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Author Topic: Boltlulled: A story in the making (??)  (Read 1759 times)

lunephile

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Boltlulled: A story in the making (??)
« on: March 04, 2016, 09:34:06 pm »

Hi.
First time poster, but I've been playing DF for about 5-6 years. I have never come across this before:


I generally tend to make vanilla worlds, with very little modification. Only above average savagery, a large world, and usually start off very early on. What sick whim of Armok gave rise to a civilization of Dwarfkind right in the middle of an evil Biome?

So just as explication - this isn't a colony I built. This is, in fact, an original mountainhome, five years into the history of the world.
It's funny, but this specific Mountainhome is kinda growing on me. IMHO these little guys are the hardiest of hard-drinking dwarves - they weren't sent to Boltlulled by some mad king, or to quietly finish off a grudge, they were MADE here, in one of the cruelest jokes I've seen. And at the same time - the story potential here is for some reason huge. These are dwarfs who pushed up to the surface of a world that to them must seem hell - writhing tentacles pushing their way across the hilltops and some kind of dread rain...
I figure, if Boltlulled and its people can survive long enough to push their way out of this awful valley, then they will truly be the Spartans of Minbaznir, The Enchanted Land

I have already started an Adventure Mode Dwarf, just to see how this kingdom will survive, and hopefully share it along with anyone that's interested...
« Last Edit: March 04, 2016, 09:41:02 pm by lunephile »
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lunephile

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Re: Boltlulled: A story in the making (??)
« Reply #1 on: March 05, 2016, 05:37:01 pm »

Boltlulled: Prologue

"Eturlimulon, usitholugzolgeth sham osalimgeth samam!
Gethvushubalon locunim siknug duralgur
Duralatastshasad, ninursir duralrodum,
Duralzikelirid, thirimtekkud duralosal egaranrithzam
Egarannazushdural zikelnazushdural locunir gethumom
Basenlurzalud ber duralvushosal egaransadir!"
- "And You Sang Courage", by Urdim Kelulad

   In a time before time, Bouldergold began to wander. All was darkness, darkness beyond darkness, and in the groaning of the dark we heard our first songs, the sounds of the belly of Lurit himself.
   In a time before time, the groans of his belly grew louder, and the heat from his stomach roiled over the least of us, the weak of us, and up through his belly we ran, Wealthslancer songsinger, first of us led us, in the time before time we raced against death below.
   In a time before time Wealthslancer wordsmith persuader sang us up from the depths, from the belly of Lurit. We followed, the hardbacked of us, strongthoughts of the Mountain us, up through the wound Mothram drove deep in our god.
   Out of the wound we came, in a time before time we came, the hole below us wound deep in the earth.
   And around His eyes stared at us, his long tentacles called to us, and we waved as we saw the light our god wandered towards.
   Wealthslancer chief builder piled split bones of Lurit lightwards, and we sang as we named this place from the wound to our Lord.
   Boltlulled for the wound as Lurit Bouldergold quieted below us, and we ate from his bounty in those times that were good.

******



Urdim

   From here, he could almost believe every word.
   Leaning against the polished black bones that framed the entrance to Boltlulled, the valley below wriggled in greeting. Rain lashed down over the undulating tentacles, veined and slick with their own mucus, they surged back and forth, sometimes pushing down into the pustules from where they sprung out, sometimes reaching out into the grey dawn as if to grab onto an idea, as if to welcome a friend. A small set of eyes had turned to watch him, and Urdim as always tried not to stare back. It was better if Lurit did not see you see Him. Too many of the little ones had gone out into the wriggling fields only never to come back, and Urdim had spent quite a few times caught up in the grasp of those pulsing, seeking, probing folds because he had stared too long into the ever probing eyes of Lurit as they goggled across the long vale, always looking. At those times, it wasn't considered heresy to hack against the living God, as the priests knew that if it weren't forbidden, they'd have no one left alive to come to worship. Lurit only allowed the strong to survive.
   Behind him, the Cinnamon Sourness was just starting to fill up. Bimbul the tavernkeeper had just thrown some eyeballs on the fire - from here by the entrance to Boltlulled Urdim could hear the sizzle, and smell the high odor as the small sacs went up along with the shavings of fungus pulled out from below. He was already getting thirsty, but there was a report to give. Urdim shouldered his hammer and walked away from the rhythms of the tentacles that always made him just a little nauseous, though he would never tell a soul.
   Captain Keb waved across the plaza as Urdim came close, his hood wrapped high above his nose to keep out the smell. In-Lurit never had half the awful smells as Out-Lurit - deep inside the god you would never know how awful He actually reeked. The priests of Lurit Bouldergold said it was infection - that the wound on which Boltlulled was built had caused the god to sicken, and that sickness was spreading. But curing the illness was the least of their concerns right now.
   "Anything worth reporting?" Keb asked, his eyes over Urdim's shoulder. Up here, Out-Lurit, it was standard, and part of the teachings of the God Sinsot who had said When two or more are gathered on His face, be wary. One to watch the hole. One to watch the watcher. Urdim kept his gaze on Keb's eyes, making sure the blackness had not begun to creep into them, that he had not caught the sickness, and nodded. Captain Keb stiffened, but never took his eyes from the long opening into the tentacled greyness beyond.
   "Tracks." Urdim said. There were only one set of tracks that mattered, and they were always easy to see.
   
