Print

Please login or register.
1 Hour 1 Day 1 Week 1 Month Forever
Login with username, password and session length

[brewer bob]

Part V:
Writs of Citizenship



28th of Obsidian, 384

The last day of the year was coming to a close. It was evening and Tanzul was at the Fruit of Letters for a drink. The Winter Festivities had ended almost two weeks ago and citizens had returned to their daily routines. Tanzul—still waiting for citizenship—had not much to do during winter. The lake was frozen, so fishing was out of the question. The fox man spent most of his days at the tavern, but truth be told, it too was boring. He itched to do something exciting. He had noticed his thoughts wandering back to adventuring, and he had to admit that the thought of hitting the road was tempting.

Fortunately his boredom had been broken this evening by the fox woman Ana Talonspread. She had approached Tanzul and asked if she could share a drink with a fellow fox person. Tanzul had accepted gladly. He had seen Ana before, but this was the first time they had spoken together, their discussion shifting from idle small talk to Tanzul's adventures after a few drinks.

“It sounds like you had your share of excitement during your journeys,” Ana said when Tanzul finished his story. “You made a good choice coming here. I find myself quite content in Waterlures. Although I would some day want to head off in to the wilds, to see the beauty that nature has to offer.”

“Well, perhaps you could join us one day? That is, if we'll head out at some point,” Tanzul offered with sincerity.

“Oh, I wouldn't,” the fox woman laughed and patted Tanzul on the shoulder. Tanzul flushed, feeling a bit ashamed to ask such a thing. Noticing this, Ana smiled and continued,  “Don't get me wrong. I am bound. My duty lies here. Keeping Waterlures safe. That is why I came here, and why I am captain of the Orbs of Focus. Thank you for asking anyway.”






Meanwhile, Galel came up the stairs of the Trade House. He had been fetching food from the stores below and was carrying an omelette made from the eggs of various birds. He licked his beak as he looked at the tasty-looking meal, a beam of moonlight shining on it through the tall gem window. Galel turned to look out. The clouds had parted and he saw that the moon was full. He felt the crisp cold air blowing inside, through the building's wide archway.

He heard a door slam and the sound of hooves further off in the gloom where the moonlight didn't reach. He squinted his eyes—something was moving ahead of him.

Then he heard a loud, deep braying sound echo through the hall.




A large donkey-like creature with black and white stripes, twisted into humanoid form was, rushing across the hall, its eyes glowing a pale, sickly green, like the pus from a festering wound. Foam dripped from its maliciously grinning mouth. A terror of the night—a werezebra!

And it was headed straight for the dwarf Oddom Problemshield, who was at the otherside of the hall, back turned to the monster!



“SQUAAAW!” Galel squawked uncontrollably, terrified of the bestial monster.

It was what saved Oddom. The dwarf heard the ostrich man screeching, turned around, his eyes wide open in shock seeing the werezebra rush madly towards him!

“Ôsed's long ears! A werebeast!” Oddom screamed and ran out the side door as swiftly as his short dwarf legs carried him.

The werezebra turned its attention to the terrified ostrich man who had dropped his meal on the ground, his long legs shaking in fear. The werezebra grinned and with a ear-shattering bray, rushed towards Galel.

Galel managed to pull himself together in the nick of time, scrambled out the door leading to the library, slammed it behind him shut and managed to lock it, somehow. 'Drats! I think I soiled my britches,' Galel thought as he ran over the bridge to the House of Knowledge.



Sheriff Fayoba jogged towards the Trade House. He had heard the commotion as he had walked down the road. Somebody yelled “There's a werebeast in the Trade House!” as he neared the mausoleum. He hastened his pace to a run, hearing monstrous braying and door-bashing from within the Trade House. He ran inside, looked right and left, and noticed the werezebra pummeling a door with its large fists.

“Stop right there!” Fayoba yelled at the beast, his voice quivering as he drew his sword. He was at the same time terrified and thrilled of the inevitable mêlée.

