Journal of Catalyst, Elven Studies Major-turned-Overseer-turned-PariahNo sooner had the fort begun to relax, and I had opened the wall to my tower in the interest of making some improvements outside, when the Goblins struck again.
I breathed a sigh of relief knowing, at least, the main gate was closed. The other four should have been safe. I mobilized my 'squad' consisting of myself, alone, which I have dubbed "The Noiseless Coal" - for I sit in darkness and silence providing warmth to the fortress - and made to repair my wall. Mentally, I reached out to Mekboy and impressed upon him the idea that pulling a certain lever was much more important than any other tasks he might see at hand. I now depart to see this through. It may be my last entry - but I can rest at peace with the knowledge that, whether I succeed or fail, this will not be the final record of Failcannon.
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Astounding success! The Pump had no trouble flooding the beach. Though it did not drown the goblins, they were unable to approach the fortress against the buffeting waves of foul and frigid salt water. And with winter upon us, I had no doubt they would leave us be soon enough. Some of the trolls had more sense and climbed into the strange tower directly in front of the fortress. We'll deal with those when we come to it, I suppose.
Meanwhile - ghosts come, ghosts go...
- more Forgotten Beasts stir in the caverns below...
- and a diplomat comes calling, thankfully seperated from the flood and the goblins by a wall. I manage to open the gate for him and let him in. I'm not sure any of the others have caught wind of his presence yet, however. I conducted him into my chambers (suffering a near-miss, or near-hit as the case may be, with Mormota in the process) and discussed the needs of the Fortress.
The meeting went rather long, as I found myself rambling about the history of Failcannon (as I butchered a horse skeleton I had dragged in, and made a few crafts and a totem from its bones). I think I may have scared the poor fellow. In any case, I requested wood and various items of armor, some cheese, and trap components. It is most likely the caravan will perish outside our gates like so many before, anyhow. We may as well acquire the more expensive goods. In the unlikely event that we find ourselves actually _trading_ with them, I have recorded the details of their desired trade goods as well.
After the long hard negotiations, I took a break to listen to the confused bickering of the soggy goblins. The others had begun resetting the Failpump and refilling the reservoir. I had hoped we might trick the goblins into entering the empty floodchamber, seal the enterances and then refill, but it turns our goblins are not that stupid. Pity. Their stymied anguish was nonetheless quite amusing. Enough so that it was some time later I realized I had neglected to actually open the door so our trade liaison could leave.
Afterwards, I cursed myself for not requesting more swordfish bone items! I decreed it was time to abadon my hopes of acquiring more, and be content with holding on to those we already have. I swear, however, that the writ of arrest issued under my authority was an act of Led's manipulation, and not my own doing.
As the cold winter wore on, the soaked goblins departed, and I am left alone with my thoughts once more. I find myself brooding on poor Urist. It is clear that I cannot go on as the overseer of this fort in my current state. I issue a few final orders, to engrave and erect memorial slabs for those dead we cannot bury, in the hopes of laying a few of the troublesome ghosts to rest, and make it known that there will be another mayorial election upon the arrival of the next wave of migrants. I will not be running.
And now, I return to my training. Someday I will either give my life in defense of this fortress, or, far less likely, I will be its immortal champion. It is hardly the fate I had in mind when I came to Ungegugath, but it will serve. If future generations of Dwarves are still here, in five years, in ten, in fifty, here in this fortress built on the blood, sweat, and vomit of countless generations, every child born, every migrant who arrives to a viable settlement and not a ruin, is a black eye to the Tyrant Queen. If they say of me, "She lived out the rest of her life in Failcannon on the Plains of Ooze, by the Blueness of Malodors", I will take comfort in knowing, among all who have ever seen this place, that is known as the highest of achievements.
- Catalyst "Rimlured" Tiristlektad
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May FailCannon live on another 20 years! (that's right - this turn marks 20 years on Aluonra). I'm a little sad I didn't get to do much in the way of construction or other improvements or production, but that's obviously outweighed easily by the joy of surviving overwhelming odds.My advice to the next overseer? Learn what the levers do early on (the ones you'll need are mostly clustered in one room right below the courtyard, it turns out, and the others are scattered across the courtyard) and DO NOT LET CATALYST NEAR OTHER DWARVES. Keep the gates closed except for migrants and trade caravans and close them immediately behind them. Now's a poor time for risks - we need to keep dwarves alive and draw in a few migrants.I'll cut my comments and suggestions short, and just say it's been a pleasure and a privilege. I hope you have enjoyed my updates half as much as I have enjoyed making them. FailCannon, Spring 536 - Save
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Topic: FailCannon: No Rest for the Wicked (or anyone else) (Succession: Battlefailed 2) (Read 897389 times)