   Urdim had followed them along the ridge of bone running north, each huge, flat wound into Lurit squishing dozens of the God's eyes, blinding Him in place after place. The toes of each track would be enough to fall into, if one wasn't careful, but no one ever left the safety of In-Lurit without taking extreme amounts of care. The massive Other-Thought of Lurit, an Anti-Thought, had come across the wound 3 Journeys before, roaring blasphemies across the tentacles and tossing five dwarves to their first-deaths before it stalked away. It called itself Stasoz Birthsilvers, and laughed as it smashed through the bones that had framed the wound down into Bouldergold. In the end, it had taken every hammersdwarf and warrior to get it to leave, and the King himself had thrown himself against the massive thing. In the end, Urdim had always thought Stasoz had left only because he had gotten tired, and the thought chilled him to the bone.
   "How far?" Keb asked, and Urdim shrugged.
   "Far." he replied. "They are one turn, maybe more."
   Lurit turned towards the fire he chased, and then turned away from it again. Each turn took a little time. And sometimes he followed right under it, and his whole body would warm and stink. Sometimes he would walk away from it, and the tendrils and tentacles outside would shiver and break and groan from the cold. Lurit had gone towards the light 5 times since they had come out of the wound in him, and the scholars of Boltlulled now guessed those Journeys to be quite regular. Right now, Lurit was starting to walk towards the Fire again, and even though the steam rose off His flanks, it still froze solid in the early mornings. Urdim had followed the long divots driven into his body as far as he dared - no one who went out when the God turned away from the fire ever came back. Not in their First Life, anyhow.

[edit note: just what I have so far. I'll get back to this once I've gotten something to eat]
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lunephile

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Re: Boltlulled: A story in the making (??)
« Reply #2 on: March 06, 2016, 06:45:05 pm »

thanks a lot! I'm really enjoying your story myself :)

A lot happened with Boltlulled over yesterday. Funny to find myself playing catch up with it.
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lunephile

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Re: Boltlulled: A story in the making (??)
« Reply #3 on: March 06, 2016, 06:51:25 pm »

2

"Anything else?" Keb asked, and Urdim felt himself almost about to reply, but stopped. And shook his head. The other things he'd seen, he'd keep to himself.

   "I feel fine! I feel fine!" he heard behind him by the doors of the Cinnamon Sourness. The slight nervousness behind it. The fear.
   "I feel fine!" and the sound of a struggle.
   "Momon?" He asked, without taking his eyes from the Captain of the Guard. Keb nodded.
   "We suspect. We can't be sure." Urdim said nothing as he heard the small fat armourer dragged down the steps into the city below.
   "Urdim! Urdim I feel fine!" he heard Momon call out, desperate, laughing a little wildly. "Tell them I feel fine!"

   He couldn't.