The werezebra turned around and charged at the elf, madness in its eyes, but Fayoba dodged it easily, stabbing it in its arm as it skid past him. It brayed, annoyed, and groped at the nimble elf, who, once again, had little difficulty dodging the attack.



And so the battle went on with the werezebra charging at the elf, attempting to punch or grab him, the elf easily dodging and jumping away, dancing deftly around the monster, stabbing and slashing, cutting it many a time. The werebeast brayed in anger and frustration, when the sword was thrust into its gut, tearing its innards, the sword lodging in the wound.

Enraged, the werezebra punched at Fayoba, but he ducked and yanked his sword free, dodged another blow and slashed at the beast's leg. The blade cut deep, tearing ligaments—the werezebra fell to the ground, unable to bear itself with the leg.

The werebeast thrashed and lashed out on the ground, trying to land a blow on the elf. But Fayoba easily side-stepped the desperate flailing, circling the beast and looking for an opening.

And an opening arrived, when the capybara man Litast came to the aid, kicking the werezebra wriggling on the ground. The beast shifted its attention at the new arrival, and at that moment Fayoba struck.



The blade hit its arm, cut through flesh and bone, severing the limb. The beast turned to look at the stump, blood spraying from it like from a fountain, and as it turned its gaze back at its tormentor, the blade was thrust at its face, hitting it in the forehead and cutting all the way through into the brain.

The werebeast fell limp and was dead.





Early Spring, 385

A new year arrived in Waterlures and this was to be a special year. For it was now sixty years since the first capybara folk (and others) arrived at the shores of the Lakes of Saturninity. But it was a rough start for a year of celebration, with the werezebra attack on the eve of the new year, and with spring's arrival the The Prince of Duty slipped in like a cold breeze to collect her due.

Old age caught up with the humans Kon Praisednestle, a woodcutter, and Athri Dinnerarm, an herbalist. Abod's flail fell on them.

Yet, their deaths were not tragic, but rather served as a reminder that each and every mortal body will eventually come to its end—some sooner rather than later.

That is, unless you were one of the elves—immortals—like sheriff Fayoba and mayor Fecici were.





With spring, the elf merchants arrived, leading their pack mules and horses across the southern fields, dry and brown grass stalks jutting here and there, from under the last remains of snow. Istrul Wheelscrow had just finished her prayers to Ôsed when she saw the elves coming. She jogged back to town, ready to haul trade goods to the Trade House.

The elves from Ula Tefe unfortunately didn't have much of interest, but Atír still bought some elven clothing—for some of the citizens preferred the delicate elven handiwork—and some food stuffs, such as nuts and fruit. None of it was necessary, though. Waterlures was self-sufficient enough. It was more for the sake of courtesy (as was the tremendous profit Atír gave them). Mayor Fecici had said that it was important to keep good relations with neighboring realms in these troubling times. And Atír agreed.




Mid-Spring, 385

Spring approached its half-way mark. Work on the sewers had slowed down, for there were few hands to spare from other work. Despite this, Etur Laborworth and Kib Owlroughness took some time off and went to the Lover's Hut overlooking the town and lake. They were easily excused, for of course everyone expected them to be infatuated with each other. This was not the case, however. They had grown to be good friends, and very much enjoyed the company of one another.

Neither of them wanted the complications that romance might bring.




The dwarf prophet Sodel Oarmobbed had felt uneasy and bored lately. She had not been able find time to pray to the Turquoise and seek guidance. For her life wasn't heading anywhere. Being confined in Waterlures, doing her duty as a good citizen, all the menial labor day after day...it was not for her. She yearned to wander, to go on an adventure! And her hands wished to create, to craft something!

And then, as if from nowhere, a strange sensation struck her, a vision came into her mind. From somewhere beyond the mortal realm, from a fey place it came. It took hold of her and guided her to the crafter's table at Zon's Tailory.

At last, she would create—an artifact was on its way!




A few days later Sodel finished her masterpiece: Odkiskab, 'Ferninches', an oaken cup!

