-proven warrior. There is one thing, however, that I can and will do for Domas, and I won't take a no for an answer. She is the one that put an end to the fearsome giant alligator, and, by the right of hunt, is the one entitled to its spoils; while the transport of such a humongous carcass is obviously impossible, I can still make sure she receives the most important part of every prey: its still warm, quivering, blood-gushing heart, where, as is known, the essence of the opponent's bravery and strenght resides.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

ok this was pretty dang cool

I like the style going on here! I don't play adventure mode much but this kind of attention to the moment-to-moment detail is awesome to read. what amazes me often is DF's ability to provide endless base material for writers to pick up on and riff with. and then, you take parts from this constructed narrative and apply them as motivations for the in-game pawns. a sort of back-and-forth.  NICE

[diogo_alt_tab]

Part Four

16th of Granite, 238, early afternoon.
The Marsh of Death

The Marsh of Death, apart from its obvious symbolic (and also very material) relation to demise and decay, seems to also exert some certain uncanny powers over living beings too. The further we trod southwestwards, the stranger the plants and critters seem to be -- not just the animal people grow in number, but sights of unnaturally large beasts become more and more common: flies the size of a grizzly bear, capybaras the size of a horse, and many more monstrous freaks inhabit this place. Giant trees seem to become more and more ubiquitous, too: humongous towering trunks of Highwood, sometimes reaching the unbelievable mark of three urists width, litter the landscape. How puny our underground fungal woods seem compared to them!

The journey so far, after my last altercation with the beak dogs, has been uneventful. Asides from the intriguing increasingly large fauna and flora, the river-strewn swamps roll steadily forward, and so do we. The coward Id, at seemingly random moments, will stray from our path and advance, sword raised high, upon one or another group of unwitting animals, usually those more to the innofensive side, like honey badgers and capybaras of the non-giant variety. After slaughtering one or two of them and getting outran by the rest, he'll inevitably turn around and stare at me with a particularly obnoxious look of hopeful expectation in his face. Is he trying to win my respect by needlessly slaughtering the creatures of the woodland? By visiting unprovoked attacks upon peaceful grazing animals? I'm no tree-hugging elf, but any dwarf worth their weight in cat spleen biscuits knows 'tis utterly dishonorable to slay a beast without provocation or need for sustenance. Shameful, just shameful. I glance over him with a look of scorn, turn around and keep moving.

16th of Granite, 238, nightfall.
The Plain of Ringing

Well, it happened without me even noticing. Like a plump helmet spawn turns into a fully grown mushroom on carefully tilled soil, or a portion of purring maggot extract turns into delicious dwarven cheese at the hands of a skilled cook, the Marsh of Death gradually shed both its unbearable cold humidity and its evil aura and morphed into a much gentler landscape; when we realized, we had already been at this new location for a good couple of hours there. The scenery now consists of smooth, sparsely forested hills with much more normal-looking fauna, even if the occasional giant wren or magpie can still be seen.

The most important part about this development, however, is the fact that I, Mestthos Scourfortress, am officially the first dwarf of the modern era to set foot beyond the Marsh of Death! Truly an impressive feat on its own, even though it is but the beginning of the journey in store for me. In lieu of a celebratory toast, I take a generous swig from my rum-filled leather bag and proceed to climb an elevation to see if I can properly scour the landscape. What a wondrous sight awaits me! Even under the last dusky rays of sunlight, the Plane of Omens glows with a supernatural sheen, and many marvelous panoramas unfold themselves before me! Rolling hills, snaking rivers, dusty deserts, dense forests and the beginnings of a sea, yes, a sea, the unbelievably massive pools of salt water, talked about only in whispered speculations among even the most learned scholars back in Smithpears! It's true, then, after all!

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

This is a moment of boundless joy. With but a mere glance over a modest hill, I have expanded the Lucky Ceilings' geographical knowledge manyfold. This is the sort of glory that we, the dwarves have been missing out on for nearly two and a half centuries, and how easy it is to obtain! Shameful, really, that it took my valor and mettle for this breakthrough to happen. Ah, but I should try to control myself now. Pride is the fool's folly, as the elders say back in Smithpears, and I would do better to keep my joy under control for the time being, and focus on the task ahead, that is only beginning. Coming down from the elevation, I set up a campsite, huddle against a tree root and try to sleep, thinking of the many wondrous paths I shall be taking in short order.