   Two nights before, outside the burning hiss of eyeballs from the Cinnamon Sourness, Momon had waved him over. He was crouched by the edge of the black wall around Boltlulled, hunched over, as if protecting something very precious. Momon had been a friend of the Kelulads since…before they had pushed up through the open wound above them, since they had all been in the dark.
   "Isn't it marvelous?" Momon had whispered, brushing his fingers over it as he handed it to Urdim gently.
   It had delicate purple leaves, so delicate that they rubbed a small brush of powder on Urdim's fingers. And more than that, they didn't smell as if hacked from the body of the injured God. They scent of them was so wonderful that Urdim leaned in and simply inhaled for more than a few long breaths.
   "It was outside the walls." Momon whispered.
   "You went outside the walls?" Urdim said back, low. The priests had decreed only the spear carriers, the hammersmen and warriors were to venture past the jet black walls of Boltlulled. They were the ones who best knew to look for the sickness, both in others and in themselves. Anyone else was forbidden.
   "Isn't it marvelous?" Momon said again, and reached out to take it, and held it in his arms, like a babe.
   "You need to get rid of it." Urdim said. "Burn it." and Momon looked at him fearfully.
   "But it doesn't bite." Momon said, leaning over to smell the scent once more. "It doesn't strangle, or stare."
   "All the same," Urdim said, and whispered very, very quietly, so even the flickering fire from the Sourness might cover his words. "No one must know."
   "Tomorrow." Momon said. "I'll burn it tomorrow." there were tears in his eyes as he cradled the purple cutting. "Tonight, I'll sleep with it. Beside my pillow, so I can smell it in my dreams."
   
   Clearly Momon had been caught outside the walls.
   "I'm alright! I tell you I'm fine!" he heard Momon wail from the stairs down into Boltlulled. Keb had taken his eyes off the large gap into the world and was watching Urdim very, very closely.
   "We need to be sure." Keb said.
   "Of course. Of course." Urdim said, his own tone flat, emotionless.
   "And you?" Keb asked. "Are you fine?"
   Urdim nodded, and Keb headed down the steps, followed by the Hammerer. The chief justice was already sliding the heavy bronze "correcting" Hammer from his back, while below Momon began to wail in real fear. They all needed to be sure. Urdim needed a drink.

   The Cinnamon Sourness was a dim red blur that made the eyes sting. In the corners of the tavern a few of the braver and more thirsty sat, their cloaks pulled over their noses, and out in the night the tentacles wriggled back and forth, a sound like the wings of massive bats. There was a little rum left in the bottom of the barkeep's barrel, and Urdim dipped his mug in without even asking a question. As one of the city guard, he didn't need to pay for anything - his days out in the writhing nightmare was price enough. There were a few farmers asleep by the stairs, sleeping with their backs against the wall as had become the custom even when drunk. Urdim stepped over them and made his way to the small rooms above the Sourness, to drink alone.

   He had seen the purple leaves out in the wild himself. He had back-tracked the giant Stasoz, curious as to where the massive thing wandered, and had come across a place high up in the spine of Lurit where the tentacles didn't reach, where the small staring eyes didn't push up from every rise. High up, he had stopped at one set of Stasoz' broad footsteps, and was startled by the smell. And then by the sight.
   Up there, the stench of rot, of slimed flesh and foul streams was gone. In its place was a cool breeze, one that had ruffled his hair, a smell full of perfumes that he couldn't even understand. The thing that Momon had cut - it was everywhere, growing in thick brambles between green leaves. Everything around him was green, and the light, that light that down by Boltlulled was always covered in a veil of grey - up there on the spine it was so bright it brought tears to his eyes. The stream that steamed and ran oily and reeked of rotting, of forgotten afterbirth down by the city up here was so sparkling, so fresh that he drank until he was sick. And best of all - there were no priests up here to decry every sip of water, to forbid every taste of strange berries that made his stomach rumble. He had traced the circle of Stasoz' footprint and remembered the giant creature's laugh as it tossed dwarves around it, as Tulon the king had stepped forward, remembered its words.
   "I don't care for your home, your riches, your mushrooms" the thing had bellowed at Tulon "Your home is putrid, the smell of this valley makes me sick. Just show me how to get out of this place!"
   As if it had come from elsewhere. As if there was another place.
   
   Drinking, alone, above the tavern Urdim knew he had to find the giant. If only to find out where it came from. If the clear heights above Boltlulled were part of that place, then Urdim wanted to go there.
   His head was already swimming in the early morning hours when he stumbled back down the stairs into the city below, and made his way down to the Hammerer's hall. If Momon was….if he had…then a Kelulad should bury him. It was only proper. Urdim was more than willing to perform the Watch. The week standing over the fallen to make sure that the Second Life would be short and painless. One quick blow to the skull, and they would be able to bury Momon for true, without worrying that he would rise up, rending and ripping through his family and friends with that hideous strength those in their Second Life had, that mindless need to tear and eat and destroy. Even now, in his head, Urdim could see it, the cold body of the fat armourer twitch, shudder, and wake back up. He shivered, the cold sweat running down his spine even as he tried to still his thoughts. Panic had never helped those from Boltlulled. He would do his duty.