The cup itself was one of the highest quality, decorated with carved intricate patterns lined with sheep bone. On one side was an embossed cloth image depicting a scene from the stories told by Rin: Suwu Cleanmusics striking down a cougan man. On the other side was embedded a leather image depicting a book.

Perhaps the fey spirits had guided Sodel to create a replacement for the stolen drinking horn? Though, this artifact would not be stored where anyone could handle it. It was to be sealed in the vaults, far from the reach of questionable folk and their dishonest hands.






28th of Slate, 385

“I don't know what to say,” Logem Standardmartyr said in disbelief. She could not fathom how Nish could think like that. He had not only disagreed with her, but he had the arrogance to mock her opinion, and not only that, he had scorned her brother, Baron Oddom! She felt contempt and was utterly repelled by this young capybara man—not to mention that she had thought Nish might be a potential spouse candidate, ugh!

“Thing is, you should think more about it,” Nish Prisonpaddle said with a wide smile, clearly enjoying the exchange. “It should be obvious. If one is willing to sacrifice oneself, for some stupid thing, I reckon, well, it just means one will have less problems demanding others to sacrifice themselves. Is it not so?”

“No, it isn't,” Logem snapped at Nish, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “You are being disrespectful of your elders. You bring shame on your family with such talk. Do you not understand what you are saying? You are mocking the very people who founded this place, built it, so that we—their children—would have a better place to live in.”

“No, no, that is different,” Nish said, wavering for a bit, not exactly knowing how to continue. “Uh, I don't call that a sacrifice. Not at all. That was something else. My ma and pa didn't sacrifice nothing. I'm sure of that.”

“Oh, come now!” Logem scoffed at him. “You don't believe that even yourself!”





15th of Felsite, 385

Maloy was nervous and excited at the same time. He was at the mayor's office, waiting as the elf went through piles of paper on his desk. It was now two years since the elephant seal man had arrived in Waterlures, in the middle of a late spring snow storm with his companions. And that meant that the time of waiting was over, and Maloy would finally become a citizen of the town!

“There, that should do it,” Fecici said as he put down his quill, poured some wax on the paper and pressed his seal on it. “You are now officially a citizen of Waterlures, and I believe congratulations are in order. We have much need for able bodied folk like you, elephant seal man.”

Fecici folded the writ of citizenship and handed it over to Maloy. He looked at the elephant seal man from flipper to majestic flopping nose. 'Muscles suit this one better than elderly humans,' the elf thought. 'Though, I do think he has quite the layer of fat on him. I don't think that was the case when he arrived. Seems to be a quite common occurence. Perhaps I should have a word or two with the cooks?'





Idar Towerlock was sweating a cold sweat. Her palms felt all clammy and her legs quivered a bit. She was heading to meet with the mayor on the topic of citizenship. Idar was hesitant and agitated, her heart beating rapidly. She hadn't spoken with Fecici other than when she came to town and asked for residency. What if the elf did not like her? What if he held a grudge against dwarves, or, even worse, didn't like cheese? You never could know what was going on in the minds of the forest-loving scoundrels. Deceitful folk. If the mayor was anyone else, Idar was absolutely certain there would be no issue whatsoever. She was, after all, one hell of a dwarf—lovable, charming, and one of the most important cheese makers in history!





Early Summer, 385

Coni felt relieved. She had presented her case to mayor Fecici quite well, made many a good reason why she should be granted citizenship. Not that Fecici asked for any of that, but she wanted to be on the safe side. Perhaps she had a nagging feeling in the back of her mind that she might be thought untrustworthy and suspicious. Not that she thought of herself like that. So to make things clear and a positive impression of herself, she had been quite the bold flatterer—it was something she had mastered—and mayor Fecici certainly seemed mighty pleased.

“Yes, indeed, it is good to be reminded of such things once in a while,” the elf said, feeling all proud and satisfied with the hamster woman's praise. Of course he understood that she was trying to get on his good side, but he couldn't refuse a compliment. Especially something so well put into words. He was vain in that way, and, besides, the hamster woman spoke the truth. He was quite the fashionable and handsome fellow.

