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[brewer bob]

Part XV:
She Kept the Town Together





28th of Galena, 390

It was the last day of Galena, which meant that summer was about to be over. Uvash the Younger was once again at the Enchanted Bridge, shirking his duty at the library. He had no desire to waste the day making quires and scrolls for the scholars and scribes when there was wine to be drunk. He was bored and fed up with his work. The House of Knowledge was no place for him, the son and heir of the baron. Besides, it was far more important and exciting to listen to what travelers had to tell of the outside world—who knows what he might learn from them!

“...and there were dozens of them, coming all the way from the Whimsical Jungle,” the goblin visitor named Fale Pointtufted said, standing at the bottom of the stairs and grasping the railing with his hand. He was in the middle of telling a story of flying squirrel men coming to the town of Findersummits in search of refuge and safety, a tragic tale from ages past. “Many of them had fallen on their journey across the Playful Hill to the east coast. Those were savage lands they marched through, filled with many ferocious beasts—giant coyotes and such, nasty buggers they are. It's a miracle any survived, I tell you.”

“But why did they flee the elf lands?” Uvash asked, captivated by the imagery Fale conjured. He leaned on the barrel of wine behind him, his heart yearning to hear more of the world beyond his home.

“War. There was war, capybara man,” Fale said, a bitter tone in his voice. He clasped his hands behind his back and his eyes gazed into the distance as he continued in a dramatic tone, “It was a time of terrible wars, endless wars. A time full of suffering and horror but also a time of great heroes—there was still hope in those days. Indeed, the elves of Ula Tefe fought bravely against the goblins of the Cunning Witch, who had deceived the fair folk of the forest. The elves believe their word—out of naïvety or unwillingness to see the truth— that the goblins cared for plant and animal alike and sought no harm. Lies and deceit, alas, such are the ways of my evil kin! They had spies within the elven court, seduced by promises of power, and they sowed discord and disarray. The spies downplayed clear evidence of a growing threat and when war finally broke out the elves were unprepared. Yet it was not the fall of Ula Tefe—that came later—but it caused much harm to the forests where animal people, just like you, made their home. The goblins, they hacked and burned much of the forest, slaughtered all animals in their way, just to spite the elves,” the goblin looked sadly at the floor, wiped the corner of his eye and sniffed. Uvash was in awe, staring at the goblin with his mouth agape.
 
“That is why the flying squirrel folk fled, away from the raging fires and horrors of war,” Fale went on, his tone most sombre and firm. “And the poor fools, to think they believed that in Findersummits they would be safe and find peace... Oh, little did they know what fate had in store, what was yet to come. Tsk, tsk.” Fale shook his head and scoffed.

“So, what happened then?” Uvash asked.

Before Fale could answet, Båx Floodfiend, who had bee listening to the two, hopped in. “Well, what do you think, dumbass?” He snorted at the young capybara man, waving his mug around wildly. “War, of course. It was a time of war, after all. You know, all those foul necromancers and such with their armies of dead, tearing the North apart. Have you no clue whatsoever of what's been happening around your silly little town? Sheesh!” Båx rolled his eyes and took a hefty swig from his mug, mumbling incomprehensibly into it.

“Well, no. I actually don't,” Uvash said bluntly, crossing his arms in front of him. “That's why I'm asking. To learn. I bet you didn't know half as much when you were my age.” Uvash in turn scoffed, and quietly added, “Idiot.”

Båx didn't hear or care.





4th of Limestone, 390

Autumn had barely begun when the clanging of the alarm bells rang over Waterlures. “Goblins! Goblins are coming!” Shouts of warning echoed throughout the streets and alleys as townsfolk rushed to safety, rain pouring from the darkened sky. The town militia scrambled with haste to the east side of town, for this time the goblin menace arrived from a different direction.




“Gozru, uksox! Gorzru, uksox!”

The familiar and dreadful chant of the Hell of Miseries rolled down from the hilltop, as goblins marched in droves from the east. They had come to lay waste to the peaceful town of Waterlures, to slaughter its defenders and enslave the rest. They were many, clad in troll skins and armor of copper and iron, wielding vicious blades and crude bows, ready to smite all that was good. Lashers lashed with their evil scourges and whips, driving their miserable slaves—there were dwarves among them—to the front and to certain death and doom.






The militia stood outside the Enchanted Bridge, the rain making their spirits glum. Not all had yet arrived and the baron waited for them so he could give his rousing speech. The goblins neared and soon the defenders had to head out to confront them. Among the gathered was Maloy Whimrabbits who was discussing the mercilessness of the world with sheriff Fayoba. It seemed there was only war now, battle after battle. The elephant seal man was not eager for yet another fight, though, he would do his duty without complaint. There was too much training and patrolling, too much fighting, in his life. It was a heavy burden he carried upon his shoulders, and, quite frankly, he did not know how long he could go on like this.

If there only would be peace... but that was not the will of the Gods, it seemed.

“It's a cruel world, Maloy,” Fayoba said grimly, gripping the hilt of his sheathed sword, “and it's made all the crueler by those who would seek to rise above others and crush them under their heels. And yet, somehow, we remain loyal to those who would abuse us. How is it so?”

“That is because such is the law and it binds us. We must upkeep it,” Maloy insisted firmly. “It is not ours to question the rule of law or our lords. To do so would mean to go against the Gods themselves. Though, I admit, I do sometimes have my doubts and feel like I am shackled... but if we do not follow the law and do our part, everything would crumble. Everything.”

“Would it, though?” Fayoba asked, arching an eyebrow. The jeers and war chants of the goblins could be heard closing in, beyond the walls. “And if it did, would it be such a bad thing?”

Maloy listened to the sounds of the enemy, then said with grim determination, “Yes, it would. You have only to look at the North, see what happened there. If it's up to me, I'll do everything it takes to make sure such a thing does not happen here today or any coming day.”

Fayoba nodded in agreement and patted the elephant seal man's shoulder. Then he drew his sword.





“Here they come!” Alåth Clearednet, the dwarf captain of the Ochre Snarls, yelled, merely moments after baron Oddom had finished his not-so-great battle speech. She charged straight at the enemy, her shield in front of her and spear pointing at the foe. With a thundering roar the whole of the militia followed her lead, cascading across the wet quartzite road and slammed into the first of the goblins. Alåth's spear impaled the first green fool, then the goblin was slashed into pieces and crushed into pulp as the rest of the warriors rolled over him.

The suddenness and brutality of her comrades' charge made Azstrog of the Fenced Princes freeze in terror. She could not but stare in shock as baron Oddom's hammer came down, squashing a goblin's skull into a sickening red mush, blood and brain matter bursting from beneath the helmet. Screaming in horror, Azstrog turned around and ran.

She did not find it in her to join the fight, she feared too much for her precious life. She knew she was a coward and she wept, ashamed of herself, as she fled into the Enchanted Bridge.





The militia ground its way through the goblin ranks that kept marching down the muddied hill, showing no mercy but death. Atera the coyote man swung his steel short sword left and right, maiming and dismembering his enemies with surgical precision; Likot Languagehame was thrown into a frenzy, barreling into the enemy, crushing bones with her mace and tangled with a goblin lasher. She bit the lasher in the eye and her teeth squished it like ripe fruit—the goblin screamed in pain and horror, clutching at the bloody mess that once was an eye.

Like every battle before it, this one, too, was a chaotic mess. Body collided with body, as militia members dodged blows, skidding in the mud and slamming into their comrades. There was much shouting and cursing, as the stunned capybara folk tried to make sense of what was happening around them. All the while bolts and arrows flew into the mass of warriors, but most went wide or were deflected by shields and armor.

Surrounded by enemies on the slope, Inod Oilyround whirled and danced in the lashing rain, her spear whipping about her, stabbing at legs, striking at heads—the dead began to pile up and the battle had hardly begun.






While the battle raged outside, a different kind of fight broke out in the upper gallery of the Enchanted Bridge. The dwarf cheesemaker Idar Towerlock and the capybara woman Dôbar Tombhold were in the middle of a heated exchange concerning the Gods, prayer and cheese.

“Why, yes, as a matter of fact, I do worry about such things, young miss,” Idar fumed next to the table, leaning on her crutch and wagging her finger at Dôbar. The dwarf poet Tobul Orbsmetals teetered about drunkenly next to Idar, chugging wine like water and listening to Idar ramble. “It would be disrespectful if I did not say the proper prayers before milking—especially when it comes to pig's milk—it would be ungrateful and rude to not do so. Everything we get from the fields and from animals is a gift from the Morning of Wind, and it isn't something that should be taken as granted. There are other forces at work in the world than the Goodly Gods—do not forget that—and they are not a nice bunch at all. No. Not at all. Quite far from it, in fact. They are very, very evil and they only seek to end us—” Idar waved her hand towards the east “—just like those vicious green brutes outside. And that means that if I didn't ask Sanád Num—the Morning of Wind, that is—to bless the sow and its milk, why, nothing would prevent Nokör or any other of the darker gods—like Bazsa or your Abod—from ruining the milk and spoiling the cheese. And that, my dear Miss Tombhold, would be disastrous and completely unacceptable! Hmpf!” She stomped the floor and turned her nose up.

“But...” Dôbar was at a loss and pulled back in her chair, her brow all furrowed. It was a long rant from Idar, and it momentarily overwhelmed her, but she soon understood there was not much Idar really had said. She gathered her thoughts and voiced them calmly but firmly, “But why must the prayers be 'proper', as you say? Is it not enough that a prayer to the Gods comes from the heart and out of sheer love? Is that not what is true and faithful, what the Gods want from us—not some bland rehearsed lines that have no heart in them?” The mountain gnome Zulban, sitting opposite of Dôbar, turned to look at Idar's reaction, as did drunken Tobul.

“Why, I—bland?—huff-huff—”  Idar snorted in shock and clutched at her chest. “That, young miss, is not acceptable. Calling proper prayers 'bland'... How rude!” She huffed and puffed, drumming her foot on the floor rapidly. “This. This... I will most certainly not continue this discussion any further!” She shook her finger at Dôbar again, then turned her back at her.

The mountain gnome guzzled his beer, smiled jollily and burped.






Ustuth Tongsskins stood in the middle of the cobblestone road, paralyzed by fear. She watched in horror as the militia pushed the goblin ranks back, crushing the dead into the wet earth with their feet. Her paws trembled and she barely kept Cleavegores, her axe, in her grip. She saw her sister Inod run her spear through a goblin beyond the gate. She was horrified. The clangor and shouting of battle rang in her ears. She was terrified. Ustuth gritted her teeth and shut her eyes tight, desperately trying to move to the fight.

“Don't succumb to fear, lass! Get a grip of yourself!” Zon Shieldglides, one of the dwarf levies, shouted as he jogged around her to join the battle. Ustuth opened her eyes and saw him charge through the gateway, spear ready to strike. “Death to the goblin scum!” He yelled as he jumped into the fight.






Many citizens had sought shelter in the Hut of Romancing, which was carved into the stone of the lakeside cliff. Its sturdy walls offered a sense of security and safety that no other building in Waterlures could. In the inn, in front of the kitchen and brewery doors, stood Manager Oddom Rackknight whistling the melody of 'We See Drill'. Many had gathered around the capybara man and listened to his performance, swaying and bobbing with the rhythm. A giant boar—bought from the elves in spring—chased its short tail in the center of the room, grunting and snorting. A gibbon hooted at it, clapping its hands in the air, encouraging the boar in its wild chase.

On the other side, where it was a bit more peaceful, Uvash the Younger was speaking with Meng Manywalled the crow man.

“So wrapped in himself is your father,” Meng said, shaking his head. “So much orders, such commands he has. He forgets that your own master you are, not he. Baron sees not what others want, sees only such as he wants. So blind, not kind... But so loyal we must be, fair or unfair he be. Such loyal we must be, son of capybara baron man.”

“I know, I know. And I agree... mostly,” Uvash said, scanning around him before going on in a hushed voice, “but didn't you yourself say that the answers you seek lie elsewhere, in some other library? Look, I'm not trying to be disrespectful to father and go against his wishes. I just believe some things have to be done, even when they're not sanctioned. So, please, hear me out, alright?” Uvash put a paw on Meng's shoulder. The crow man nodded and listened.

“It's not just about going on an adventure—well, it's that, too, I guess—it's about this whole mess we seem to be stuck in. The war, I mean. And I really want peace in Waterlures, not this—” Uvash waved his paw broadly “—constant fear of goblins, wondering if this fight is the end of us all. Like it was the end of grandpa. Everyone says his death messed father all up. It's a miracle how well we've fared after that. Or maybe Abod is just toying with us, I don't know.”

“But how long will our luck last? How long before the next one falls? It's going to happen at some point if the war goes on. So, there's got to be an answer to this, somewhere. Together, perhaps, we could find a way to end the war, or if that's not possible, at least find a way to make us stronger, or maybe to cheat death—whatever that might be.” Uvash paused for a moment, unsure what he even meant with the last bit. He just hoped it'd interest Meng enough. “And we won't find the answers by just sitting here, reading books and listening to travelers telling stories or the humming of the manager while others fight the war outside.” Uvash shot an icy stare across the hall at Oddom the manager, but he did not notice and kept humming, a gibbon dancing around him and trying to pull his trousers down.

“Hmm, point you make with words so wise, Uvash,” the crow man croaked and scratched his throat. “But such maybe not possible, such thing as cheat death. Such is place of gods to decide, not place of mortal animal man...” Meng tapped his beak, looking at the floor. After a moment of thought, he raised his head and said, ”But perhaps... perhaps there is such thing as cure to death, hmh? To such question answers would be good to find. Such questions, not answers...”





Bolts and arrows whizzed past Maloy as a goblin crossbowman jumped in front of him, sneering wickedly. The butt of Maloy's spear came instinctively up in a swoop from the side, slamming into its mouth and wiped the grin off its face in an explosion of gore and pain. A sputter of a scream fled from the goblin's wrecked lips, but it was cut short by Maloy's spear thrust through the eye all the way into the brain. The goblin slumped to the ground, its body trampled into the slick mud by the clashing masses.

One more wretched goblin to the corpse pile, but there was no time to dwell on it. For each fallen foe, a new one came to take its place. Drove after drove of enemies flooded down the hill, and the militia kept mowing down the waves, hacking and slashing, leaving only carnage behind as they cut and crushed their way through the vile hordes.

A beak dog split from the incoming wave, charging from the flank at Maloy, shrieking and snapping its slavering beak. Maloy snarled and scampered at it, his spear raised up and ready to strike, though his muscles were sore. There was no time to pause and catch breath in the fray. “Death! Death!” He cried, spear shaft coming down and cracking the beak dog's beak apart—there was only time to deal death.