   But Momon was still in his First Life, though whether it was better or not was up for the Gods to decide. They were keeping him on display in the Hammerer's Hall, and the farmers and bookkeepers wandered in and out to see him, chained and weeping in the center of the room. Fresh blood was spattered in a spray to both sides, and Urdim scrunched over something as he walked in, to look down and see he had just pulverized one of Momon' teeth. A few others glittered like bloody pearls across the floor.



   "Kelulad. Brudder" Momon looked up, and tried to talk through his swollen, broken mouth. Blood still dripped from both sides of his empty mouth.
   "He is fine." the Hammerer said, undoing the clasps around the fat sobbing armorer's wrists. "He is not sick."
   "How many swings" Urdim said, looking down at the spray of teeth on the polished stone floor "did it take for you to find that out?"
   "We need to be sure." The Hammerer said simply, and walked out. The crowd of gawkers parted for him like tendrils themselves, muttering darkly.
   "Brudder." Momon said, falling against Urdim's shoulder. "I wath wrong, brudder." But Urdim wasn't so sure anymore. The things he had seen outside of Boltlulled he had never spoken to the other city guards about, and he knew they came down the same hills - so he was sure each squad had their own secrets. Things they had seen that the priests would call blasphemous.

   That night, sleeping down in the halls of Boltlulled carved graciously from the body of their God, Urdim did not dream as he usually did of the sound of hammers, the glow of the forge. Instead he dreamed of that field of bushes, the smell of their petals, and the ball of light in a ceiling so blue he had wanted to sing.

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lunephile

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Re: Boltlulled: A story in the making (??)
« Reply #4 on: March 12, 2016, 04:08:06 pm »

2

   "Out for patrol?" Captain Keb's voice came from behind him the next morning, just as Urdim was adjusting his waterskin on his shoulder. He stopped and hung his head, staring down at the dead tentacle lying just under his boot.
   "You're not scheduled to be out for another two weeks by my records. Unless I'm mistaken." the Captain of the Guard had been on this side of the outer wall, as if he'd somehow already known. "I'm not mistaken, am I, Urdim?"
   "No sir."
   He heard the older dwarf let out a grunt. "Dedication don't you think, Fikod?"
   "Oh absolutely, Cap'n" the younger Fikod. On Urdim's right and behind him.
   "Loyal to his post wouldn't you say, Ineth?"
   "Couldn't agree more Cap." Ineth said in his deep gravely voice, to Urdim's left. He tensed, waiting for the spring. He might not be able to get away from the Captain, but he was sure he would be able to make the two other dwarves regret the short straws they must have pulled for this "Correction" duty. Fikod hadn't even gone for a patrol duty yet, and his beard was only just coming in.
   "At least, that's what we'll put in our report, won't we boys?"
   "Aye." said Fikod
   "S'right Cap." said Ineth. Urdim turned to look at the Captain. The "Corrector" was nowhere to be seen.
   "You hunting down that giant again today soldier?" The Captain said
   "Aye." Urdim said slowly, and Keb nodded, and looked out at the grey haze and mist that rolled along the rotting plain.
   "Be giving you a tip, soldier. And it's between you and us." He said. There was no need to keep quiet, even this close to the walls of Boltlulled. None but the city guard walked this close to the outside.
"You go less than a day's march up thataway" he pointed out across the rolling tentacles, and some of the small milky brown eyes rising on stalks on the field beside them actually turned to follow his finger as well. "You'll see more'n tracks. You'll be seeing something else. Need you to get back, soon as you can, fill me in."
   "Aye sir."
   "Ineth and Fikod here'll be with you. S'all I can spare at the moment." Keb frowned, the scars running down his forehead, along both cheeks becoming more pronounced until he looked like a craggy cliff face himself. "There be problems we need to deal with here at home as well."
   Urdim nodded slowly.
   "You be sharp, boys. You mark the trail to where you're heading." Keb said as Ineth shouldered his waterskin, and Fikod drew his small newly forged sword. "That way, you hear? Less then half a day. Follow the river until it don't stink anymore. And you take care out there, you hear!" the Captain yelled to their backs as they trudged up through the surging feelers of the ground below, each trying to wrap around an ankle, to grab the second any of them lost balance. "I don't want to have to send you to yer Second death."