“I see no reason why not to grant you citizenship,” Fecici continued, took a quill in his hand, dipped it in ink and began signing Coni's writ of citizenship.





18th of Hematite, 385

Kumil the faun stood watch at the South Gate with Ana the fox woman when the merchants from the Just Union arrived. They greeted the humans as their wagons pulled by water buffalos went by, the wagon wheels clattering on the flagstone road. It was summer trading time, it seemed. And it was good. Trade was something Kumil could respect. Unlike Ana's proposal, which he found somewhat disturbing.

“Well, what do you think of it?” Ana asked the faun. She had felt that the concerns of those like her—warriors who kept the citizens safe—were not listened to by the ones making decisions. So she had approached Kumil, suggesting that he should take a bigger role, force the mayor to grant him, the militia warden, more say in how things were handled. The heads of the militia should have more power. They should be able to make decisions quickly without consulting others. The way things now were would eventually lead to disaster, make the militia impotent when most needed.

“No, it is something I will not consider,” Kumil refused with resolution. It was very unlike him, but this was a matter of principle to him. “We are servants of Waterlures and it is up to the mayor, who is mandated by the Citizens' Assambly, to make all decisions. Besides, Fecici does ask counsel of me, know you not? He doesn't do anything on a whim.”

“I understand,” Ana said in disappointment. “Still, perhaps you should at least give it some thought?”

“NO. No. And we will not discuss this matter any longer,” Kumil answered in a tone both cold and final. He would not be lured by power. What Ana suggested would eventually lead to tyranny, whether she wanted or not. Kumil hoped for the latter. That Ana was being naïve and was not seeking a way to control others.





3rd of Malachite, 385

“So, I overindulge sometimes. I see no problem in it,” Mame Fordedrises said, leaning against the town wall at the South Gate. It was he and Caÿilu Searend—one of the goblins around—who were unlucky enough to be standing guard. Mame the elf wasn't particularly paying attention and was absent-mindedly playing around with his short sword. He then continued his rambling, “The thing is, once you get me going, I won't stop for anything. Better hide the wine behind lock and key or the cellars will be empty after I'm done.”



“I doubt that,” Caÿilu snorted at the elf. She hardly knew Mame, and she didn't think she wanted to. 'Sometimes I just don't like somebody,' she thought. But then again, perhaps she could have some fun at the expense of the elf. She grinned and continued, “Why, look at yourself. With that frame you could barely handle even a full pint. I could easily drink you under the table and not break a sweat.”

“Sounds like you're looking for a challenge,” Mame said, slightly irritated by the goblin's remarks. But more than that, this seemed like something that could turn into an argument. And that he liked. “Or perhaps it is you who can't keep in their wine. I bet you'll end up vomiting like a dwarf seeing the sun!”





5th of Malachite, 385

Galel was striding down the halls and stairs of the Enchanted Bridge. He had a smug, satisfied expression on his face. For he was coming from the mayor's office and things had gone better than he planned. He looked at the very, very official looking paper—it had a wax seal with a ribbon and all—in his hand, lifted it and kissed it with a 'mwah' sound. 'Finally! Finally I'm a citizen and I bet things will change now—one way or the other,' the ostrich man thought, all sorts of shrewd plans beginning to flood his mind.





9th of Galena, 385

“Why, I believe congratulations are in order then, Tanzul!” Ònul Strickenrelics said to Tanzul as she walked aside the fox man out of the Enchanted Bridge. Tanzul was coming from a meeting with mayor Fecici, and he was now a citizen of Waterlures. The two years of waiting had been a breeze. Although, admittedly Tanzul was a bit bored during the last half-year stretch.

“Thank you, ma'am,” Tanzul said to the capybara woman. Ònul, along with her husband Deler, were the first people the fox man had met when he and his companions arrived. Still, after that first encounter, he hadn't really seen Ònul. Except during the winter festivities, but then again, everyone was there.

“What might be your plans? Now that you're a citizen and all,” the capybara woman asked cheerfully as they walked along.

