In the months after the troll ambush, the ambush we had started to refer to as Skot's Pillage, we labored tirelessly, cleaning up the inside mess, hauling rock and stone, melting tetrahydrite, forging weaponry, and most of all, finishing the cathedral.
All had been dug out, but the smoothing was still far from finished. Decorations too needed to be added.
And so it begun. The great haul we called it. Dozens of wooden caskets, rock statues and other furniture were hauled from near the surface to the cathedral, buried under deep layers of rock. Whilst using some of the furniture left behind, all statues were customly designed by myself. As were the engravings. Images I myself comissioned: Me and Omer, Ganondwarf falling prey to the trolls, my father emerging victorious from battle. All things I personally witnessed. All happening under my rule.
I can not deny that I've improved the state of the fortress significantly. I've more-than-doubled our working population, constructed much necessary infrastructure, but most of all, appeased the gods. Still, I feel like I haven't done enough. Too many died under my rule. Men, women, even children. I shall forever bear the burden of their death. A heavy one, one I will always carry. It weighs down my soul, no matter how many divine entities try to lift it up. Never, shall they be forgotten.
Never, shall I forget.
The last strains of summer were quite uneventful. After clearing up the last of Skot's crew, we had half a month of respite. Still, instead of going outside, we continued work on the temple. The outside was finally open though, allowing for the burial of Ganondwarf.
A vivid photorapth is attached to the page, showing one of the engravers carrying Ganondwarf's corpse to his personal tomb, still under construction. One of six to lay in the personal tombs of the Church of Chaos, his resting place is a true privilege to have, as his soul will never fully be damned to purgatory as long as the temple stands.Still, the outside was unsafe, so I banned my forumites from going out by keeping the state of danger untouched. Of course, they would not listen. They never did.
About twenty days after the death of the last troll (not counting the trapped troll we are unable to haul inside), our first siege arrived.
A lone axemite, dissappearing as soon as it was spotted. How wonderful.
Our relief ended quickly, as another siege appeared.
Politicians had come.
Over a hundred of them, bringing small squadrons of trolls, too. A terrifying sight to behold. Yet, they seemed oblivious to our existence.
I knew they could easily climb over our perimeter, using the holes in the fortifications to climb up swiftly. Hoping it wouldn't get so far, I ordered the forumites inside at once, even though I had already forbidden them to go outside.
Yet they would not listen to my voice of reason.
Their personal gain was more important, as outside clean clothes laid draped on the freshly dead. Several went out, and most swiftly got in. Yet not all managed. And one I can not forgive.
Yung C4rv3r was his name. A child still, two years younger than me, he had managed to create a wooden artifact some time ago. It had earned him a lot of tunnel-cred, and his reputation was good. Yet after getting the shoes off of Ustuth, the Last Migrant's corpse, he decided to go and play make believe. Right on the roof of the fortess. Right where the politicians could see him.
I could not wait any longer. I ordered a barricade to be built at the entrance, this time out of stone. It would have to last a long time. Possibly until the end of winter, even. Using a phyllite block left from a failed construction ages ago, the wall was built. Locking out Yung C4rv3r, together with one of the many engravers.
It did not end well for them.
Now, two squads of politicians remain within our outer fortress. We can easily handle them, but I fear attracting the others. We must sit them out, after which we can make short work of them.
Photorapths accompany the notes once more
A large cluster of politicians and trolls, all armed to the teeth.
Politicians, climbing up the fortifications, their eyes lusting for the vote of Yung C4rv3r's soon-to-be-shredded soul.This time, I did not stream the event with my scrying powers for all to see. I watched it in the corner of my ridiculously large, drafty, damp, disgusting, non-smoothened bedroom (seriously, who the bollocks designed this room? This is absolute madness, I should've focused on improving these instead of building the cathedral, the Gods should be appeased by removing this eyesore from the face of the world!). Sniveling, even though the two that died refused to obey my orders multiple times. I had played plenty of time with Yung, and before his cred got to him, he was one of the nicest, most humble forumites out there. The engraver too, death because of an arrogant artifact-crafter. Such a senseless waste of life the slaughter was.