Back at the Enchanted Bridge mayor Fecici was slightly annoyed by Sibrek Paperpriced, who kept on rambling about how things were now so much better in his life after he married Astesh. It was, of course, a relief to hear, but Fecici had other things on his mind—the battle outside not the least of them. He was most worried of Urdim the black bear woman. Only moments before the bells rang, she had come to the mayor's office to yell and cry. It had been a rather.... awkward moment. Then, when Fecici had comforted her, she had sunk into despair and became unresponsive. It had been even more awkward and Fecici was at a loss what he should do. He wanted to help, naturally, but he feared that Urdim would be the next who would go mad.

He hoped it would not go like that.

“...and perhaps we will have children one day,” Sibrek said exuberantly, his head up high in the clouds. “Oh, how wonderful that will be! Can you imagine, Mister Mayor, me, possibly a father some day?”

“Yes, I can imagine you will be quite excited then,” Fecici said, a hint of bitterness in his voice. 'And quite insufferable, I should add,' he thought. “Now, it is marvelous to hear things are working for you and that your, hmm, marital life is good—you can spare me the details—but I do think we have other things to think about today, don't we?”

“Oh, most certainly! Pardon my excitement—I do get carried away sometimes,” Sibrek apologized sincerely and placed his paw on his chest. “It is something Astesh often tells me, 'Now, listen you, Sibrek, that is no way to go around, behaving like a child with a new toy—someone might get upset',” he made a poor imitation of Astesh's voice,  “Isn't she a darling? 'Get upset'—ha ha—such a good one! Aah, I do love that capybara woman!”

“Mmnng...” Fecici gritted his teeth and squeezed his hands into fists, holding back the temptation to bark at Sibrek.

“Say, are you alright, mister Fecici?” Sibrek asked, arching a brow worriedly. “You look a bit sick. Maybe it's something you've eaten?”

“Huh? What? No, I'm fine!” Fecici snapped, then calmed down. “I was, hmm, thinking of the fighting. It is a bit worrisome how frequent these attacks have become. I only hope our brave warriors are faring well against the menace.”

“Oh, I would not worry about it,” Sibrek said with a smile, waving his paw dismissively. “I have the utmost of confidence in their skill. Besides, we have Ôsed looking after us—the Rabbit wouldn't let anything ill happen to Her faithful.”






“Likot!”

Inod Oilyround screamed in horror. She saw Likot Languagehame slip and fall down, lower on the slope, separated from the main force and in the midst of a mass of goblins. Inod thrust her spear through the throat of the goblin in front of her, attempting to break free and head to help her comrade. But more goblins stepped forth to fight Inod. She caught a glimpse of Likot being swarmed by the goblins, their bodies blocking sight as their cruel whips and blades lashed down.

On her back on the muddy slope, Likot fought for her life, goblins pressing from all sides and beating her. Blow after blow struck her armor and shield, bruising her body and limbs. Desperately she rolled on the ground and lashed back with her mace. Many a bone of goblin she broke, gritting her teeth in pain, but she knew this was her last fight, these were her last breaths. She whacked a goblin in the head, the force twisted the neck and sent the goblin tumbling down. More blows hit Likot's sides and shield, pain rushed through her body. She panted and wheezed, her muscles ached and were spent. Then she suffered another flurry of blows, though many she blocked with her shield. Her paw went numb, her lungs felt like they were on fire. She gasped for air, yet it was for naught. White stars flashed in her eyes, then all began to blur.

The last Likot saw was the steel-clad feet of Cóce and Atera rushing to the goblins assaulting her, splashing mud with each thundering step. It looked like a shimmering light reflected off their steel boots, though the sky was dark and clouded. Sounds began to muffle and fade, and as she slipped into the dark, she thought she heard the voice of her younger brother Geshud calling, “Hold on, Likot! Hold on!” But it could not be him, for her brother was dead.

“I'm coming to you, little brother, I'll see you soon,” Likot whispered faintly, rain pattering on her bloodied muzzle.

Then red pain burst in her head and she fell into the black of darkness.






“Think of it. Think of all the good we could do, Meng,” Uvash the Younger pleaded the crow man. The two were still in the middle of their discussion at the Hut of Romancing. Meng Manywalled was not entirely convinced by Uvash's reasonings why they should head out of Waterlures on a quest, though, it was tempting. “Wouldn't it be the greatest of quests to seek such knowledge, even if the quest was endless? Would it still not be worth it? But—think of it—if we were to find a way to cure death, think of all the suffering you could end.”

“Such great it would be, so worthy such quest...” the crow man said and sighed. “To have not answers, such sadness it bring. So sad, such bad. Great would be such quest for answers, perhaps answers in library of Controlledseal could be... but much danger be in wilds, for two such as you and I. Such danger, not safe, son of capybara baron man.” Meng shook his head, though a faint glimmer of excitement was in his eyes.

“Yes, but what if we got someone else to go with us?” Uvash pressed on, feeling confident he could sway the crow man to come with him. “There's bound to be others who'd like to head out and see the world. It can't be just you and me who think so, right?”

“But who would such be?” Meng asked, cocking his head.

“Well, uh, you know everyone, right? You could ask around,” Uvash said, a little less confident. He couldn't think of anyone he knew who would come, and if he went around asking, someone would tell his father about it. And that would be the end of that plan. “And, uh, you couldn't mention me when asking—” Uvash winced, noticing the frown on Meng's beak, “—but that's, uh, only a precaution, so that, um, father doesn't hear before I tell him—I wouldn't go without his permission, of course—and, uh... Think of the riches, too! We'll not only find knowledge on the quest but also all kinds of shiny things—think about that, Meng!”

“Riches? Shiny things?” Meng's eyes practically sparkled with excitement now. “Yes. Yeess. Such I could do, ask around, much around. Such riches, so shiny! Yes, I, Meng Manywalled, will ask others to come and quest! Such quest, much shiny.”




“You bastards! You green, filthy  bastards!” Inod was like a raging storm, hurling herself from one foe to the other, fueled by the burning hatred inside her after seeing Likot fall. She punched a goblin in the head, whipping and twisting it to the side, ripped its ear off and stabbed it in the gut with her spear before the goblin hit the ground.

“Die! Die! Die!” she screamed as she jabbed and jabbed at the goblin even after it was already dead. Her eyes were wet with tears, but she had no time to grieve. She hurtled on through mud and rain, her sight on a group of beak dogs standing horrified halfway up the hill. Caÿilu Searend and Azstrog were close behind her, both panting in exhaustion and gritting their teeth as they tried to keep up with the rapacious rodent.





Further up the slope baron Oddom fought with a goblin, the canopy of an old highwood tree giving some protection from the rain. The goblin tried to scramble up the slope, desperate to flee this siege gone all wrong, but Oddom bashed it in the shin without mercy. Bones snapped and the goblin screamed, slipping in the mud and tumbling down. Goblin and capybara man collided, tackling each other on the ground.

With a grunt and a heave Oddom pushed himself free of the goblin and leapt up, kicking the goblin in the cheek, bursting it in gore. Up the slope from behind came the capybara woman Ared Scrubbedraven, and she, too, kicked the lying goblin in the head, sending blood and tooth alike spraying out the mouth. Then her spear came down, straight into the goblin's eye and through the entirety of its head.

Ared thought this was the last of the goblins, but then an arrow hissed past her ear from above, and she turned to look up the hill. “There's more of the scum uphill!” she shouted to Oddom over the gush of rain and sounds of battle.

There was still blood left to spill.



Late to the battle came Kesp Glidedwatched, still at the bottom of the hill. He passed piles of dead goblins, the ground a sickening mess of gore and mud. It was a gruesome sight to behold and it unnerved Kesp, though onwards to the clangor of battle he made his way—it was his sworn duty to keep the town safe.

But if he had known that his beloved Likot lay amidst the heap of mangled goblins, all sense of duty might have been forgotten that day.






“I would rather not listen to this same drivel yet again,” mayor Fecici railed against Galel, his arms crossed in front of him. “We had this discussion several years back. In front of everyone. You do remember how that went, don't you?”

Not long after Fecici had finished talking with Sibrek, the ostrich man had approached him, glancing about nervously. Galel had told that he had uncovered “disturbing, nasty things” that needed to be addressed posthaste. Fecici was quite certain he knew what this was all about and he was most certainly not happy about it.

“Well, yes, of course I remember that, ha ha,” Galel grimaced, desperately pushing thoughts of the farce from his mind. “I might have gone a bit too far with that, but people really should listen to what I have to say—I see stuff others don't.”

“Yes, I have noticed. I wonder why that is,” Fecici oozed sarcasm. Galel glared at him. Fecici sighed, slapped his thighs and said, “Very well, then. I yield, I'm listening.”

“Good. Now, this isn't a new thing and I've mentioned it to some folks already, mind you,” the ostrich man began, inching his beak closer to Fecici's ear. “So, this began a few years back, though, nasty stuff has probably been going on for longer than that. You see, I have reason to believe that there, in fact, are folk with malicious intent in town, a conspiracy of sorts, and, really, this time I do think I have proof of such nefarious persons and deeds. And it goes deep, I'm telling you.” Galel paused to see the mayor's reaction. He was listening, patient as ever—or so Galel thought—so the ostrich man went on, a satisfied grin on his beak, “So, yes, there is this dark cult here in Waterlures, lurking in the shadows, conspiring and scheming behind a façade of innocence, plotting to topple those in power, planning their vile deeds, and practicing witchcraft or some other sort of devilry—you know, the usual stuff villains do—”

“And the proof? Where is that,” Fecici interrupted sharply, crossing his arms again in front of him, “or are you going to ramble on, making things up as you speak, master ostrich?”

“Hmpf! I was getting there,” Galel grunted, pulling his head back in insult. “You want proof? Well, I have proof; I have found bone idols of dark gods and a shrine that is dedicated to them—and, mind you, this one was not one of those you mentioned in the meeting. No, this one was in the home of Eman and Song, people who claim to be faithful worshippers of Mestthos, but no, that they are not!” Galel slapped his hands to shut his beak, realizing that his voice had grown quite loud. He glanced around, but nobody seemed to pay attention to him. Except Fecici.

“Really now? That is... interesting,” Fecici feigned shock, then leaned closer to Galel, whispering, “And which of the dark gods are they worshipping, then?”

The way the mayor asked the question was somehow unnerving to Galel. He felt a cold sweat break out. He gulped, then with a hushed, quivering voice gave his answer, “I believe it was the most vilest of them. Bazsa. Bazsa the Sinful.” It sounded as if disembodied voices echoed the whispered name and as if the shadows in the hall grew darker. A sudden chill passed through Galel. He shuddered, making a mental note not to mention that name again.

“Now that, master ostrich, is a troubling thing, indeed,” the mayor said, suddenly far more serious than before. “I think we best not discuss this matter any further here—there are far too many ears around—but, after things outside settle and all is as it should, I would very much like to hear all you know, or suspect, about this, hmm, 'cult'. And, it might be for the best if you do not mention this to any others—” Fecici put a hand on Galel's back and began to lead him away, “—after all, who is to say they aren't part of the conspiracy?”




Up on the hill a score of trolls had stayed behind, their eyes set on the old statue garden in the hilltop grove. Growling and roaring the lanky brutes tore the wooden fence apart with their long, ape-like arms, throwing the pieces all round. Trolls were a wicked species from the depths of the earth, enslaved by their cruel goblin masters and their minds twisted and made evil by them. They had little understanding of art and crafts, and the only use they had for such things was the satisfaction of destroying them.

It was very satisfying to topple statues.

So captivated were the trolls with statue-bashing and fence-smashing that they had paid little heed to what was happening down the slope. They were oblivious to the fact that the goblins had fallen and the warriors of Waterlures were rushing up the hill to slay some trolls.

“RAAAAAAH!”

A troll screamed in agony and shock, clutching the side of its head. Atera, the coyote man, skidded past it in the mud, his short sword now coated in bright blue blood—it had cut off the troll's ear as the coyote man slid by.

Then the rest of the militia charged onto the hilltop, horrifying the trolls and freezing them to the spot.




Though tired they were the warriors of Waterlures, their strength nearly spent, still they fought the trolls with matchless skill and fury. One by one the trolls were cut down in a chaotic and messy manner, the exhausted warriors pressing on, fueled by righteous indignation—the trolls stood no chance.

Cóce the panda woman thrust her spear in an upward angle, cleaving the head of a troll asunder, the force sending the troll reeling on the ground and slidding across the muddy ground. Inod Oilyround barely dodged the speeding troll corpse and stumbled into Ana the fox woman, who in turn lost her balance and toppled backwards only to slam into Upu the snow leopard man and sent him sprawling face down in the mud.

The sight of all the tumbling and fumbling made Istrul Wheelscrow shake her head in disbelief. She pulled her spear from the head of a troll she had slain, a faint smile of amusement on her lips.




Finally the battle on the slopes was over and all foes lay slain.

The hill was covered in the dead, the ground trampled into a quagmire of mud and blood. The defenders of Waterlures were victorious, but the battle had taken its toll. There were many wounded this time, and one of them was Îton Minetaxed, a dwarf levy from the hillocks of Rope-enties. He lay in the middle of the statue grove, his neck torn open and unable to move. Still, he felt relieved, for he had survived the brutal battle and he knew that soon he would be in the hands of the healers of the town.

But for some, there would be no healing.

Down the hill, buried under the bodies of her felled assaillants, Likot Languagehame, the first child born in Waterlures, lay unmoving, her body cold. Her wounds had been too much to survive, and she had breathed her last breath—her last mortal thoughts on yesternight, the blissful memory of sleeping in a marvelous bed.

Likot Languagehame, the second mayor of Waterlures, was truly dead.


(Continued in next post...)

[brewer bob]

(...continued from previous post.)





Pained moaning and snoring filled Yawo's Clinic and the air was heavy with the stench of sweat, blood and mud. The llama man Osod came up the steep stairs to tend to the three wounded who required the hands of a healer. He flinched his muzzle instinctively as the smell assaulted his senses before heading to look at the many hurts of the patients.

The dwarf Vucar Slidletter's wounds were rather minor; a gash in the right wrist, which required several stitches. The goblin Nako Doomjump also had relatively insignificant wounds, though the cut on his left upper arm would most likely leave a nasty curved scar. The third patient, Ustuth Tongskins, had multiple cuts on her head and neck, but nothing too serious—the wounds looked worse than they were.