“I-I don't really know...” Tanzul said. It was an honest answer. Truth be told, he really hadn't thought of it. All the time waiting for his citizenship, he had pushed thoughts of the future away for later consideration. When he came to town, he had given some thought to Master Themiyi's proposal—to get Waterlures to end the threat of the goblins and necromancers. Somehow. But now, after two years in town... He was not so sure of it. It was easier not to think of such matters, to live one day at a time, doing what he was used to do: to go fishing.

“Well, there's always fish to catch and paws needed at the fields,” Ònul said smiling, as if reading Tanzul's thoughts. They reached an intersection of walkways, and stopped before parting their ways. “Speaking of fields, I'll head off to help with the harvest. Take care, Tanzul!”

“Until next time, Ònul,” Tanzul replied, heading to the piers below the houses on stilts. Fishing was at least something he was comfortable with.




28th of Galena, 385

“And you believe it to be so? That it is the truth?” Mayor Fecici raised his brow, not entirely sure what to think of the llama man's words. He would, of course, be granted citizenship, but Fecici was a bit wary of someone who said that they had been led here by their god, for some divine purpose. That it was their destiny or whatever nonsense. People like that tended to be gullible and naïve, fanatic even. Not that it mattered as long as the llama man was not in a position of power and responsibility. There were, after all, many prophets and other such holy lunatics living in town.

“Yes. I do not doubt my beloved Mater's guidance,” Osod said confidently. “It was not a chance meeting, when I joined with my companions. Waterlures is where the rainbow took me, though the reason is still obscured. I am certain that in due time, that too, will be made clear, like the sky after rain.”

“Ah. You might have to wait quite long for the sky to clear here. But, in any case, here is your writ of citizenship. You are now officially part of Waterlures. Congratulations,” Fecici said with a hint of irony and somewhat uncomfortably, handing the documents to the llama man and patting him on the shoulder lightly.





Early Autumn, 385

Autumn arrived and the sewers of Waterlures were nearing completion after two years of toil. All the roughly mined walls were now smoothed either by stoneworkers chiseling or by masonry. Now all that was left was to clear all the rubble and other clutter. Then the engineers could get to work with floodgates and make certain that all was safe and proper, that there would be no risk of sewage waters flooding.

There were still things to do.






14th of Limestone, 385

With autumn the caravan from the heartlands of Ustuth Ïdath arrived. And with the caravan came the Outpost Liaison, Tirist Brasshandles. And with Tirist came the autumn rain. A loud rumble thundered from the sky wrapped in dark clouds. A heavy downpour cascaded from the heavens, soaking poor Tirist before he managed to get under the cover of the Temple Gate.

'I do not find this amusing. Not one bit, you divine scoundrel you,' Tirist grumbled in his thoughts at Ôsed. And as if as an answer, one of the upturned brims of his split-brimmed woolen hat flopped down, straight in front of his eyes.

“Why you—! That does it! I've had quite enough!” Tirist roared aloud furiously, shaking his fist at the sky, his plump cheeks red and round as ripe apples. He took his hat off and wrenched the water from it like from a wet towel. The hat looked quite miserable and pitiful after it. If the hat wasn't ruined by the rain, well, it certainly was now. Tirist still put it back on and continued through the gate as if nothing had happened, his fancy leather shoes sloshing with each step.

The capybara man Momuz Speartours—who stood guard next to the gate—looked as the rather short and very rotund dwarf lumbered down the road, muttering curses, the hem of his fur lined robes dragging behind in mud and puddles. 'Well, at least I'm not the only one to be tormented by this miserable weather,' Momuz thought, slightly amused by the sight.





25th of Limestone, 385

It was only a few days since Feb Spokenpaper had turned twelve years old. He was quite happy at the moment, working at the underground quarry, filling the minecart with phyllite for the masons. It wasn't as fun as playing make-believe, but you could imagine all sorts of fantastical things as you were working. He had imagined the heroes of Waterlures—Suwu, Cañar, Lòr, Ova and, of course, Rin the goblin—traveling around the world, doing good, heroic things, like giving mean necromancers (Feb was quite unsure what they were, but they were bad people) a good beating. Or fighting armies of evil goblins (Rin and the other goblins living in Waterlures were good) and defeating them all. Maybe one day he could go an adventure, too? But he wouldn't do the fighting. He'd just look at it from safety and then tell the story. Like a poet or bard—like mother was.