17th of Granite, 238, dawn.
The Plain of Ringing

Even with a healthy amount of dwarven rum in my belly, falling asleep last night was a somewhat of an arduous task. Try as I might, I could not keep my distance the alluring thoughts of new discoveries for the glory of The Lucky Ceilings that await for me past these plains I now pass by. Now, however, a new day dawns upon me, and I barely give myself the time to chow down on the rest of my preserved cap hopper meat snacks before anxiously resuming my trek. Close to our camping spot, a most intriguing sight: twin waterfalls, both a good seven urists in height, that feed into each other in the ever growing current of the Rankreleased, completely frozen over.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Truly, natural wonders abound in this world. After some fussing about, me and my yellowbellied excuse for a companion manage to find a way across the natural obstacle, and push ever onwards along the now frozen river bed. In the distance we spot an apparently small sand desert right where the Rankreleased feeds into another large river. This particular intersection does not appear in my map, which stops before these gentle grassy plains, but if my calculations are not mistaken, this river should be the one known as Lashedtrotted the Griffons of Peace, one of the widest and longest rivers known to us. It does have one of the longest names I've ever seen, that's for sure.

The sand on this desert, in a curious display of its unique properties, reflects a deep hue of blue when admired from a distance; upon closer inspection, however, it is clear that it consists actually of an irregular lattice of black and white patches of sand.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Indeed a most curious phenomenon; I carefully collect samples from both the black and white varieties of sand, making a mental note to mention their strange properties to the optometrists and geologists back at Smithpears whenever I get back. Just after we're done crossing the desert, though, another strange geographical feature salutes us, an even more outlandish one:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The currently frozen Lashedtrotted river, now an impressive eight urists wide, flowing into... A big, almost vertical rock wall? What does this mean? Does the river somehow flow into the precipice itself? Does the current get mystically transported into a different place, not by law of nature but by unknown eldritch workings? No description of this sort of phenomenon appears in any manual of geography, natural sciences or such back in the library of Smithpears, and that terrifies and baffles me to no end. In deeply disturbed desperation, I crane my neck upwards to gaze at the superior portion of this cursed landmark, in search of an answer of sorts, but what I set my eyes upon is an even more terrible, uncomprehensible sight! Aligned to the margins of the river, if it can even still be called one, two straight vertical dirt walls; on top of them, a solid, urist-thick sheet of ice, almost floating over this monstrous parody of a grotto, in a grotesque imitation of what the river proper would be, should the rules of nature be observed! It is such an outlandish sight that, even while suffering from such a terrible agony, I manage to hold back my tears and to draw a quick draft of this geological aberration, for it absolutely must be studied and debated by the natural scientists of The Lucky Ceiling:

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Right after finishing my doodle, though, I make a point of distancing myself from this horrible caricature of a river, for staying near such a cursed scar in the face of Mon Slospu is surely to work ill effects upon any decent life-form. This must surely be a sign from The Moth of Terrifying, whom in His most infinite wisdom deemed fit to warn me of the troubled paths ahead, and tell me that it is now time to turn southwards, towards hopefully more civilized sites. How blessed I am, to live and thrive under the blessing of such a pious, benevolent deity! No matter how blessed I am, however, I do not wish to tempt my luck too much, so I grab Id by his filthy beard and make a quick exit southwards.

---

I like the style going on here! I don't play adventure mode much but this kind of attention to the moment-to-moment detail is awesome to read

Thank you! Since this is my first time doing a writeup, I thought I'd try to get "in-character" by having the protagonists' temperament be somewhat close, albeit exaggerated and parodical, to mine IRL -- way too verbose and descriptive, excessively attentive to inane details, a bit uptight and overconfident. I'd say it's been working so far! This is a lot of fun honestly, way less of a chore than I'd thought it'd be at first, and it means the world to me that it's resulting in a pleasant read

what amazes me often is DF's ability to provide endless base material for writers to pick up on and riff with. and then, you take parts from this constructed narrative and apply them as motivations for the in-game pawns. a sort of back-and-forth.  NICE

Ah man I love that too, it's amazing isn't it? I think that tapping into this narrative vein has been sort of a breakthrough for me, one of my hangups with adventure mode used to be that I didn't really get into it on my own, but now I honestly can't get enough of it.

