In the Early Spring of 55, Ashmirrored was founded by a group of diverse dwarves from
the kingdom of The Angelic Trumpets. Tun, Kogsak, Vabik, Rimtar, Shem, Zuglar, and
Sodel. These seven dwarves formed the expedition known as the Heavenly Swords. They
were the greatest of their kind, gathered from far and wide to further the holy cause
of their kingdom, spreading the words of the pantheon to the dark and dismal southern
mountains. They went to light the way, that the rest of their kingdom would follow,
for the recent war with the humans and constant incursions by Goblins saw their
territories dwindle. Upon their shoulders lay the fate of their nation, it's
salvation or downfall.
The journey was harsh, fighting off goblin patrols and bandits eager to plunder their
supplies, but The Heavenly Swords persevered. Already legends in their own rights,
they knew that even now their new tale was being told, by dwarves gathered close
beside dying fires, children gathering their meager belongings up in rucksacks,
preparing to follow in the footsteps of their kingdom's finest. The Swords knew they
could not fail their kin, and so they pressed stoically on, coming upon the new
mountainside that they would lay claim to as their own.
The seven set to work carving a home from the rock, hefting picks and axes to hollow
out a place for them and those behind. The work passed quickly, and in a season's
time they had created a solid home, hewn of the mountain itself. They began to fashion
small luxuries, beds of wood, tables and chairs of stone, forges for their kin to
create metal goods of great value. It was then, when they found themselves at ease,
that they encountered the curse.
The supplies of meat had run low, and when a thick white pack of mountain goats made
it's lazy way over the horizon, plans were swiftly made for their inclusion in the
evening meal. Together the seven stalked along the mountainside, approaching
carefully, picks and axes at the ready to strike down a meal. It seemed something had
alerted the pack, however, as the goats rushed away from the mountain, toward the
stalking party of dwarves. Realization struck them as the goats approached, and they
saw the coats were patched at best, and through them the skin was drawn over an empty
body, bones pressing through to the open air.
The undead attacked with a silent fury, as the Swords fought now for their own
preservation. Bones and rotting flesh flew high into the air, as the dead were
rendered into scattered bones and skin. The seven stood, untouched by dead horn or
tooth, and wondered at the dark that surrounded them, where the dead were to rise in
hate and pain, to lash out at the living in the night. Each looked to their own deity
as they made their way back to their home, thankful that they would not join in the
fate of the animals they had sought to hunt.
The darkness lay heavy over them as the Heavenly Swords labored through the next
season, awaiting the vanguard that would be sent to them by midautumn. They felt
confident that the place they had created would be a safe harbor to their fellow
dwarves, and their hopes went out, that the vanguard would not fall foul of the
darkness that seemed to pervade the mountainside.
One fateful day of the early autumn, the seven had fallen to mining away a fresh area
to store their grown foods, for the stores they had first dug out found themselves
both too far from the dining area, and filled to bursting with the harvest. As they
dug, they came across a strange and fascinating stone. Blue veins of ore traced
through strange rock, reflecting the light from the torch back at them with an
strange azure tint. The seven realized what it was, fabled metal only heard in
childhood tales... And it always carried that cautionary fable about getting too
greedy with it...
One by one they came around to discussing it, pulling away around the corner and
speaking in hushed tones, as though the ore might hear their words. Slowly they all
came to the choice they knew they would have to make. The mason set about replacing
the stone, smoothing it away until the spot looked like just another part of the wall
within a small recess. The seven hoped it would suffice to hide the stone away until
the fortress was better set to deal with the issue, but as they turned to mine
elsewhere, the dark that the curse had brought seemed doubley heavy...
It was a bright autumn day when the vanguard arrived. They made their way through the
thick marble walls and into the courtyard with awe in their eyes, marveling at how
quickly the Heavenly Swords had worked. The guard were even more amazed to see the
Sword themselves, laboring away in the courtyard at a second tunnel, by a freshly
built marble depot. The supply wagon rolled to a halt at the pillar, and the
representative of the Angelic Trumpets stepped down to speak with the seven.