Osod sighed in relief after evaluating his patients. They would all survive and be up and running in no time. But Îton Minetaxed, who was still being carried to the infirmary, however, had far worse wounds. It could very well be that he would be left a cripple, his fighting days over.







6th of Limestone, 390

“I-I don't know what to feel, how to be,” Reg Musclehame said to Coni the hamster woman, frustration filling her voice. Her paws were clenched into fists and she banged the back of her head against the wall a few times.

The two of them were at Reg's home above the dye stores and the lake, between Edu's Fishery and Vabôk's Dyery. It was a tidy home, everything neat and orderly; all surfaces were clean, without a mote of dust in sight; the rays of sunlight sparkled off the small statuette of giraffes on a plinth, the green stone of the figurine polished to a bright sheen. It was as if Reg had been cleaning madly, trying to focus on something else than the thought that weighed upon her mind.

Her eldest sister was dead.

“Well, you just be you,” Coni comforted her and gave her a hug. “I don't think there's any one way that one should feel, or not feel.” The tension in Reg eased a little.

“Thanks, I guess,” Reg said as Coni released her hug and smiled. “You know, I think I always knew this day would come, somewhere, deep inside. Ever since she became a member of the Fenced Princes, replacing Zultan who had passed away, I knew...” Reg turned to look down. Coni saw tears well in her eyes. “There was a close call when Cusal died—that's baron Oddom's father—but she made it. I bet the baron would've rather had Likot die than Cusal.”

“Don't say that!” Coni blurted and frowned.

“Why not? I don't think he liked Likot very much,” Reg said bitterly and wiped the corner of her eye. She leaned her head back against the wall, staring at the ceiling and went on, “You see, Likot was a strong capybara woman, just like Oddom's mother Kasat was. It was Likot who kept this town together after Kasat died. I was maybe eight when that happened, but I still remember that speech she gave... It moved everyone, gave them hope—no wonder townsfolk chose her as the next mayor.”

“She was mayor? I didn't know that,” Coni said, awed by the revelation.

“Aye, and you could see that Kasat's children didn't like it,” Reg said, still staring up. “I still remember when we were playing in the attic with Kib—that's Oddom's sister—and she said that it should've been Oddom who became mayor, not Likot. I don't remember the words, but I do remember how her voice dripped bitter venom, and she scared me...” Reg turned to look at Coni and sighed. The hamster woman looked sad

“Anyway, that's just childhood memories,” Reg shook her head and scoffed amusedly. “Life's unfair and that's just the way it is. There's no balance between good and bad—some have only bad things come their way.”

“I know... It's not fair,” Coni despaired and sniffed, “Life's not fair and there's not much we can do about it, huh?”

“I'm at least happy I had a sister like Likot,” Reg sighed and tilted her head back again. “She's the one who kept our family together when mother and father died; she looked after us, the younger ones... Gods! I'll miss her—urgh!” she banged her head on the wall again, “And she lived next door, behind this damn wall—” she pounded the wall with her fists “—How am I supposed to live here? I'll be reminded of her each and every day!”

“Well, do you have to?” Coni asked shyly, “I mean, you could leave... and go wandering with me, explore the wilds, maybe?”

Reg turned to look at the hamster woman, confused, but a smile soon appeared on her face—it was a good suggestion. It was something she had wanted to do for a long, long time.

“Aye, we could do that,” she said and gave Coni a hug.






“Litast, you have to eat,” Dîshmab said firmly, though there was much worry in her voice.

It was soon evening and Litast Razortongues had sat at the table since morning, his blind eyes staring into nothingness. He had been doing the same for two days now, coming to sit when he woke up, then heading to bed when night fell. He turned his head towards Dîshmab's voice, and said detachedly, “I'm not feeling hungry. I will eat when I do.”

“You ate last two days ago, my love,” Dîshmab anguished, finding it difficult to look at Litast in his state.

“She so liked to work at the vineyards...” Litast said quietly, laying his paws on the table as old memories flooded his mind. “Always taking a sampling of the fruit, checking if they're ripe.”

“What's that? Oh, Likot...” Dîshmab sighed. Litast had been shocked when he heard of Likot's death. She had been an important person in his life, but still... It was quite unlike Litast to be like this. Dîshmab walked to her husband and put a paw on his shoulder. “Litast. You have to eat, then we can talk about your sister.”

“No. I will eat when I am hungry,” Litast insisted calmly, his glazed eyes continuing to peer into emptiness. “She never liked being mayor, though, she was a good mayor. No matter what folk say... I miss her, Dîsh.”

“Oh, my sweetest. My love,” Dîshmab embraced Litast gently and kissed the top of his head. Litast sighed, and tussled Dîshmab's fur with his paw.






9th of Limestone, 390

The elf Amala Helplobster crouched under the boughs of the old plum tree, weeding the small plots growing chicory. She hummed by herself a melancholic tune, not paying heed to the townsfolk passing behind her, heading to do their daily tasks. It was early morning still, the dewdrops trickling onto her fingers from weeded plants were cold to touch. She felt sadness in her heart, an emptiness left behind by Likot's death, but there was also a sense of peace and calm.

Likot was not the first of her friends to die. When one is nearly three and a half centuries old, one has witnessed the inevitable end of mortal life many a time. It was tragic, of course, but such was the fate the Gods had lain upon them. Or so the legends said, anyway.

“Be at peace, Likot,” Amala whispered. She took a handful of moist earth and let it crumble and fall between her fingers. She looked up to the sky from beneath the boughs. “Be merry among the stars, o child of Light.”







11th of Limestone, 390

Datan the dwarf walked past the old burial grounds to the apiary. He looked at the old graves overgrown by weeds and sighed. He was sad about Likot's death. It was always sad to lose one of these jolly rodents he had so come to like. It had been an honor to see Likot grow from a feisty child into a strong capybara woman who became the mayor after old age caught up with baroness Waxedtiles.

Yes, Waterlures would have missed much without Likot. It was she, after all, who made the decision to open the town and welcome the outside world with an open heart. Though, it had its downsides, too. But that was no fault of Miss Languagehame.

'She was a good lass, that one,' Datan thought. 'A good name, too. Ink.'

As he continued his way to the bees, the name of Likot brought his niece to his mind. She had the same name. Likot. Likot Tinmanor. The daughter of his brother Geshud. Snatched from the crib by a goblin when she was only a wee babe.

Datan wondered if she was still alive.

And if she was, was she now one of the goblins?

=====

Another write-up.

Took a bit longer to write, but that seems to always be the case with these sieges, trying to figure what to pick from the logs and what to leave out. A bit tedious the way I do it, so in the future I might try something different.

But anyway, Likot died (spine damage, which impaired breathing, so there was no way to save her, alas). I had some plans for her still and had hoped that she and Kesp might get married before she grows too old (I think she was 59). But I guess the game thought otherwise. Oh well, we've so far managed a bit too well against the goblins, so I guess it was inevitable that someone dies.

Soon-ish, I think, it's time to switchi to adventure mode and head out again. I'm not entirely sure will it be the next write-up or 1-2 after it. I've got several things I need to finish in fort mode before retiring it and I'm not entirely sure how long that'll take. But, we'll see.

There'll probably be a small break once the switch comes along, since I intend to do some background stuff in the world again (e.g. make new sites and npcs, like before). Sort of a bummer that after playing in the same world  for a while things grind to a halt without the player making things happen (though there's actually a couple of wars going on according to legends mode).

[Maloy]

Hmmm...Is there a settlement the goblins could have been heading to that wasn't Waterlures? Since they attacked Autumn and came from a weird direction I'm wondering if they had plans to attack somewhere else and passing Waterlures was the quickest route.
All my invasions I got in Razorbridge in the Museum were just guys heading elsewhere to wage war, but I had the only bridge available to cross continents


Also I like Maloy's life philosophy he seems a very responsible person! Probably needs a hobby for his sanity though lol no clue what that could be


How do you record the short gif videos of these scenes? They're very cool!

[brewer bob]

It's possible the goblins were headed somewhere else, but then again The Hell of Miseries lies in the south and Waterlures is the northernmost site of Ustuth Ïdath. I think they're currently not at war with anyone else.

Maloy the elephant seal man is a rather conflicted animal person. He has a sense of duty, but hates being obligated, and a bunch of other values conflicting with his personality traits. No wonder he's stressed out (though, that's probably mostly due to me once in a while removing combat hardiness from all, so there's been a lot of stress increase during/after sieges).

I've been recording the gifs with GifCam. It's simple and quick to use. (There's a warning that other sites than the official have hosted it bundled with malware, so you might want to scan it just in case. Personally I haven't found any issues in it.)

[brewer bob]

Part XVI:
Strange Things Afoot




13th of Limestone, 390

If someone would have asked Mistêm Strappedoil why she had gone to sleep in the tower above the House of Knowledge, she would have only shrugged. She did not know why, but she could at least say that the old canopy bed of Tekkud Stardust with its feather mattress was a pleasant bed to sleep in.

Except for the nightmare she had.

The young jeweler rolled around restlessly under the blanket, sweating as she had a feverish dream. In the dream it was summer or spring, and she was dancing in a lush forest meadow blooming with flowers. She saw in front of her a huge tree, its trunk as thick as a tower, reaching to the heavens. It was beautiful and she laughed in joy.

But then the leaves of the tree began to crumble, the branches shriveled and foul tar began to drip from them to the ground. A black rot spread across the grass, like drops of ink on wet parchment, its tendrils smothering life wherever it reached. She saw crops on fields dying, and the trees wept, their tears turning into fire setting all ablaze. It was night now and the horizon glowed a fiery orange and red, and anguished screams carried over from afar, crying, “Save us! Save us! For the Night has come!”

She stood in a flat and barren wasteland, stretching as far as the eye could see. The earth was hard, frozen, and the stars sped across the black of night, like eons passing in a flash. The wind whipped her with malice, flaying her skin, rending her flesh to the bone.

And the very ground she stood on trembled as she screamed in agony.

In the distance she saw black spires burst through the earth, thrusting into the skies like the talons of a dark god clawing its way out of an unholy womb. The landscape rushed past her and there she stood, at the dark gates of the dread spire, a single baleful eye boring into her from the emptiness awaiting her. A flash, a spark. A brilliance of many colors blinded her eyes, then in front of her in the dark hovered a flat piece of clear translucent stone, its facets splitting light into a fading rainbow.

A ghostly voice, unpleasant and croaking, belched forth words of hatred and terror, “I AM THE ALL-CONSUMING BLAZE, THE BITTER DUSK OF FAILING HEARTS. I AM THE GNAWER OF BONES, THE GORGER OF HOLY MARROW. I AM THE VIOLENT TERROR, THE DREAD STORM BEFORE THE NOTHINGNESS, AND YOU WILL BOW TO ME!”

Mistêm jolted up from her sleep, a maniacal cackling ringing in her ears. She was all sweaty and clammy, her heart was pounding fiercely. She breathed deeply and let out a sigh. It was only a dream, it had only been a nightmare, she assured herself.






Mistêm hurried down from the tower, shaken by the nightmare. When she came to the platform above the main hall of the library, she stopped in her tracks, still trembling. She thought she heard a whisper. Her ears twitched as she listened, but all she heard was the reverbating noise of turned pages and pawsteps from the hall below. 'It's just the nightmare spooking me,' she shook her head.

Thunder rumbled outside and she heard the gush of rain.

Then she felt it. A cold touched her ankles, grasping them tightly, like icy fingers shackling her. A piercing chill crept up her legs, slowly at first, then hurtling up her spine, sending tingling shocks throughout her body. Something took hold of her and an urge to create filled her soul.

The strange forces of the Lakes of Saturninity were at work—or perhaps it was something else this time?





The young capybara woman rushed through the rain, through the porch of the Fruit of Letters. Bypassers looked at her curiously, wondering what was up with the jeweler. She stormed into the old miner's hall and headed to the old stonecrafting halls, to her very own crafting table, which she had named 'Mistêm's Jewelry'.

“Gems. Leather. Wood. Metal,” she muttered to herself as she cleared the table in one swoop, an image of a magnificent piece of art filling her mind's eye.

Mistêm headed out to fetch the things she needed.







17th of Limestone, 390

'Awful, just bloody awful,' Tirist Brasshandles lamented in his thoughts. He stood under the roof of the wayshrine close to the South Gate, taking shelter from the heavy downpour. It really didn't help much, for all his clothes were already soaking wet, dripping water like a leaking bucket.

“Have a few years without this blasted weather and you forget the whole miserable thing even exists,” the outpost liaison griped aloud and wallowed in misery. He looked at the statue of Ôsed carved from greyish blue stone. “You do think this is quite funny, don't you? Now, I've said my prayers to you, you heavenly scoundrel, and this, this is how you repay me—oh, don't you dare look at me like that!” He berated the smiling stone rabbit, shaking his finger at it with much vigor. “Well, I sure hope you'll be satisfied when your faithful drown and die in this horrid mischief of yours—harrumph!”

He turned to look from under the sheltering roof at the torrents of rain cascading and roaring down from the heavens. Tirist was not in a good mood. His clothes were ruined and the wagons of the caravan had decided to skip Waterlures, dumping him in the rain—the gates were shut and they had no desire to wait in this weather.

“Ugh, I can hardly blame them for that,” Tirist grumbled to himself, hoping the gates would open soon. He was starting to feel a bit cold. He was shivering and his teeth were rattling.

“AT-CHOO!”

He sneezed.

“And now I have a cold, too. Wonderful! Just wonderful!” He threw his hands up in the air, hitting the shrine's rafters and got a splinter in his finger.

Tirist began to sob and whimper.






22nd of Limestone, 390

“What is it this time, Momuz? I am rather busy, as you can see,” Fecici said crabbily and looked up from the papers on his desk. “You do understand that I am meeting the outpost liaison in but a moment, and he is one I do not want to keep waiting—he can be quite, hm, touchy. So this better be important.”

“Pfft! The bumbling buffoon can wait,” Momuz scoffed, waved his paw and strode to the desk. His steps were a bit wobbly and his breath smelled of wine. He appeared to be a little drunk and behaved out of character.

“I see. Perhaps you would like to tell that to him in person, then?” Fecici said sharply. He lay his quill on the table, leaned back and steepled his hands. “Now, before you open your besotted mouth and say something impetuous and foolish, I do not expect an answer to that question. So, with that out of the way, very well, tell me what ails you. I'm listening, capybara man.”