[diogo_alt_tab]

18th of Granite, 238, dawn.
The Strifeful Dunes

It had been over one entire day since we turned south at that outlandish parody of a waterfall, and an uneventful walk it was. The previously intriguing hills and dunes lost their allure fairy quickly, and as me and Id pushed along, the less novelty we saw in them. Alas, nothing lasts forever, and shortly after going on our way after a night spent camping under the desert sky, we are suddenly set upon by no less than eight monstrous humanoid beings, bearing the ferocious visage and snarling maws of terrible dingos! I would try to reason our way out of this pickle, but something in their eyes tell me they're far too consumed by their animalistic drives, and will not listen to me, and I don't even need to turn around to see that Id is hauling his sorry carcass away. Already feeling that increasingly familiar trancic ire flowing through my body, I unsheathe my weapon and set upon my foes.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

A heated clash ensues. As I weave and duck between my attacker's strikes, I try to hit each one of them at least once, either in the neck, so as to cause heavy bleeding, or in their hind legs, so as to cripple their movement. In the distance, an interesting development: one of the dingo people I hit broke off from the main pack and is going after Id. Ha! Maybe now the poltroon will have to actually show some fighting spirit for once!

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The fight is not too long, but it is extremely bloody. Those dingo people are smaller than any dwarf, but make up for their lack of size with rarely-parallelled viciousness and tenacity, and many times I find myself dodging their terrible bites by a beard's hair. After a frenetic couple of minutes I manage to cripple and exterminate all of my seven attackers among a storm of blood, tears and flashing bronze. Only after my battle, though, Id crosses my thoughts. He seems to have run off somewhere, with that muscular dingo man hot on his heels. This is worrying: even if one singular dingo person is not a dangerous foe by a long shot, Id's cowardice is of a never-before-seen sort, and I wouldn't surprise me if he managed to suffer violence from his assailant with no noteworthy resistance. A quick look around confirms my suspicions: scores of dwarven blood, freshly-extracted teeth, and Id's iron shield!

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

No matter how worthless he is, it is still my duty to rush to the aid of my fellow dwarf. Fearing for the worse, I follow the trail of blood and teeth. Finally, I see a frankly unexpected sight in the distance... Id, even while in a deplorable state after the dingo man's ministrations, beating the everliving circus out of his assailant! As I come closer, he finishes the job. As surprised as I am suddenly proud of him, I take a good look at his mangled form. It doesn't look good at all and he's covered in blood, but it does look like the kind of wound that can heal fairly quickly... well, that's excluding that very nasty laceration in his upper lip. That's gonna leave a scar.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

He seems to be extremely distraught by his current condition -- at least that's what I assume he's saying, it's hard to make his words out over the heavy lisp he suddenly acquired after losing half his teeth -- but I assure him there's nothing to worry about, the dingo people are gone and I'm proud of his display, even if he did allow that dingo man to perform quite a flogging upon him for no good reason, and that I am still a long ways from not considering him a spineless cur. For some reason he doesn't really give me a reply, just side-eyes me in a particularly nasty way and spits more blood and broken teeth. What is it with this fool? And if that wasn't already enough, when I try to give him back his sword and shield, that he himself dropped, mind you, he has te gall to refuse them!

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Unbelievable! So you've had enough of the adventuring life, did you, Id? Too scary for you? Decided to excuse yourself from such violent activities, for they are below you? Fine, then! I'll keep your sword and shield, and pray I won't have the chance to strip your armour from your dead body as well, for it would serve me much better than you!

---

18th of Granite, 238, late afternoon.
The Desert of Orbs

I think I might have spoken too harshly to Id. We've been walking southwards for another entire day, and he seems to be still shaken; whereas he before would try to strike up small talk or impress me, he now just lags a few urists back, looking at me with an expression like he's either gonna yell at me or start crying at any time. Why is he like this? It's not like I'm the one in the wrong in this situation; no one told him to be such a wimp! Regardless, perhaps I should have been more diplomatic. Bah, no matter! His former iron shield and bronze sword shall serve me handsomely in case of attack, and I'm not giving them back even if he asks, seeing as he himself refused them in the first place!

We eventually reach a large lake where a few rivers converge, and, halfway around it, a desert. We shall set camp soon, and recover for the next day's trip; I reckon we should be able to reach some uninhabited sited before tomorrow night.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

[Mobbstar]

You are amazing.  I love the implied banter and how the world reflects off their opinions and feelings.

[diogo_alt_tab]

Welp... It's been a while, hasn't it?
Basically what happened is that I got quite a bit sidetracked on real life matters, wasn't able to play at all for some weeks and eventually just sort of lost interest in this. I even thought I had lost my save files for this playthrough, but I eventually found it hidden somewhere in my external HD a few days ago, which made me feel like coming back to this. So, if everything goes to plan, you can expect the updates on Mestthos' adventures to resume soon! I can't really say for sure as I am still a bit ocupied with IRL stuff, might take a week, might take more, but I definitely plan on coming back to this.

You are amazing.  I love the implied banter and how the world reflects off their opinions and feelings.

Thank you so much, I really appreciate that you enjoyed this so far! I hope you'll like the upcoming updates as well