   "Nist." they heard it first, a voice that was uncannily like that of a dwarf crying out. If that dwarf had been submerged in thick oil first. It burbled out across the long rotting plain, picked up by another voice off to the right.
   "Nist." a response, but again, almost exactly the same voice. Fikod looked to Urdim, and to Ineth as both drew their weapons.
   "Wh-what is it? Is it trouble?"
   Urdim hefted his war hammer, tested its weight this morning, as he had every time. How long could he swing until he tired? An hour? More?
   "Nist. Nist. Nist nist nist"
   "Gishgil! GishGIL!"
   "Boy, one thing you'll learn fast." Ineth swept back, eyes on the grey sky that always hung low like a shroud on the land. "Anything out here is trouble."
   
   "Nist" another burbled sound came, and then one dropped out from the sky, fast as a stone being hurled, if a stone had claws and a beak. Urdim brought his shield up and the Nist struck it with a loud gong, rolling over onto the tentacles struggling to get back to its rotted feet with a feeble roll.
   What feathers it had were faded, yellow turning to a sickly maize, green drained of any vibrancy it may have had. The guards all called them "Nists", for they seemed to have picked up that one word from a poor farmer or miller caught out in that first dreadful year on the surface and spread it to the rest of the flocks quickly. They seemed able to mimic any sound, but since the only thing they may ever hear was the sound of their dying victims, it was all they burbled about. "Begone, fear!" sometimes they would even spit out an entire sentence, mocking the dying. Urdim swung down, his stomach as always turning in revulsion at having to touch even remotely something so diseased. The Nist's skull squelched as it caved in, and the rotten thing stopped twitching and trying to roll over at last.
   "Nist nist nist" the call was spread through the mist, and Fikod screamed as one of the small beasts dropped on his helmet, flapping down in front of his eyes, digging into his ears with blackened claws.
   Ineth swept out and smashed FIkod in the face with his own shield, knocking the younger dwarf onto his back, but at least swatting the little wretched bird away from his eyes. Fikod rolled over, just in time to swat away another as it hurtled towards him. He stabbed out, piercing the little thing straight through the gut, but it still tried to bite his sword, wriggling up towards him from the ground.
   Ineth flipped his axe sideways, and swept it, flat on towards the first Nist still trying to claw its way up to fly again. The bird let out a "Nist" of anger, dashed against a stone outcropping and scrabbled back to its feet. While Urdim dispatched the second with another downward sweep of his hammer. He had been doing this for months now
   "Forget the body, greenmeat" He snarled to the young boy still trying to run the Nist through. "You gotta get it in the head. The head greenmeat!" He snarled and crushed the thing against Fikod's blade, the rotted brain black like cavefish eggs spattering over the recruit's cheek. "Like that."
   Fikod tried to get his breath, but leaned over and was sick all over the writhing tentacles below him. Seeing them eagerly drink it in only had him sick once more.
   "Cover greenmeat." Urdim muttered to Ineth, and the two of them stood back to back above the young recruit, Ineth's axe sweeping the incoming Nists away, while Urdim swung out at any trying to come in to feed on the young dwarf.
   It was a short melee, in less than a half an hour Ineth and Urdim had finally dispatched the three remaining Nists.
   "Sometimes," Ineth said as he brought his boot down on the last one's skull, squelching it under his boot. "They just don't know when they're done for boy."
   Fikod wiped his mouth and nodded, still pale.
   "Boy, there be much much worse than these little birds out here." Urdim said, helping him to his feet. "I been tracking Stasoz for months now, and there be some places even he stays away from. Ye can't be sick at every sight of rot, or ye'll never last."
   "The whole world be rotten, boy." Ineth said, as they followed the river downstream. "And every livin thing in it."
   Fikod nodded, trembling, as he saw a long fish struggle, flopping up out of the riverbank on its side, eye bulging, half its stomach already gone but trying to reach them, flipping up and up the bloody bank, biting down on nearby tentacles in its fury and was glad he hadn't had anything else for breakfast. Urdim saw the scaley thing and crunched its head in quickly with another bored sweep of his hammer. Like pounding in pegs he thought, as he normally did during his patrols like pounding in a peg, nothing more. The three dwarves were quickly swallowed up in the mist, tinged red with the bloody mist of a countryside of flesh that was always being torn up.
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