Momuz hesitated for a moment, then opened his mouth to speak his mind, but decided against it. He scratched his head, thinking, trying to gather his sluggish thoughts and shake his drunkenness away. Fecici waited, tapping his forefingers together impatiently.

“It's just that... I... You see...” Momuz said nervously, shifting around awkwardly as the words he meant to speak fled from his mind.

“Yes? Speak freely, capybara man,” Fecici said and stopped tapping his fingers.

“I... Ugh! I'm sick and tired of everything! I feel like I'm not whole, damn it!” the capybara man burst out in despair, his emotions pouring out of him. Fecici raised an eyebrow, listening as Momuz went on, “It is as if a great fire is ablaze within my body, consuming me from the inside. There's so much anger in me, so much hate. It is as if I'm being tossed around in a storm, its bitter venom poisoning me and sapping me of all hope. I see only death and darkness ahead of me—us. Tell me, mister mayor, do we have any hope?” Momuz leaned over the table, looking at Fecici with pleading eyes that had lost their light a long time ago.

“I cannot answer such a question, Momuz—I am not a prophet or a seer,” Fecici said with a sigh. “All I can say is that if we were to succumb to despair and let darkness wash over us, then there is, indeed, only death awaiting. However, I might as well make it known that we are quite far from such a bleak outcome. We have, in fact, been quite successful—despite all tragedies—in repelling the armies of darkness. And that, capybara man, is in no small part due to your skill and courage. But I digress, it is not matters of war that weigh upon you, isn't it?”

“No, it's not the war, I think,” Momuz said, a trace of uncertainty in his voice. “But perhaps it plays a part? To be honest, mister Fecici, I don't really know what's causing all this... this heaviness.”

“Yes, that is a bit of a problem. Not knowing the cause, that is,” Fecici said and rested his chin on his hand. “Perhaps it is about your father again?”

Momuz went quiet with the mention of his father, Edu Sandtick. He clenched his paws into fists and gritted his teeth as he thought of the travesty, the desecration of his father's grave and the impaling of his remains on an ashen spear. Seeing his father hanging there, his body half-rotten and flies buzzing around it, was his very first memory. He was only two when it had happened.

“I have never forgotten it,” Momuz hissed through his teeth, his voice cold and full of hatred. “I have never forgiven it, either,” he turned to stare Fecici straight in the eyes, “It is always there, it is the only memory I have of him... And, even after all these years, what has the sheriff done? Nothing! He has done absolutely nothing! That sluggard!” Momuz slammed his fists on the mayor's desk. Fecici did not flinch.

“I can only imagine your pain, Momuz. It is an evil that no child should have to suffer,” Fecici soothed the capybara man. He steepled his hands before he continued in a more sombre tone,  “I will talk to the sheriff about the vile affair, remind him that the guilty party is yet to be found.”

“I would very much appreciate it, mayor Fecici,” Momuz said. He was feeling calmer already, though, he knew the bitterness in his heart was still there, festering like an old wound that had never healed.








Tanzul stood in the middle of the thresher's workshop above Vabôk's Dyery. He stared at the various tools lying about, scattered in a very disorderly manner. Most likely the mayor had been the last one processing plant fibers. It wouldn't be the first time he left a mess after him. In any case, it didn't really bother the fox man. He was here only to see if there was any thread to be taken to the stores. He reached for a spool of hemp thread that was for some reason under a scutching board.

'Ah, what's the point in this even?' Tanzul thought and sighed. He was bored. Bored of his life and how things were. He didn't mind the work—it was necessary, the hard work—but he just didn't feel... anything. There was an emptiness gnawing him and to be honest, he was bored and fed up with it all. Was this all life had to offer? It was such a long time since he felt anything meaningful, like when he was still out in the wilds coming to this place. It was such a long, long time since he last walked in the forests or did anything exciting. Life was boring.

“Is something wrong, fox man?” A clear voice asked from behind.

“Huh?” Tanzul snapped out of his thoughs and turned around. It was Vabôk the Dyer with a bundle of cloth in his hands. He was looking at Tanzul with a worried look on his face.

“You look like something's bothering you. You've been staring at that bench for some time,” the dwarf said, nudging his head towards the bench. “If you need to talk, well, you can come over to the dyery and I'll listen. Share the burden. Won't bog this body down even a bit.” He flexed his fat-covered massive muscles and winked an eye.

“Oh, it's nothing,” Tanzul said calmly and forced a little smile. “One cannot always be in high spirits.”

“Mhm. That's true, aye,” Vabôk said with a nod. “Life gets at you sometimes. Especially with the amount of rain this year has brought, eh?”

“Yes, you could say that, haha,” Tanzul chuckled. “Though, it's a fine day outside today.”

“It is, isn't it?” Vabôk said, peering out the narrow window. “Well, I'll be heading down to dye me some cloth—” he patted the bundle he carried “—so, if you need an ear, you know where to find me—you sure you're alright?”

“Yes, I'm fine. It's nothing to worry about,” Tanzul reassured the dwarf.

As soon as Vabôk went down the stairs, Tanzul returned to his memories and sighed as the feeling of emptiness came back.







For many a day Mistêm had toiled, her paws guided by the fey spirits of the blessed lake. Now, finally, her work was finished and lay on the table in front of her. She felt the unknown forces guiding her release their hold as they left her body. It felt like tight bonds were lifted from her and she was herself once more.

She looked at the artifact she had made, satisfied of her creation. It was a scepter carved from red spinel inlaid with bands of electrum and plum wood. Its grip was made from the pelt of a sasquatch, soft to the touch of paws. On one side of the flat headpiece was a relief of Lancersells the Natural Water, a wooden crown made by old Libash Blotcoal a long time ago, and on the other side was an image of querns.

Mistêm was very pleased with the scepter. She decided to gift it to Ònul Strickenrelics, her mother.

“Criedpainted the Esteemed Smile. That is what you shall be named,” she whispered to the scepter.





“I am so very sorry to hear that,” Tirist said and took off his wide platter hat, holding it in front of him, his eyes lowered. “She was a remarkably strong character, quite feisty she was. And a good mayor, too—I did enjoy those few meetings I had with her. Such a loss, truly.” The outpost liaison took a deep breath and sighed. “Did you know that she dreamt of visiting the Mountainhome one day?”

“No. I did not know,” Fecici said rather indifferently, his chin resting on his hand.

“It is such a pity her dream was never realized,” Tirist sighed sadly. He brushed his hand over his balding pate and put his hat back on. Its wide brim was sagging—no doubt due to being spoiled by the rain. “Awful, just plain awful.” He shook his head.

“Yes, her death has touched many,” Fecici said and leaned back in his chair.

“Did she have any children?” Tirist asked, but continued before the mayor could reply, “No, wait. She wasn't married, I think. I do think I confused her with someone else for a moment there. How silly of me, ho ho—” the outpost liaison's paunch wobbled as he laughed “—I sometimes have difficulties telling these fine creatures apart. They all do look so alike, don't they?”

“Yes. They do,” Fecici said laconically, drumming his fingers on the armrest. “She did have siblings, though.”

“Ah, yes, of course!” Tirist said excitedly and stroked his beard. “Quite an astounding family, that one. She had a younger brother, I think... Now what was his name? I seem to have forgotten it.” Tirist furrowed his brow as he tried to recall the name.

“His name was Geshud,” Fecici said.

“Yes, quite! Good name, that one,” the outpost liaison exclaimed with delight, but his expression became sombre as he continued, “Though, his was a sad fate. Died terribly young, he did—lost his mind to madness! Such a shame. Terribly tragedy, really. Now, if my mind doesn't completely fail me—I do hope I don't have that fate ahead of me, ho ho!—I believe he used to be the bookkeeper of Waterlures... When he was still sane, that is. Ho ho!”

“Yes, he was,” Fecici said blandly, his patience running thin. “Speaking of bookkeepers, we have a new one.”

“What? A new bookkeeper? Who? What happened to the old one?” Tirist asked surprisedly, his brow furrowing with worry. Fecici made a mental note of it.

“Yes. Sibrek Paperpriced is the new bookkeeper,” Fecici said and steepled his hands. “A capybara man who is from Controlledseal. He is rather competent—sometimes a bit too thorough, I might add—and it is simpler to communicate with him, unlike with Zulban—he is still around, mind you—it is rather difficult to discuss with someone whose speech consists only of giggles.”

“Ah, yes, that is understandable,” Tirist said and nodded his head. “Mountain gnomes tend to be like that—always giggling—jolly little fellows. Funny folk, really. But, anyhoo, enough of that for now. Let us go through the import and export agreements before we spend all the day talking about Miss Languagehame and tittering gnomes. Shall we?”







1st of Sandstone, 390

Uvash the Younger walked along the cliffside walkway towards the Baronial Quarters. He was carrying the scepter Mistêm had created, taking it to be sealed in the Vaults along with the other treasures. It was a pity that such marvelous items could not be left on public display. Time and again had been proven that artifacts left in the open tended to “vanish”, somehow. It was rather unfortunate that dishonest, questionable folk with larcenous intent came to town, though, more often than not the thieves had been citizens of Waterlures.

'It's a pity that one cannot trust ones fellows,' Uvash contemplated. His thoughts wandered to Mistêm as he walked down into the entry hall and passed the pedestals displaying goblin weapons. He was a bit troubled after meeting with Mistêm, whom he considered a good friend.

The capybara woman had told him of a nightmare she had had before her strange mood. She seemed shaken by it and had pondered the dream's meaning. It seemed she thought it had been a vision from a time yet to come, though, it might as well have been from the past. Anyway, it sounded like a terrible nightmare and Uvash had suggested that Mistêm should seek answers from a scholar—like Meng the crow man—or one of the prophets.

He shrugged away such thoughts and instead pondered his forthcoming quest. He was quite excited about it and eagerly awaited for the day when he would leave the safety of home behind, heading into the unknown wilds. Meng had been asking around if there were any who would join them, and it seemed that there were a few who would want to go on an adventure. There was Reg Musclehame, a capybara woman stonecrafter, and the elf Amala Helplobster of the Turquoise Veils.

Uvash was fine with either one of them, though, he had some reservations about Reg, the sister of Likot Languagehame. He knew it was probably unjustified of him to think so, but he had more than once heard his father say that all problems facing Waterlures were because of Likot. It was something ingrained in him since a child, but perhaps Reg coming along would prove such reservations wrong.

At least the reservations Uvash had.

Regardless, Uvash could hardly contain his excitement, he could hardly wait for the day when his adventure would begin. He wished to go now, immediately, but he knew that was not possible. It was soon winter and winter was not the time to be in the wilds—that much even he knew.

He would have to wait at least until spring.






2nd of Sandstone, 390

On the cliffside walkway at the Abbey of Luxuries, the shrine dedicated to the Golden, the outpost liaison Tirist Brasshandles and the tavern keeper Datan Netinked were meeting in the shadows cast by the apiary platform above them.

“How is my son?” Datan asked Tirist stoically, a faint sadness in his tone. “It is such a long time since I saw him.”

“I do believe he is doing quite well,” Tirist said and stroked his beard. “Though, I have to admit I do not see him so often—I am rather preoccupied with the work that comes with my station. There is always so much to be taken care of, quite the astounding amount, really. But, anyhoo, I assume he spends most of his time at the court, doing those things one does at such places—I really never was a court dwarf myself, so I wouldn't know what that is. Ho ho ho.” Tirist clutched his belly as he laughed.

“Still in the favor of His Majesty, then,” Datan said, nodding his head slightly.

“Yes, so I've understood,” Tirist said. “Still in His Majesty's favor. Even despite that wretched failure of Rivermine—such an ill-advised venture, that one. Why, even an apprentice miner could've told it was folly and will only end in disaster! Incredible, really—what were they thinking, digging for ironstone in such a place? Ho ho ho!” 

Datan frowned at Tirist. His expression was not left unnoticed.

“Ahem, but of course your son isn't the one who should be blamed. It's that imbecile, that, hm, now what was her name again? Ah, yes, Ral Curlrock! Yes, it was Ral the imbecile who was the cause of the whole mess and the unfortanate loss of coin. But in the end all turned out quite splendid, really,” Tirist explained, waving his hands around while doing so. “You should come visit Inkedwhims some day.”

“You know very well that I cannot,” Datan replied glumly and crossed his arms in front of him.

“Well, I am certain you could come up with some excuse,” Tirist waved his hand dismissively. “It should not be difficult for one such as you. Why, you could even be completely honest and say that you're going to see your relatives! There is no need to spin a lie, my dear Datan.”

“That isn't the problem,” Datan scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I couldn't keep up the act there. I couldn't lie about the... incident if someone were to ask—and someone would, you can count on it.”

“Well, I'm certain the past can be forgiven and forgotten,” Tirist belittled the tavern keeper.

“No, Tirist. Some things can never be,” Datan said adamantly. His expression was completely serious now.

“It was no fault of yours, Datan, believe me,” the outpost liaison said, sadness in his voice. “Now, I say this as a friend: How could you have known? There was no way of knowing it would end like it did. Why, it could've ha—”

“I do not wish to talk of this any further,” Datan interruped Tirist with an angry snap. “This discussion is over. Farewell!”

As Datan turned to leave, Tirist said sternly, “Aren't you forgetting something? The letter, Datan. The letter. Now.”

Datan stopped, turned around reluctantly and took a sealed letter from the folds of his vest. “Here's the damn letter,” he grumbled as he handed it to Tirist, “and this'll be the last one. You can tell him I will no longer be his eyes and ears. Now, goodbye!”




Galel gasped and pulled his head back into the passageway cutting through the building. He was shocked and alarmed by what he had just witnessed. He had been minding his business, taking a handful of goblin teeth from the hill to throw in the sewer middens—as one does—when he had stepped out of the passage and noticed Datan and the outpost liaison meeting in the shadows. Discretely. Secretly. Naturally Galel had withdrawn back into the passage, peering around the corner and spied on the two.

And it seemed that he had done the right thing.

'This is serious! The conspiracy runs much deeper than I imagined...' the ostrich man thought, flattening himself against the passage wall. His heart was pounding rapidly in his chest and his belly seemed to churn with all the excitement and revelations. Yes, he had clearly stumbled into some devious scheme, into something foul and unspeakable. He hadn't actually heard the discussion, but he could tell enough by the body language of the two to be certain. They were plotting something truly devious and sinister, those scoundrels! He had never suspected that Datan was involved in the evil cult of the false monks! And it was only by sheer luck that he had found it out!

After taking a few deep breaths, Galel calmed down. 'I should get moving before they notice me,' he thought, mustering the courage to move. 'Just act like the common peasant does, Galel. Whistle or hum or do something normal, like saunter about and enjoy the view.'