None knew Yung and the engraver had perished. So they ardently continued working, appeasing the gods. Progress was quick, and before many knew, the church looked finished. All the smoothing had been done. Remains had been buried, furniture hauled, personal engravings next to every grave.
It looked divine.
Yet it still lacked something.
Dismissing all workers to finally get some well earned rest, I thought of one more thing to add.
And so I started engraving.
GLORY
BE TO
LORD OMER
PRAISED
ARE HIS
RAINS
GLORY
BE TO
NECROTHREAT
CAST AWAY
OUR
PAINS
This text, I carved within the ground of the cathedral. Each letter accompanied by an animal. Ravens, eagles, deer: even foreign beasts only legends spoke about.
Finally, I felt Omer's hand on my shoulder.
He was proud.
I knew he would now aid us in all ways possible. To defeat the evil of Armok and Ur. To utilize bronze magics. To find the truth. The truth of Necrothreat. The reason of our lives.
Opening the next page of the book, you encounter an interesting sight: A three-dimensional photorapth, popping up from the page. It depicts the interior of a beautiful cathedral, which is still somewhat littered with the rubble of it being dug out of the rock.[/]
We feasted for days in the echoing cathedral, singing songs of war and peace. We ate ourselves merry, the taste of fresh courage wolf and plump helmets enlightening our mouths. Vats of forumitan wine were poured, enough to bathe each forumite in the fort. All were there, even the militia, now compromised of nothing but forumites masters in their weapons. Even Nox was a Grand Master Hammerman now, and swung the hammer better than he shot his infallible bolts.
I was finally more than just a zealot. I was a man that had finished his purpose. Only thirteen years old, I had constructed a beautiful building, even though we were plagued by hardship upon hardship. In the end, I proudly donned the white garb. I no longer needed to call myself "the Will of Omer". I was more than that. I was recognized. I was official. I was an archpriest.
I thrashed the simple name "Lemonpie", unbefitting for my stature. "Lord Lemonpie" I would be called. Much more regal. I in no way attested the throne of the forumites, only the altar of the gods. Lord Lemonpie. Archpriest of Omer. What pride it brought us.
And our fort was not the only to celebrate, apparently. Some days after donning the garb, I noticed another being had appeared in our fort's territory.
A wise scholar had traveled far, visiting the fort amidst the siege. Omer told me he had followed a bright star, placed within the heavens to celebrate my ascension. Visitors were not rare, as some popped up occasionally. Yet none managed to survive for long, being either killed by invaders or denied access to the fort. The spearman, for example. But this scholar was odd. I do not know what magics he used, or if he simple was lucky. But he stayed put, and the politicians ignored him. He still stands across the Crystal Brook this day, looking into the distance. Waiting for the fort to open up. I can not wait to hear the words of wisdom he undoubtedly brings.
And so, Timber, the last month of my predicted rule, began. I spent most of the time praying to Omer, begging for his wisdom and his aid, even if I were to lose my power.
Still, the fortress did not idle as I did.
Firstly, one of the planters, a legendary grower named Fath, began gathering the resources for a beautiful masonic work. He now only needs cut gems, something which I have already ordered to be made. If only we had a forumite to immediately follow my commands.
Secondly, a forgotten beast appeared. A giant blob of snow, I knew the militia would be able to make quick work of it. And they did, as Apiks killed it with a blow of his hand. It shattered in two, shrieking, as it melted into a white slurry. It seems like Apiks is a wonderful fighter, possibly even a fighter fit to lead the fortress after my fall. We would see.
A series of photorapths depicting the last month of Lemonpie's rule accompany the notes, beautiful renditions of the happenings.
An unfortunate visitor, a spearman looking for fame and riches running straight into a cluster of politicians
Archpriest Lord Lemonpie, donned in his white garb, praying to Omer
Nokgol, the forgotten beast, appearing from the shadows of the first cave layer.
The militia, ready to engage the charging blob.
Apiks' raw force, shattering the blob into two. His physical strenght is out of this world, its source unknown to me.
As I looked up from prayer, I heared an eerie voice.
The voice of Armok himself.
Joyfully telling me:
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Topic: NecroThreat IV: Fortress for BFEL, God of Necromancy (Read 517374 times)