Olin Walledlucky, he was called. His legend was comprable to any of the Sword, having
survived his many battles with Elo Glimmeredtin, a Cyclops from the dawn of time
itself. Olin had been battled back by the thing for some time, but he was a follower
of Urist, the God of Revenge, and one set high in the pantheon of the Angelic
Trumpets. Olin set his trap, and when Elo arrived, Olin brought him down, loosing an
arm in the process. He was a hero of the court, sent forward where no other dwarf
would dare to go, and commanded respect from every noble of the kingdom.
The dwarves convened for a time, taking much-needed and heavy supplies from the
caravan in exchange for their surplus food and idly-made crafts, readily accepted to
aid the coming refugees. Olin sent the caravan back to the supply line, where dwarves
waited eagerly to know if the road ahead was safe for their passage, and for news of
the Heavenly Sword's latest exploits. They would be cheered, for a time, to hear the
tales of the marble fortress carved into the mountainside, of the skirmishes with
kobolds and the driving back of the dead beasts, and of the deadly trap that lay in
wait at the entrance, to safeguard the dwarves within. It was, however, fated to be
the last happy news of the Heavenly Sword to come for some time after.
It is not yet known what caused the strange and sad event that followed, when Olin
made his way to join the council of heroes, eager to aid in the expansion of his
beloved kingdom, or what fell happening came upon Vabik, the mechanic, crafter of the
great wonders of the mountainhome. But as Olin made his way into the marble halls
leading to his new home, the last fearsome Construction of Vabik the mechanic came to
life. Made from the materials at hand, the whirling force came to as Olin stepped
across the threshold. A shining, serrated blade of bismuth bronze swung forward from
the ceiling, slicing through his path and cutting the intrepid dwarf apart, leaving
his dying form strewn across the hall.
Olin was buried in a schepluture on the outside of the entrance hall, dug into the
eastern face, looking homeward. The Heavenly Sword had little time to do his grave
any great justice, for it would be soon that Olin's absence would be found, with the
caravan not far ahead of him. It would be soon that they would find that his body had
never left the fortress, and soon that it would be decided that the curse had finally
overtaken the Heavenly Swords. When next the dwarves visited, it would be under the
banners of Urist, crying out for revenge for the fallen hero.
The dwarves were grim about their work. The mechanism had been set, loaded to spring
in ways only a mechanic could understand, and Olin had been the target. The
responsibility fell on Vabik. The remaining Swords could not bear to think their
comrade a willing murderer, but rather concluded that some nature of the curse they
had uncovered somehow took him, sensed the influx of aid, and sabotaged it with
Vabik's hands. It was decided that for such a fell fate, Vabik could not be held
alone responsible, and thus they did not kill him. All he plead was that he not be
removed from the living stone of the mountain, so that, when he was to die, his
spirit would be received by his own deity.
The remaining dwarves of the Heavenly Swords dug out a prison, steadfast in stone,
holding a pit for the delivery of food and water, and a monolith door, thicker than
three others, set into the rock entrance. The six Swords still held their hope that
someday they would find reason to free their comrade from his prison, but how or when
they did not know. No stone was smoothed, or mineral spur pulled away, that Vabik
would live out his sentence in his god's hands.
This day, the remaining six prepare grimly for the fight, carving bolts from the
bones of the undead to fit to the bismuth bronze crossbows brought from the
mountainhomes. Fortifications are half-built across the top of the marble walls, and
reluctant training is undertaken in the ways of marksdwarfship. Grim preparations
made for a war, legends against the kin they helped inspire, hoped to lead from
constant war only to bring them into another, deep in the land of the cursed dead,
where below lies what could only be the domain of dreaming demons...
(So yeah. Diplomat boy staggers his way a good way before deciding he would really rather meet in my leader's bedroom, as opposed to the nice office by the trade depot. Given that there's about 15 tiles between his armless staggering self and the row of weapon traps, I tell me mechanic to deconstruct the things so we can save him, aaaaaand... She goes on break. It was this or lock her outside when the seige came, but that would be too short.)
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Topic: Of Cursed Mountains and Fallen Heroes. (Or why your mechanic should work faster) (Read 883 times)