He stepped out of the passageway, coughed into his fist noisily and strutted across the walkway, looking up at the sky and whistled loudly, overacting every move of his—he looked like an idiot.

He started sweating profusely and trembling when he noticed Tirist lumbering towards him from the right. His heart almost leaped out of his beak when the outpost liaison greeted him, “Good day, ostrich fellow.”

But Tirist didn't stop for a chat and continued past the odd whistling ostrich man, heading to the stairs, shaking his head.

'Whew! That was a close one,' Galel thought as he wiped the sweat from his brow, 'I should go see the mayor if he doesn't call for me soon. These nefarious schemes of the cultists are beginning to get out of hand!'






3rd of Sandstone, 390

Next to the fish barrels outside the Umbral Walls, the miner's hall, Thob Helmlabored cradled a capybara girl infant in her arms. Thob had given birth to the girl this morning; her third child and first daughter. She looked at the baby, her heart full of warmth and adoration.

“I think Iden will be a good name for you, little one,” she whispered to the sleeping babe. “That means Paddle and you sure do paddle with your paws.”

She turned to look at the statue of Mestthos at the shrine opposite the barrels. She had never been a devout Mestthosite, but she did remember once in a while to say her prayers to the god of fortresses. After all, it was Mestthos who shielded them and kept them safe, guiding the swords and spears of the brave warriors of Waterlures.

She bowed her head in reverence and uttered a short prayer of thanks to the Stalwart One





6th of Sandstone, 390

It was a few days until the birthday of Sazir Dwellingcity, son of baron Oddom and Istrul Wheelscrow. It seemed like such a long time to wait, almost like an eternity. He was very excited and anxious, which was quite unlike him, but then again it was to be a birthday like no other. Sazir was about to turn twelve, and that meant that he would be an adult. And that was something very special indeed.

He was currently at the Enchanted Bridge, looking after Ùshrir Stakenumbers, the three year old son of Dîshmab and Litast, and the weasel boy Zasit Fortunemirrored who was only two. Watching over the wee little ones wasn't something he enjoyed, but they were a good audience when he practiced his skills at singing. And, in fact, he felt like singing now.

Sazir cleared his throat and began to sing a song called 'Profanities'. It was hardly a song for so young ears as his audience, but he didn't care. Besides, the little ones didn't understand the lyrics—they were only interested in his beautiful voice.





8th of Sandstone, 390

The dungeon master Fikod Livingglazes was smoothing the walls of the underground stronghold beneath Waterlures. She was in a rather delighted mood, her newborn son Bëmbul sleeping next to her as she worked. Bëmbul was her twelfth child with Kogan and she was very pleased that they had been blessed with so many. Theirs was the largest family in Waterlures and it was only growing. In fact, several of her children were already adults and of them Thob had raised her own family.

The offspring of Ilral and Zultan had been quite industrious.







10th of Sandstone, 390

The elephant woman Song Scarredhex stood in front of a wooden pedestal in the shadowy corner of her dining hall with her head bowed down. She was in the middle of her prayers, communing with the one she worshipped. But it was not Mighty Mestthos, god of fortresses, whom she prayed to. No, she was communing with a different god, her true god. Her secret god. The one with an unspeakable name and foul domains: Bazsa. Bazsa the Sinful—the god of murder and death.



Song picked up a sharp pin laying in front of the loathsome shrine and pricked her finger with it, drawing a drop of blood. She smeared the blood on the skull of a goblin which was in front of the menacing black idol of Bazsa. It was a small sacrifice to appease one of the Reviled Ones, a sacrifice to help pursue her greatest dream: she wished to rule the world.

'I have waited for too long, o Sinful One,' Song prayed, kneeling before the altar. 'I am getting old, I am running out of time. Aid me in my pursuit for power, so that I may pave way for your inevitable reign, my Dark Master. Grant me the strength and will to advance your cause, give me a sign, anything. Tell me what to do, o Slayer of the Innocent.'

Song searched her heart, searched for the blackness that would bring fulfilment and meaning to her life. But there was none to be found. She did not feel the cruelty or malice within her, there was no evil nor contempt.

And there was no answer from Bazsa. Had she been abandoned by her Dark God? Had she done something wrong?

The elephant woman sighed and stood up. It was no use. She had lived too long with these good-natured rodents and lost sight of her true purpose. All these years had made her shun fighting and the suffering accompanying it. She had begun to want peace instead of battle and death. She had become comfortable with her life in Waterlures. She even liked some of the townsfolk.

She had become... complacent. It was no wonder Bazsa did not answer her.

She turned her back to the shrine and stepped to the door, but as she was about to open it, a dread voice boomed in her head.

'SONG. LISTEN TO ME.'

Song stopped in her tracks, shivers running down her spine.

'I AM BAZSA. BAZSA THE SINFUL. KNEEL BEFORE YOUR MASTER. KNEEL BEFORE ME, WORM!' The voice thundered painfully in Song's mind. She clutched her head and fell to her knees.

'I PITY YOUR WEAKNESS. I DESPISE YOUR HUMILITY. I LOATHE YOUR MEEKNESS.'

Song trembled in fear and pain, shaken to the core by the Dark God's voice. She felt tears welling in her eyes, her head felt like it would split soon. It took all her strength to manage a faint whisper, “What is it you want, my master?”

'WHAT I WANT? DO YOU THINK THIS IS ABOUT WHAT I WANT? LISTEN TO YOURSELF, SONG,' the voice of Bazsa blasted through the elephant woman and she fell onto the floor, writhing in agony. She begged and pleaded the dark god to stop, both in her mind and aloud, tears streaking down her cheeks.

'YOU SQUIRM. YOU BEG. YOU GROVEL LIKE THE WORM YOU ARE. PATHETIC,' the voice boomed full of contempt and disgust. There was a moment of silence and respite before the voice continued in a less dreadful but still imposing tone, 'NO, SONG. THIS IS NOT ABOUT WHAT I WANT.'

The pain suddenly left Song and she pushed herself up from the floor, turning slowly to look at the shrine. This was a test, she reasoned. Her god was testing her, waiting for her to show her worth. To show she was not weak, that she was not a coward.

To show she was strong and in control.

To show she would do whatever it took to reach her ambitions.

'YES, SONG. THIS IS ALL ABOUT YOU,' the voice of Bazsa echoed in Song's mind, 'THIS IS ABOUT WHAT YOU WANT, SONG. I CAN GIVE YOU ALL THAT... AND MORE.'






13th of Sandstone, 390

A constant stream of laborers poured through the House of Knowledge to work on the library's expansion. The noise from all the hustle and bustle was rather disruptive and it irritated Olon Seerlances. She had enough trouble trying to understand the concept of time and what it meant without such intrusions into her thoughts. Each and every time she thought she was making some progress, some capybara man or dwarf stumbled by, whistling or singing, and distracted her.

'Oh, this is going nowhere!' Olon anguished in frustration. 'I can make no heads or tails of it! How is one supposed to think in this noise? No matter how much time I spend mulling over it... No, wait. Spend time? Hmm, can you spend it? Like some kind of commodity? Oh! It makes no sense!'






14th of Sandstone, 390

A deep cawing echoed from afar and above as Libash Blotcoal padded down the muddy alley. She turned to look up, but only a narrow slip of the sky could be seen from between the buildings. She shrugged, thinking that it was probably a raven, or more likely a giant one, and walked to the stairs leading up to the loomery. She begun to hum a lullaby as she climbed the steep steps with her weary bones, feeling her old age with each step.

However, the ache did not get Libash down. She was in a good mood today, feeling rather blissful, for it was only yesterday when she had given birth to her second child, Olon Chuckceiling. Yes, that was the name she and Zon had decided to give their daughter. The little capybara girl was a sweet one, seemingly smart and very patient. 'Very unlike her parents,' Libash chuckled in her thoughts. It was true, Zon had hardly any patience in him and, well, Libash would have made a lousy scholar if she had followed that path in her life.

'Well, at least when the two of us work together, our flaws are not so evident,' she mused and smiled as she looked for a suitable roll of cloth to make a hat from.


(Continued in next post...)

[brewer bob]

(...continued from previous post.)






16th of Sandstone, 390

Reg Musclehame was visiting her friend Coni at her home above the old tannery and butchery. It was a ascetic but cozy home, though the foul smell from the tannery had stuck on the wooden walls and furnishing. The acrid smell had at first stung Reg, but soon she barely noticed it. Besides, it was not half as bad as the stench of the fisheries.

“I've been thinking about your suggestion, Coni,” Reg said to the hamster woman. “I really think it's something I'd like to do, head out into the wilds and travel... That is, if you're still willing to go with me.”

“Of course I am! Why wouldn't I?” Coni chirped cheerfully, kicking her feet around as she sat on her chair.

“I don't know, maybe I thought you said it to cheer me up,” Reg shrugged and scratched the back of her head. “Anyway, I've been thinking quite a lot of leaving lately, and it's not only because of Likot's death. The thought has been in my head for a long time, and I think... I think it's because of the way things are here in Waterlures.”

“What do you mean?” Coni asked and looked at Reg inquisitively. She stopped kicking her feet.

“It's how this place is led, the way the so-called higher-ups act,” Reg began her rant, curling her paws into fists. “We've been told since we were children how our parents came here, fleeing the iron fist of the Unaging King. How things were really bad and dark under his rule, and how here we were free and safe. To do as we please, though we have to work hard for it...” she paused for a moment and scratched her cheek, “But is our life any better here? I don't think it is. Perhaps the higher-ups are fine and all, but certainly not us, the common folk. So, I keep on thinking this: how are their actions different from a tyrant?”

“Yes! Exactly!” Coni jumped up from her chair, excited to have someone be of the same mind.

“And the justice... I don't even know where to begin with that,” Reg griped and scoffed. “It's a pitiful mockery. It's the justice of those loathesome folk in power, not the justice of common folk—as was shown by what 'justice' did to Dimbulb.”

Silence fell over the room with the mention of the hippo man. Both Reg and Coni felt sadness in their hearts as they thought of their friend and his tragic fate.

“No law can ever be just,” Coni finally broke the silence bitterly. “Life is too complicated for such...”

“Uh. I don't know, maybe?” Reg hesitated, unsure how to respond. She had always respected the law, but she felt that she was not so certain of it any longer—though, she wouldn't go so far as to say that all laws were unjust. Regardless, that was not a worry for now. “Anyway, that is why I have decided to leave town. Go see the world. Maybe I'll understand things better then. And I'm glad that you'll be coming along.”

Coni was rather excited of leaving town with Reg, though there was still much to plan. She hadn't told her old traveling companions about it, but there was still plenty of time. It was certain they wouldn't leave before the coming winter was over.






17th of Sandstone, 390

“Knock, knock!”

It was the voice of Galel calling from the stairs leading to the mayor's office. Fecici gritted his teeth behind his desk and almost snapped the tip of his quill on his journal. “What is it now, master ostrich,” he responded in a surly voice.

Galel strutted across the room to the mayor's desk, casting a few squint-eyed glances around on his way. He leaned on the desk  with one hand and muttered through the side of his beak, “We were supposed to have a talk.”

“Yes. We were,” Fecici said bitterly, “and I was supposed to call for you when all is as it should be—which is not the case, mind you—but here you are, unannounced, so we might do as you wish and have a talk then! Be my guest, go ahead, tell me, master ostrich, what is it you have discovered this time?”

“Well, I did knock...” Galel mumbled, pulling his head back in offense.

“No. You didn't. You said 'knock, knock',” Fecici groaned irately.

“'Who's there?' Haha,” Galel snickered, but regretted it immediately when he saw the murderous glare of Fecici. He gulped and blurted a hasty apology, “Um, sorry for that, hehe, I didn't mean it—i-it just came out of my beak. Just like that, hehe—eek.”

Fecici tapped his finger on his desk and continued to stare at Galel, crushing the ostrich man's spirit with his eyes.

“Right. Now, if we are done with all the sillyness,” the mayor broke the silence in a matter-of-fact tone, “I believe last time you told me of a... cult. Pray tell, what is this cult all about? I would very much like to know everything there is to know. Come, enlighten me.”

“Alright then, ahem, yes,” Galel began, his expression turning to a sly one, “So, for some time there's been all sorts of strange things happening in town—thefts, shady folk visiting, goblins in cages, upset citizens, fairy-sightings—you know, the usual stuff when something's gone terribly wrong and foul things are afoot.”

“The usual stuff,” Fecici repeated wearily, resting his chin on his fist.

“Anyway. So, ever since I came to this wonderful town, I've had my suspicions that all is not well, that there is wickedness hiding in the shadows. Especially this one weird fellow gave me the creeps and made me wary, this strange goblin who rarely talks—I think he's the miller or something like that,” Galel explained and squinted his eyes.

“Rin? Rin Fisthearts, you mean?” Fecici arched an eyebrow slightly.

“Yes, that fellow. Rin,” the ostrich man nodded. He began to rub his beak absent-mindedly as he continued, “I think the miller part is a clever ruse—a disguise, a cover—but in truth, he's something else.”

“A cultist, perhaps?” Fecici suggested, twiddling his quill around.

“My thoughts exactly,” Galel said and snapped a finger. “Now, I didn't know or suspect it at the time, of course, so I thought he was only a miller and didn't think more of it. But there always was some suspicion deep inside me, nagging—hidden, if you will.”

“Like the shrines?” Fecici asked, his head sinking deeper into his hand. This all began to sound like the ravings of a lunatic or prophet—not much difference between the two, Fecici thought—but perhaps there was something interesting to learn.

“Sort of—wait, no! Not at all like that,” Galel said and rubbed his beak again, thinking. “Anyway, when I found out that the devious two, Eman and Song, have a shrine dedicated to You-Know-Who, well, I didn't really think much of it—I thought it was one of those shrines you mentioned at the You-Know-What-Meeting,” the ostrich man shot a meaningful glance at Fecici, “but then one night I was doing my usual rounds—as is my duty as captain—I heard a voice in the dark say, 'praise murder', and then another sinister voice replied, 'praise death', and if that doesn't reek of some sort of devilry, I don't know what does.”

“That is... disconcerting,” Fecici raised his head from his hand, a spark of interest in his voice. “I suppose you didn't see them or recognize the voices?”

“Of course I didn't!” Galel scoffed and squinted his eyes angrily, “Why else do you think it took me so long to figure things out, hmh?”

“There is no need to be upset by a simple question, master ostrich,” Fecici said sharply. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands. “Nevertheless, I presume this was when you made the connection? Between the voices and the shrine, that is.”

“Yes, precisely!” Galel exclaimed triumphantly, puffing his chest out. “And it didn't take much thinking to understand it's a cult of the most sinister kind.”

“Of course. What else could it be,” Fecici said, tapping his forefingers together.

“Exactly. I tried to tell what I found out to Tanzul—he's the fox man—but the fish-reeking babboon only laughed at me,” Galel said bitterly.

“How very rude of him,” Fecici said sarcastically.

“Truly. But he isn't such a bright fellow. Small brain and such—runs in the family,” Galel grinned and tapped his head. “Anyway, next I went to talk with the sheriff, thinking that, hey, at least he'll listen to me. So, I told him the tale and he said he'd look into it... Hah! That's about a year or so ago and the dark cult is still around.”

“Interesting. Fayoba never mentioned it to me,” Fecici said, contemplating Galel's words. It was quite obvious why Fayoba hadn't bothered to tell him. These were clearly the ramblings of a delusional ostrich man and the sheriff very well knew not to come to the mayor if it wasn't something important. But there seemed to be smatterings of truth in Galel's story, and it was something Fecici was interested in. Later, he could draw his own conclusions from all the pieces.

“If it has been such a long time since you found out about this cult, why is it that you come to me only now? Not counting our previous meeting, of course,” Fecici said, tapping his fingers again.

“Well, I thought nobody would believe me,” Galel pouted, holding a hand on his chest. “You can hardly blame me for that after all I've had to suffer.”

“Fair enough,” Fecici shrugged.

“But it might have been for the best I came only now,” the ostrich man said, a smug expression creeping on his face.

“How so?” Fecici inquired, cocking an eyebrow.

“Well, it just so happens that I have uncovered something else,” Galel gloated, holding his beak up with pride. “Something far more sinister and devious... something truly evil.”

“I can hardly wait...” Fecici mumbled and sunk into his chair.

“So, let's return to the goblin first—Rin, was it?” Galel said, grinning widelt.

“Mhm,” Fecici mumbled.

“Now, Eman and Song weren't the only ones in the cult—that should be obvious,” the ostrich man explained, “See, they have to get their orders from someone, right? And who else could the someone be than Rin the Miller—he is a goblin, after all—but I hear you ask, why would I think so? Well, wasn't he away from town for quite a many year, hmh? Was there anyone of his companions alive to confirm his story, hmh? Of course there wasn't, hah!” Galel's voice grew bolder as he went on, “He was obviously consorting with the enemy while he was away, and perhaps his friends were, too! But... is the goblin the leader of the evil cult, then? Perhaps he is, perhaps he isn't...” Galel squinted his eyes and smiled deviously.

“I see. And who is the leader of the cult, then?” Fecici straightened up in his chair and leaned his chin on his fist.

“I am not certain of that... yet,” Galel said uneasily, his eyes darting around the room. “But my gut tells me that the outpost liaison is entangled in these schemes quite deeply—it is possible he is the evil master behind it all!”

“Oh, come now, master ostrich,” Fecici scoffed and slapped his thigh. “This is getting out of hand. You cannot go around accusing everyone of being part of some evil conspiracy without any evidence—especially envoys of the king!” The mayor scolded the ostrich man and gestured wildly with his hands. “Do you have any idea what would happen if lord Tirist ever heard of these outrageous, unfounded allegations of yours? No, don't answer! Let me answer that one for you; you would be sent to the hammerer who will crush and mangle your body with his hammer until you are dead! You do not go around accusing the nobility without repercussions—they are not nice people. Consider this as a warning from a friend.” He shook his finger at Galel angrily.

Galel stepped back, shocked, and went silent for a moment. He looked down and rested his beak on his fist, thinking. Fecici seemed sincere and trustworthy—at least he wasn't part of the cult. That much was obvious. And it was true what he had said about nobles. Galel most certainly did not want to meet the hammerer. He hadn't even considered such a possibility before the mayor warned him... Nevertheless, Tirist was somehow involved in the schemes. Why else did Datan give him a letter? Still, perhaps he should approach this a bit more cautiously? The plotters seemed to be very wily indeed.

“Well... Perhaps I got a bit carried away...” Galel mumbled, still looking at the floor. He took a deep breath and lifted his gaze to meet the mayor's icy stare. “But there's a reason why I said so, and I meant not to be slanderous. You see, mayor Fecici, I recently witnessed a most peculiar and disturbing exchange. Something you might not be aware of, but something we all should be worried about. Maybe it will convince you of my truthfulness—”

“I will be the judge of that,” Fecici interjected sharply, and continued with a sigh, “Very well, let us hear it then, though, I really don't want to know.”

“Well, you'll be glad I did tell you, after hearing what I have to say,” Galel said with utmost confidence. “Ahem. So, for some time I had been wondering, if Rin wasn't the head of the sinister cult, then who was? Now, I'm still not certain who is, but I suspect the conspiracy runs deep. Very deep. You see, a few weeks ago I stumbled by sheer luck into a secret meeting happening in the middle of the day, in the shadows of the cliffside. It was Datan the tavern keeper and the outpost liaison who met. Now, I didn't hear their discussion, but it seemed to be rather heated, and—here it gets really interesting—I saw Datan hand a sealed letter to Tirist. If that isn't suspicious, then what is? Hah!”

“A letter. You saw a letter changing hands,” Fecici groaned and planted his face in his hands. He sighed, then looked up at the ostrich man, continuing in a tired and amused tone, “People sometimes send letters to the Mountainhome—to family, to friends, to associates—and what better way than with the merchants or the outpost liaison? He is, after all, familiar with many in town. And, who knows, maybe Tirist and Datan are kin?”

“Well, I... they met it in secret...” Galel muttered, feeling a bit embarrassed now. He kicked the floor, feeling stupid.

“In any case, whatever the reason for the letter may be, I do not think it is related to this, hm, cult you are so interested in,” Fecici said firmly but with warmth. “Not everything is connected. Not everything is part of a conspiracy nor are all secret meetings foul. But do not let my words dishearten you, my dear ostrich. You have uncovered much of value and I suggest you continue to keep your eyes open, but, please, for the sake of everyone, do not tell others of these findings of yours. Do not needlessly alarm and distress townsfolk. Come directly to me with your findings—it may very well save you from further embarrassment or worse.”

Fecici thought the ostrich man was a delusional fool. Perceptive and excitable perhaps, but a fool nonetheless. The mayor was, however, very intrigued by the contents of the letter the ostrich man had mentioned. He was unaware that the tavern keeper had private dealings with Tirist, and it was something he would very much like to know more about. It was entirely possible that if there actually was some scheming or plotting going on, the letter was part of it.

But what about the cult? Was there one? Quite unlikely, but Fecici very much believed that Galel could possible be right about Eman and Song—that they worshipped the Dark God.

Fecici had suspected it for some time now.



After all, he was one himself—an ardent worshipper of Bazsa the Sinful.

=====

So, that's that write-up then.

It was rather, hmm, heavy with dialogue. Didn't get as far as I hoped with things I want to handle before heading for an adventure, so there should be one more write-up in fort mode.

[Maloy]

Excited to see this adventure come together!

Wonder if the crazy ostrich will be vindicated with his cult fears! A goddess of murder doesn't seem like her worshippers would have a pleasant influence lol


How did the capybara's get to where they could make artifacts btw?

[brewer bob]

Excited to see this adventure come together!

Yeah, I've got the main group now planned. That'd be Coni, Reg & Uvash (the capybaras), Meng (the crow man) and possibly Amala (an elf).

I'm planning to try out how it would work to have two or more different groups travel and juggle between those. But that's still only a plan.

There's going to be one more fort mode update and after that I'm doing a bit of background stuff without write-ups (probably just setting up new adventure camps and adding stuff to old ones, like I've done before). So there's still some time before the actual adventures happen.

Wonder if the crazy ostrich will be vindicated with his cult fears! A goddess of murder doesn't seem like her worshippers would have a pleasant influence lol

Haha, we'll see if something along those lines happens later. (I do have an idea how to do it so that something like that would show up in the justice screen.)

How did the capybara's get to where they could make artifacts btw?

Oh, it's just a simple raw edit. Added STRANGE_MOODS to several animal people to spice things up. It's an edit that can be done after world gen, though, I haven't added it to elephant seal men or other new animal persons from the last adventure, I think. I might do that at some point if I remember.

[brewer bob]

Part XVII:
Waiting For Spring

2nd of Timber, 390

It was early Timber, the last month of autumn, and the hamster woman Coni was at the Hut of Romancing. A couple of weeks back when she and Reg planned their travels, Reg had mentioned her that Meng Manywalled, the crow man scholar, was searching for folk to assist him in reaching Controlledseal. Apparently he wished to visit the library there, to find answers to a problem he wished to solve.

So Coni had gone to the crow man, to find out more, and she had managed to squeeze out of him that the baron's son, Uvash the Younger, was to come along with him. It had taken quite a bit of convincing and no short amount of flattery for him to reveal it. It seemed that the young capybara man wanted to keep it secret that he'd be going on an adventure—no doubt due to his father.

And now Coni was trying to find out more from Uvash.

“Oh, you don't have to worry about that, silly,” Coni chirped to Uvash who looked tense and a bit worried. “I'd never go tattling to the baron of your plans. Your secret is safe with me, honestly.”

“I thank you for that, miss Pocketstand,” Uvash said in relief, his posture easing slightly.

“Plain Coni will do,” the hamster woman said, pushing away the pileated gibbon nudging against her leg. “There's no need to be so courtly around me.”

“Sure. Coni, then,” Uvash said, glad that the hamster woman didn't seem to care much for decorum. “I know this probably sounds odd to you, but I've been wanting to have my own adventure for as long as I can remember. There's so many stories of the world I've heard from travelers and books, but I knew I wouldn't really have the chance to go as the son of a baron. All sorts of responsibilities and such—even though he's not a real baron.”

“Life can be unfair, huh,” Coni said glumly, shoving the gibbon away once again as it tried to tug her betattered cloak. “Still, if heading out of town is what you want, then that's what you should do.”

“And that's what I'm doing,” Uvash said, glancing at the gibbon as it kept pestering Coni. “Anyway, you can probably understand, that when I heard Meng wanted to go to Controlledseal, I saw a chance there... and, um, besides I owe him a favor, so it'd be dishonorable not to do as he asked. One should always repay a favor. But I know father wouldn't understand it, even if I explained. That's why I'm not telling him.” It was a lie. Uvash didn't owe Meng anything, but he felt like he had to come up with some excuse.

“Well, in any case, it's good you two decided to ask for more folk to join you,” Coni said in her typical jovial tone. She noticed that Uvash was lying about something, but she didn't mind. There'd be plenty of time to find out his secrets on the adventure. “It's dangerous in the wilds and easy to get lost. Fortunately, I happen to know a few safe places where to rest on the way to Controlledseal. They're nice spots, too.”

“It'll be great!” Uvash said, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “Maybe on the way we'll even end up finding some unexplored places, like old ruins, or defend the innocent from wicked brigands! Or fight monsters, like hydras, and save a princess or two! A proper adventure!”

“I'm sure there'll be plenty of adventure,” Coni said and nodded, a smile of amusement creeping on her lips.

“Oh, I can hardly wait until spring!” Uvash bobbed excitedly.

“O-wa! O-o-oo, o-wa! Oooo-wa, o-o,” the gibbon chirped and whooped, encouraged by Uvash's glee, and circled around Coni, hands raised and waving.

“You silly little monkey,” Coni chuckled and tousled the gibbon's head. She thought Uvash was also silly, but didn't say it aloud. The young capybara man seemed to be quite eager and longing for adventure. It very much reminded her of Tanzul before they left Brimstaff, their old seaside home in the North. Home. It was hard to remember the place, what it was like there. It felt like such a distant place now, a faint memory only after all these years.

Would she feel the same about Waterlures one day?





11th of Timber, 390

It was noon and the sky was clear with only a few puffy clouds drifting across it. Despite the sunshine it was a cold day—the breeze blowing from the lake was chilly and unpleasant. But even in the cold the gates of Waterlures needed guarding and Inod Oilyround, spear in paw, stood diligently on watch with baron Oddom, who fiddled with Kilrudsat, his trusty warhammer.

“Did I mention I made a new friend?” Oddom said, trying to strike up a conversation and push the biting cold away from his thoughts.

“No. But then again we don't talk often,” Inod said bluntly and leaned on her spear droopily. “Anyway, who?”

“Tobul. A dwarf poet. He's not a citizen yet, but will be soon,” Oddom replied, not minding Inod being brusque. In fact, he very much preferred it that way rather than the ridiculous courtly behaviour he had tolerate far too often. It was quite painful to listen to such vainglorious blabbering.

“I don't think I know him,” Inod shrugged, “but it's about time you get to know folk and have some friends.” It came out more rudely than she had intended, but it was too late now to pull her words back.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Oddom snapped angrily, his brow furrowed.

“You know very well what I mean, Oddom,” Inod said, unperturbed by the baron's tone. “You should try being nice to folk once in a while. Who knows, you might even like it?”

“Pssh, I can be nice if I want,” Oddom scoffed half-heartedly—his temper had calmed as fast as it had flared. “And as if you were any different. Always avoiding crowds. Unless it's a fight, of course.”

“I, uh...” Inod flustered. Her mind was empty of any retort.

“Well, enough of that...” Oddom said, feeling a bit guilty of his remark. “In any case, fighting reminded me that I need to find new blood into the Fenced Princes. It's a pity Azstrog put down her flail, though, devoting ones life to the Rabbit is honorable and admirable. Say, what was the title of the priest again?”

“Holy Deep,” Inod said.

“Holy Deep, holy deep... ” Oddom felt the priestly title on his tongue. It was an odd name for a priest of the Rabbit, he thought, but then again Ôsed was also the goddess of mountains. It made sense in a way, he surmised.

“Anyway, I don't think Azstrog really cares much for fighting,” Inod said, straightening herself at the same time. “It's better for her and us this way—you saw how she froze in battle.”

“I suppose you're right,” Oddom muttered in agreement. “But speaking of priests, I do think it's good her sect has a temple now.”



“Aztrog was quite excited, but I don't know. It's really not a proper temple yet,” Inod said somewhat dourly. “It's a bit of a stretch to call it one. It's just a big hall in the library's new wing, decorated with some fancy baubles... When it's finished, it's supposed to be a museum, not a temple, Olon told me.”

“Well, I understood a proper temple will be built once the, hmm, museum and all other such scholarly nonsense are completed,” Oddom waved his paw as he tried to reassure Inod.

“Tsh, you don't believe that yourself,” Inod snorted, finding Oddom's attempts at niceties amusing. “Things'll end up like with the old attempt: a big pile of rubble and a load of empty promises.”

CLANG-CLANG-CLANG!

The bells of the lookout tower rang loudly and broke the exchange between the sentries. Both readied their weapons, scanning the horizon for approaching enemies.

“Cyclops! Cyclops!” A voice shouted from the tower.




Far from the North, from the vast swamps of the Scaly Mire, a giant humanoid with a single eye had come. Over half the continent it had travelled, wandering the wilds until it came upon Waterlures, following the river Swayedcrypt upstream to the Lakes of Saturninity. What had driven Amiÿa Indigorapid the Untamed Gold of Knights this far from its lair, none could say.

But it was not a question that occured to the sentries at the South Gate—they had more pressing matters begging their full attention.





The cyclops barreled across the field and road, bellowing like thunder, its fists flailing like giant hammers with each long stride. Its cerulean eye gleamed with icy fear and its lips curled into a wicked grin. The two capybara sentries turned to rush and meet it, Inod in the lead and Oddom tailing behind, unfazed by its menacing size.

When there was a fight, Inod forgot her crippling shyness and ran headlong into battle—just like Oddom had said.

“RAAAAAAWR!” the cyclops thundered as it was almost upon the capybara woman. Oddom was still far behind, having trouble keeping up with his fast-pawed comrade..

“Rawr to yourself, one-eye!” Inod shouted, leaping up and thrust her spear. It hit the cyclops in the chest, cutting through flesh and driving deep between ribs. The cyclops howled in pain and spat blood, gasping for air. It swung its heavy fist at Inod, who clung to her spear which was lodged firmly in the giant, but despite her predicament she had little difficulties avoiding the meaty cudgel. The momentum of the swing tossed Inod to the side and her weight pulled on the spear, yanking it free—spear and capybara woman alike were flung tumbling to the ground.

The cyclops almost lost its balance and hobbled backwards a few steps, still gasping and wheezing. As it bent over to spit and cough blood, Oddom hurtled to it with mighty Kilrudsat raised up high. The warhammer came down and Oddom shouted, “Death! Death!”

The hammer struck true, hitting the cyclops in its ankle—bones could be heard cracking and splintering.

The cyclops fell over, gurgling and shrieking in pain.



The downed one-eyed giant lashed in panic from the ground at its assaillants to little effect. The agile capybara folk avoided its futile blows with ease, returning with a stab here and a solid whack there. The cyclops howled and wheezed, crying for mercy as it desperately tried to shield itself from spear and hammer.

But there capybara sentries gave no mercy to the brute. They gave only stinging pain until the one-eyed foe passed out from all the harm it had suffered.



Inod thrust her spear down at the head of the unconscious giant, cutting through bone and brain, putting an end to the suffering of the cyclops.

There was one less giantkin terrorizing the world with the death of Amiÿa Indigorapid the Untamed Gold of Knights.






28th of Timber, 390

On the last day of Timber Feb Spokenpaper had come to sheriff Fayoba bearing a message from the mayor. Fecici wanted to discuss some matters with the sheriff, so Fayoba had headed to the office, though, he would rather have spent his time collecting ripe plums. The sheriff had never been particularly fond of Fecici and he had his doubts about the mayor, although they had lessened during all these years. Despite Fayoba's initial reservations, Fecici had turned out to be quite the good leader and had made many a decision that benefited the town as whole. Still, it didn't mean that Fayoba had to like him.

Once Fayoba was at the mayor's office, he was not surprised to learn that the topic of discussion was Galel the ostrich man and his problematic behaviour.

“Yes, the ostrich man is a rather, hm, interesting fellow, to say the least,” mayor Fecici said in his typical bland tone. He was inspecting a couple of scrolls on a plinth with his back turned to the sheriff.

“That's one way to put it,” Fayoba said, wondering what the mayor had on his mind. “I'm afraid his suspicions and wild imagination may lead to much harm if left unchecked.”

“It could very well be,” Fecici said nonchalantly and turned to face Fayoba. “He seems rather confident in his belief of evildoers plotting against our town and is quite persistent in uncovering it all. Now, I've understood he came to talk to you some time ago. What did the ostrich man tell you, actually?”

'So that's what this is about, seeing if the ostrich told me the same as to you,' Fayoba thought, wondering how much he should reveal. He did not feel like sharing everything with the mayor—after all, he didn't want to betray Galel's trust.

After a moment of thinking, Fayoba said, “Well, he was very anxious and concerned that there were agents of evil in Waterlures, and something about secret shrines dedicated to the Dark Gods—nothing much new on that part. However, he was also certain that Eman and Song were involved in it all. He'd apparently found some bone idols of the vile deities in the Bonecarver's House, claiming Eman had carved them. And not only that, he also claimed that the two had a secret shrine at their home—begging the question how'd he know that.”

“Yes, the same question came into my mind,” Fecici said as he walked to sit down in his chair. “Was there anything else, perhaps?”

“There was, actually. He was convinced that they are a part of a murderous cult of sorts,” the sheriff said matter-of-factly. “Anyway, I assume he told pretty much the same to you.”

“Indeed, he did,” Fecici said, leaning back in his chair. He steepled his hands as he looked at the sheriff expectantly.

“I doubt there's much truth to his words,” Fayoba said dismissively. “Though, I do believe the idol part is true. We have plenty of figurines of all sorts of gods, so why wouldn't some of them depict the darker ones? But, if they're carved by Eman, we'll never know why he carved them. And Song, well, I talked to her.”

“You did? And what did the elephant woman have to say?” Fecici asked and cocked an eyebrow.

“Honestly, not much,” Fayoba said truthfully. “The most interesting bit was that Eman had been acting oddly before he passed away. Song said he was convinced that the ostrich man was following him everywhere. She thought Eman was only imagining it, but, funnily enough, Eman was right on that one.”

“Yes, it seems so,” Fecici said, tapping his forefingers together. “I find it disconcerting that the ostrich man is sneaking around and sticking his beak into peoples' homes without their knowing. Speaking of which, did the ostrich happen to tell which of the dark gods the two monks supposedly worshipped?”

“Why? Didn't he tell you?” Fayoba dodged Fecici's question. He wanted to hear in turn how much the ostrich man had told the mayor.

“He actually did,” Fecici said and scratched his throat, “but the name seems to have slipped my mind—hence the question. Maybe it was Akkar? No, that doesn't seem right—too much fire in that one.” Fecici paused for a moment, waiting to see if the sheriff had something to say. But Fayoba said nothing, so Fecici continued, “No matter, it is of little importance. It was one of the death gods, anyway, or it could've been entirely made up by the broken mind of a mad ostrich,” Fecici waved his hand dismissively.

“Huh. I do wonder if there is something in the air that drives folk mad,” Fayoba pondered aloud.

“Why? What makes you think so?” Fecici inquired, leaning forth in his chair.

“Well, I've been thinking of some old cases of people losing their sanity,” Fayoba began recounting his thoughts. “We've had a few of those and I wonder if they're somehow connected with old suspicions and strange events. First, there was Yawo, our old mandrill woman witch-doctor—I believe she passed away shortly before you arrived—she believed every misfortune we faced was due to townsfolk disrespecting nature and 'angry spirits' came to have vengeance. You've probably heard those stories?”

“Yes. Are you implying that she was right?” Fecici said in a snarky tone. He leaned back in his chair again, an amused smile on his face.

“No, not really,” Fayoba said and shook his head. “I probably sound like the ostrich, too, so I'm aware of that irony, but one cannot deny that there is something strange afoot in these lands. One very peculiar event was a freak storm that rolled over town and scattered all the books from the library around. It happened some days before my arrival, so I know not the details. Then there's the weird moods that take hold of folk... I used to think such only happened to dwarves, but that seems not to be the case. At least here, in these lands. In any case, nobody knows what causes it, but I've come to think that possibly the Great Forces are strong around the lake. If so, could they not also be the cause of madness?”

“Yes, you do sound a bit like the ostrich,” the mayor said sardonically, drumming his fingers on the armrest. He sighed and rested his chin on his fist before continuing, “Of course, you could be right, though I find it highly unlikely. I would rather think of a less, hm, fanciful explanation, such as the war we are caught in and Death's constant presence. Hard times like this can make even the strongest of minds ill.”

“I suppose you are right,” Fayoba said submissively, although he wasn't entirely convinced by the mayor. Fecici's reasoning didn't explain all cases of madness, such as the tragic fate of Likot's brother Geshud—it happened long before the first goblin raid.

“Nevertheless, there is one more thing I wanted to ask about the ostrich man,” Fecici said in a bored manner. “Did he happen to mention of his other suspects? That is, other than Song and Eman.”

“Huh. He didn't, but I'm not surprised if by the time he came to you, he'd discovered something new,” Fayoba said, arching his brow. He was curious to hear what Galel had come up with this time.

“Indeed, he had,” Fecici said smugly and put his hands behind his head. “He was convinced that the two were being led by Rin the Miller.”

Fayoba chortled and almost choked on his spit. After a moment of coughing and laughing, he said, “Now what could possibly make him think that?”

“Because Rin had been away for so long, gone without a word,” Fecici said with a smirk and flourished with his hand. “Naturally, in the ostrich's mind, this meant that he had obviously been making arrangements and hatching plans with the enemy. Then when Rin finally returned, after spending years away, how convenient it was that he arrived back alone—makes one wonder what happened to the others, doesn't it? Now, we know none of that is true, of course, but you have to admit there's a strange kind of logic to it.”

“When you put it that way, I can see how he might have come to his conclusion,” Fayoba agreed. It made sense, in a twisted way.

“Well, we can only be thankful that the ostrich man doesn't know what Rin really is...” Fecici grinned and whirled his finger in the air.

“Oh, thank Mater for that and let's hope it stays that way!” Fayoba exclaimed and shook his head, laughing inside at the ostrich man and his silly suspicions.

Indeed, if Galel ever found out that Rin had been raised from the dead, Fayoba did not want to imagine how the ostrich man would take it. But what Fecici said raised a question in his mind: How did Fecici know of Rin's condition? Fayoba had thought he was the only one to know of it, but that seemed not to be the case. Either Rin had told the truth to the mayor or Fecici had found it out some other way.

Fayoba could not but feel disturbed by it. There was something Fecici left untold and it bothered him. He would have to talk with Rin at some point—rather sooner than later.







Early Winter, 390

Timber turned to Moonstone and winter arrived in the form of a whipping snowstorm, the wind wailing tortuously and tearing through clothes with its icy teeth. However, it did not stop the flurry of activity as capybara folk and other denizens of Waterlures kept toiling. There was still much work to be done with the expansion of the House of Knowledge, thread and yarn needed to be woven into cloth, clothes needed tailoring and grapes needed crushing so that they could be made into wine.

Indeed, there was much to do and time was limited. There would be no Winter Festivities this year, though there was cause for celebration: Istrul Wheelscrow gave birth to a son. She and baron Oddom decided to name him Åblel Dimpledtin. The name was chosen by Oddom to honour his brother Åblel Sprinklegorges—perhaps Oddom secretly wished it to mend the soured relations of the two.






19th of Moonstone, 390

The snowstorm lasted for a few days and it left behind a thick layer of white. Walking to the Old Mill through the snow had been more like wading, and after such an endeavour Fayoba was exhausted and sweaty, his trousers wet and shoes full of snow. He had come to meet Rin, who was in the process of grinding spelt into flour when he arrived. It had been some time since the two had last met and talked, though, Fayoba hadn't come merely to socialize. He had come because of his discussion with the mayor.

“Rin, the reason for my visit is...” Fayoba began, unsure how to approach the subject. “Well, I spoke with mayor Fecici about Galel the ostrich man—do you know him?”

Rin wiped his hands on his robes and nodded, “I know who he is.”

“Ah. I don't know how or where to begin,” Fayoba said, shifting around uneasily. “Maybe I'll just get straight to the point, then? Right, this ostrich man, he's a bit of a strange one—as you might have noticed—and I think he has lost his mind, or is about to lose it, anyway. He's skulking around town, following people and believes he has run into some foul goings-on. The thing is, he told the mayor of his 'findings', and in turn the mayor told me. And this Galel, he had some rather... well, odd accusations. He believes that there is some kind of secret cult in town that worships the Dark Gods and plots against Waterlures.”

Rin looked at the sheriff, unmoved by what he heard and blinked his eyes.

“Right. You knew Eman and you know Song, is it not so?” Fayoba asked cautiously.

“Yes,” Rin replied and nodded.

“I thought as much,” Fayoba said, stroking his chin. “Apparently the ostrich man thinks the two of them are part of the dark cult.”

Rin stared blankly at the sheriff and said, “But they worship Mestthos.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Fayoba said and crossed his arms. “But apparently the ostrich man believes Mestthos is only a façade and they really worship another god... And he also believes you're the cult leader.”

Rin cocked his head and blinked. “He is wrong.”

“Yes, I think so too,” Fayoba nodded, “and I don't believe there's any dark cult in town that worships Bazsa the Sinful...” Fayoba paused. Rin had twitched with the mention of the dark god's name.

“That name says something to you, doesn't it, Rin?” Fayoba asked, his brow furrowed.

Rin was silent for a moment before he gave his answer, “Yes. He is the god of Murder and Death.”

“But it means more to you than that, am I right?” Fayoba pressed the goblin. “Rin, have you told me everything that happened when you were away? Please, tell the truth, old friend.”

A moment of silence fell in the room. Only the creaking of the windmill's gears and a muffled cawing from outside could be heard.

“Bazsa spoke to me,” Rin broke the silence.

“And?” Fayoba kept on probing for more information.

“He made me take the second slab, Marcestgogol, from Controlledseal. He commanded me to take it to Fencereined and give it to Zom Ruthlessattacks, a Sacred Dust,” Rin told the sheriff.

“Sacred dust?” Fayoba arched an eyebrow.

“Yes. A priest of the Creed of Skulls. It is a sect that worships Bazsa the Sinful,” Rin said without flinching.

“And I presume you didn't give the slab to the priest?” Fayoba asked, though he knew the slab had remained in the possession of the four companions.

“No. I died,” Rin said emotionlessly.

Silence fell over the room once again. The gears clacked and groaned in the background as the mill's sails moved with the wind. Fayoba felt a bit uneasy thinking that Rin was, in fact, dead and yet he spoke and moved as if he were alive, albeit only a shadow of his former self. The lack of emotion and warmth in Rin was... unsettling.

“I thought as much...” Fayoba mumbled, avoiding eye contact. He took a deep breath and asked one final question, “Rin, have you told mayor Fecici of your... condition?”

Rin was quiet for a moment, then he said, “Yes.”

“I see. Well, that explains how he knew...” Fayoba muttered his thoughts aloud, stroking his chin as he pondered what he had learned.

“He left me no choice,” Rin interrupted the sheriff's thoughts.

“W-what!?” Fayoba jolted—Rin's words had been unexpected. “What do you mean by that?”

“He knew I was not alive,” Rin said calmly.

“How? How could he possibly know that?” Fayoba asked, very confused and distraught.

“He said he sensed my undeath,” Rin said in a disturbingly cool manner.

“Sensed it? How's that possible?” Fayoba wondered.

“I do not know,” Rin said.

“Huh. I don't know what to think of this,” Fayoba scratched his temple. There was something Fecici was hiding. What kind of game was he playing? There had to be something, but Fayoba didn't have the faintest of ideas what it might be. Nevertheless, he could ponder that later, but for now there was one more thing regarding Rin he needed to confirm, “Rin, what happened to the slabs in the end, before you returned?”

“They fell in the fire with Cañar,” Rin answered.

“So they are destroyed, then?” Fayoba asked, his voice concerned.

“I do not know if the fire was enough,” Rin said. There was a faint hint of worry in his tone.

“I was afraid you'd say that,” Fayoba winced. He had not wanted to hear that kind of answer.





12th of Opal, 390

The elf Amala Helplobster walked down the road towards the Trade House. She was carrying a rough chunk of raw red spinels from the mines. Or rather from the stronghold carved into the stone beneath the town. In her view the mines and halls were more or less the same, though, she did appreciate the effort the architects and stonecarvers had put into it. When completed, the halls of the stronghold would be grand and inspire awe, there was no doubt about it.

As she passed the mausoleum, her thoughts wandered to her upcoming journey. When spring came and the snow had melted, she would join Meng the crow man and travel all the way to the fortress of Controlledseal. A few others were coming along, too, and she was rather excited of it all. Her heart was full of gaiety for it was a while since she had wandered the wilds, heading off to places unknown—not counting the two scouting missions some time ago.

Perhaps she could see some of the great natural places of the world? There was a vast stretch of wilds between Waterlures and Controlledseal. The adventure would be a good chance to practice poetry, perform in front of a new audience, when visiting inns. She could probably sing, too. Yes, she would have a good time out there.





24th of Opal, 390

“My, my, time does fly, doesn't it?” Mayor Fecici said and sighed, waving his hand dramatically. He was meeting with the dwarf poet Tobul Orbsmetals in his office. Two years had passed since Tobul petitioned to stay in Waterlures—whoosh, just like that!—and now it was time to give him his writ of citizenship. Curiously enough, Tobul was sitting on the mayor's chair, with a rather awkward look on his face, while Fecici stood in front of his desk in a rather good mood. It was as if positions had been reversed, though Fecici was still mayor, of course—and that was precisely how it should be, Fecici thought.

“It is a good chair, isn't it? Quite comfy,” Fecici said to the dwarf, grasping his hands together behind his back. “I especially like the armrests.”

“Quite so, it is,” Tobul said, looking left and right at the chair's armrests and prodded them with his fingers.

“Consider yourself privileged to have been allowed to sit on it,” the mayor said, pointing at the chair. “Perhaps it is a bit weathered, but the smooth grooves on the seat are a perfect fit for my mayorly posterior, the caress of the wood—divine!” Fecici pinched his fingers together and kissed them.

Tobul looked at the mayor, pulling back in the chair with a worried look on his face.

“Ahem. Nevertheless, here is your writ of citizenship—it has my signature and all, look, over there,” Fecici handed a document to the dwarf and pointed at the bottom of the paper, grinning self-importantly. “There should be more than enough free living spaces in the Dwarf Quarter to choose from, but you are probably aware of that by now.”

“I thank you, mister mayor,” Tobul said gratefully and put the writ in the folds of his vest. He turned to look at the tin cage on his left and pointed at it. “May I ask what bird is that one?”

“Hmh? Oh, that bird. He is a blue jay,” Fecici said and walked to the cage. He whistled to the bird and it jeered back loudly with its blue crest raised. “Hm. He seems to be a bit grouchy today. Ah, well,” Fecici frowned and sighed. He turned to face Tobul and said, “He was recently bought from the elves from Ula Tefe. The blue jay, he reminds me of the forest... You see, the office can be a bit dreary at times and birdsong soothes me—their alarms, not as much. In any case, it seemed cruel to keep him in the dark with the caged cave crocodiles and giant bats we have in the stores within the deeps.”

Tobul looked at Fecici, blinking his eyes.

“Yes, we have cave crocodiles, snap-snap. Not really the proper company for a little blue jay, don't you think? So I found him a home, here,” Fecici said laconically and tapped the cage. The blue jay jeered at him agitatedly, fluttering against the bars.

Tobul nodded vigorously and said, “That was... kind of you.”

“Did you know that I have a cardinal in my private quarters upstairs—early riser, that one,” Fecici pointed up and Tobul instinctively turned to look at the ceiling. Fecici waved dismissively and continued, “Ah, but enough of that, I am wasting precious time with my silly ramblings. Welcome to Waterlures, Tobul, welcome to the blessed home of the rabbit-worshipping capybara people—where the only constant is rain.”






9th of Obsidian, 390

The dwarf Zuglar Rampartspirits' eyes suddenly snapped open. He rose to sit up in his bed, staring blankly at the door. It was the middle of the night and he had woken to an odd tingling sensation running up and down his body. He was unsure if he was awake or still asleep and as he was about to pinch himself, he noticed he couldn't control his body.

He began to panic, but he soon understood what was going on. He was possessed. Guided by forces unknown. Excitement replaced panic for he knew he would soon create an artifact of unparalleled beauty.

The tall dwarf rose from his bed, put on his plate armor—ill-suited for his puny muscles—and stepped towards the door. He knocked over a copper bucket sitting at the foot of his bed, then he stepped on a bowl full of scrambled eggs and yak meat laying on the floor. It didn't matter and he didn't care. All that mattered to Zuglar was doing what his mood commanded him to do.

He opened the door and began his slow and arduous journey all the way to the Masonry Hall.






12th of Obsidian, 390

“I look absolutely splendid today!” Sigun Towerchannel said as she admired her reflection on the bottom of a polished silver bowl.

The eight year old daughter of Dodók Channelplaits and Adil Wheelsonfined was at home, supposedly looking after her younger brother Lokum Cityesteems while her parents were away. Sigun couldn't care less for her so-called duty and was only concerned with herself and satisfying her needs at the moment. Besides, Lokum was already two years old and could very well manage without her supervision, she reasoned.

Sigun put the bowl down on the table and decided it was time for some music. She cleared her throat and began to simulate the rhythm of the ngustut—a drum—from the song And It Sang 'Bandit!' The song was an example of the Satiny Plays, a musical form from the foul pits of the Hell of Miseries. Of course, she was not aware of the song's history and origins. She found it to be a rather pompous and uplifting tune—something befitting her greatness.

However, it was not easy to concentrate on the rhythm: Lokum's loud playing in the doorway to the bedroom kept distracting her.

“Urgh! Can you stop that, you gibbering toss-pot!” Sigun barked at Lokum and stomped her paws angrily. She did not like it when the little snot-goblin interrupted her fabulous music-making or whatever she happened to be doing at the given time. Lokum was always, always doing everything wrong. She, of course, always did everything right. Perfectly and properly.

Lokum stopped, looked at her and began to cry.









2nd of Granite, 391

A new year had begun, and winter was finally giving way to spring, though it was still cold. It was late evening and the air was particularly crisp, and the stars twinkled boldly in the clear sky. Tanzul and Coni stood leaning on the railing of the roofed walkway leading to Edu's Fishery.

Tanzul had been coming home from another dreary day of toil when Coni had come running after him to talk. After a moment of idle chatter the hamster woman had told Tanzul that she would soon be leaving Waterlures. It was something she had mentioned to the fox man during winter, but he hadn't thought Coni would actually go through with her plans—she had a tendency to change her mind.

Now the two were just standing quietly, staring over the ice. A swarm of pixies danced in a captivating rhythm ahead of them.

“So, you're really leaving then, huh?” Tanzul broke the quiet, staring at the railing and feeling empty.

“Yes...” Coni said, trying to sound happy and failing. The bitterness and sadness in Tanzul's voice stung her. “But you could come along with us? It's not too late for that, you know?”

“I don't know, Coni,” the fox man said glumly. He turned to face the hamster woman and sighed, “Look, I'm just not cut for the adventuring thing. I tried it already and... I'm not a hero, I'm just a dull and drab fishery worker whose belly just keeps growing.” He looked at his paunch and patted it with a paw.

“Don't say that!” Coni chirped and frowned.

“No, but honestly, I'm fine,” Tanzul said, trying to fake a smile. It didn't hide the detached look on his face.

“Are you sure? I haven't seen you smiling in a long time,” Coni said worriedly.

“I cannot always be happy, Coni,” Tanzul sighed and turned back to look over the lake. “Life here is as good as it gets. I'm feeling alright.”

“Well, I still think it'd do you good to come along,” Coni said slightly sourly, but went on with a more jovial tone, “You once used to be excited to see the world, do good and all, and you know it's great to explore the wilds!”

“No, Coni. It'd only end badly, just like last time,” Tanzul said bitterly. He lowered his head and closed his eyes. “I still think of Pife.” The fox man sniffed.

Silence fell over the two again.

“Me too...” Coni whispered and sniffed in turn.


(Continued in next post...)

[brewer bob]

(...continued from previous post.)






9th of Granite, 391

'That was an absolutely stunning read!' Sibrek Paperpriced thought when he finished reading the last lines of the book in front of him. The capybara man was in one of the rarely used lecture halls of the House of Knowledge, sitting behind the slant-topped desk of the lecturer.

The book he had been reading was titled 'In Pursuit of Tyranny' and it was written by one of the greatest philosophers of all the Ages, Elifa Autumnroar, an elf from the North. It was written in the form of a dialogue between a humble elf traveler and people of all the races he met on his travels, the elf questioning their views, but not necessarily changing them. Those who heeded his words were saved from the cruel fate faced by those who did not. It was a very serious book, striving to show why power is worthless and should be shunned. Sibrek could see from the writing that the author was a compassionate being with good intentions and he found himself agreeing on many things with the writer.

It had given him much to think of and he kept repeating a part of it in his mind:

“For you who would be seduced by the Tyrant, I say, nay! Do not let him open his gibbering maw, for it is full of venom and hate. He spits lies and vomits deceit, he cares naught for your woes and worries. Look to the pits of darkness, see the misery there, I say! Hear their whips, hear their cries—for that is all the Tyrant shall give you in life!”

Sibrek shuddered at the thought of being ruled by a tyrant. 

“Well, I count myself fortunate to live in a place like Waterlures,” he assured himself aloud. “We have a good and honest leadership. Mayor Fecici is such a decent and trustworthy fellow, fair and just. He will protect us from tyranny. I trust him.”






10th of Granite, 391

It was early morning, the earthy scent of spring lingered in the air and the tip-tip of water dripping could be heard as the snow melted slowly. The sheep baaed and yaks grunted in the pasture when an elf came from the west and past the fence, heading towards the Pen Gate. She wore a light brown dress made of fine jute cloth and over it she wore a cuffed short coat of a slightly darker shade, tight at the waist. Over her shoulders hung a thick cloak of brown and her head was covered by a deep hood, hiding her features in shadow.

She stepped through the narrow gateway, looking to her right. There were no sentries at the West Gate this morning. She smiled, knowing that her entry was unnoticed, and made her way through the narrow gloomy alleys towards the taverns. It was several years since she had been in town last time and she wondered if her agent had anything interesting to report.

As she weaved between the houses, from shadow to shadow, she fondled a puzzlebox in the folds of her robes. It was carved from cobaltite and it was not her own. No, she had stolen it from this very town, aided by a human. She knew she was taking an unnecessary risk and tempted Fate, but that was the way she liked it.

Fira Flowerelbows had returned to Waterlures.

=====

We're almost at the start of a new adventure!

I think there'll be one more fort update, since I've been planning to keep the fort going until the elf merchants leave. That's somewhere around late spring and by then there shouldn't be so much snow around (or risk of citizens getting encased in ice when retiring).

[Salmeuk]

The book he had been reading was titled 'In Pursuit of Tyranny' and it was written by one of the greatest philosophers of all the Ages, Elifa Autumnroar, an elf from the North. It was written in the form of a dialogue between a humble elf traveler and people of all the races he met on his travels, the elf questioning their views, but not necessarily changing them. Those who heeded his words were saved from the cruel fate faced by those who did not. It was a very serious book, striving to show why power is worthless and should be shunned. Sibrek could see from the writing that the author was a compassionate being with good intentions and he found himself agreeing on many things with the writer.

was this a real book? amazingly relevant topic...

glad to see the continued posts. I check up on this every week.

if only we could all move to Waterlures! Tyrants be damned

[brewer bob]

The book he had been reading was titled 'In Pursuit of Tyranny' and it was written by one of the greatest philosophers of all the Ages, Elifa Autumnroar, an elf from the North. It was written in the form of a dialogue between a humble elf traveler and people of all the races he met on his travels, the elf questioning their views, but not necessarily changing them. Those who heeded his words were saved from the cruel fate faced by those who did not. It was a very serious book, striving to show why power is worthless and should be shunned. Sibrek could see from the writing that the author was a compassionate being with good intentions and he found himself agreeing on many things with the writer.

was this a real book? amazingly relevant topic...

Yes, it was. I happened to check on Sibrek to see what he was doing and noticed him reading a book. Checked what the book was and yeah, seemed like the game was making an appropriate statement with the choice of book.

[brewer bob]

Just a minor image update to the latest write-up (which wasn't finished in time):


Coni and Tanzul looking over the lake

(Edit. slightly fixed image)

[AvolitionBrit]

Amazing work brewer!

Glad to see the Capybara's are still living it up

[brewer bob]

Amazing work brewer!

Glad to see the Capybara's are still living it up

Thanks!

This is easily the longest running fort I've had and it still feels like I've barely scratched the surface of the world. We'll see how long it keeps on going, but for the moment there seems to be no end in sight.

Next write-up is taking a bit longer (had a bit of a break to do other stuff), but hopefully I'll have it up before the end of the week.