3rd of Sandstone, 385

Mayor Fecici rested his chin on his left fist while he drummed his desk with the other hand's fingers. He looked at the silent goblin standing in front of him. Rin the goblin. A miller by trade, once the Assistant Sheriff, then bold hero, and now retired, returned home, asking for the renewal of his citizenship. It should be an easy decision—everyone vouched for Rin—and this whole two years of waiting was only a formality... But there were things that bothered Fecici in this one. For instance, Rin was clearly lying, or, at the very least, not telling the whole truth.

“Now, what should I do with you, Rin?” Fecici said, tapping a finger on the writ of citizenship waiting to be signed and sealed. “I can tell a lie from a thousand paces away. You may fool the others, but I am not them. You see, there is a reason for the two years of waiting. It is a time of evaluation, so one can learn the character of the person seeking to become a citizen. 'What kind of a man is he?' and 'Is he worthy?' The applicant must be someone you can trust.”

Rin stood silently and unflinching, listening to the mayor. Fecici leaned back on his ashen chair, resting his elbows on the chair arms, and continued, “So we have a problem. How am I supposed to trust someone who does not tell the truth? Now, don't get me wrong, I do respect cunning when done in proper fashion. You have tricked the others very well. That much is admirable. It was a good tale you weaved. But it was only that: a tale. So, tell me now, what is it that actually happened during your travels? I am especially interested in how you died—” There was a slight twitch from Rin, barely noticeable, but Fecici's keen eyes saw it. “—and how you were brought back. For you are not alive. I can sense your undeath, Rin Fisthearts.”






4th of Sandstone, 385

Dîshmab Mirrortraded was at the Chapel of Duty, the shrine of Ôsed that had been built at the very beginnings of Waterlures, sixty years ago. That was nearly twice her age! The capybara woman was kneeling in front of the statue of the goddess, the air moist with autumn, the shrine's stone floor half-covered in yellow leaves blown by the wind. She was praying to the Great Doe, the goddess who birthed the world, who gave life to all, who raised the mountains and shone from above, from her heavenly domain, day and night, as sun and star.

'It feels sometimes that love is like a mountain, Ôsed,' she prayed in her mind. 'Once you see one, it so magnificent, so thrilling. And when you get closer, it grows and grows, inspiring awe. Then once you reach it, make your way to the top, it is a struggle. Both exhausting and satisfying. And sometimes it is too hard. The climb. And you fail or fall. And have to quit, sad and frustrated. But still it stays with you. It stays with you... You do understand what I mean, Ôsed? Right? Even though... Even though I've never seen a real mountain...' She paused, feeling a bit stupid. How could she make such a comparison? Well, she had read books, of course. Still, it wasn't the same. But certainly Ôsed understood her thoughts, what she meant in her heart.

The capybara woman opened her eyes and looked at the statue. She had been thinking about Åblel and their tumultuous times together. In the end it had not worked out and they had separated. Twice. Yet they remained friends, and in many ways things were better between them. But... She had to admit that she still did love him. She truly did. And she knew things would not work, no matter how many times they would try. Besides, she was married to Litast now. She should concentrate on him.

For she truly loved her husband, too.






16th of Sandstone, 385

Oko the badger man walked across the mausoleum square, carrying yak cheese to the food stores. The wheel of cheese made by Idar the dwarf looked delicious, but the smell was quite frankly awful. Oko pinched his nose as the heavy, musty smell wafted into his nostrils. The smell reminded him of the animal pens—the mix of hay, wet fur and dung. It made him somewhat nauseous and his mind was cleared of any notions of tasting it.

Why would anyone want to eat something so disgusting?

(Continued in next post...)

[brewer bob]

(..continued from previous post.)






20th of Sandstone, 385

Almo Mirthfuldinners walked towards the gate ahead of her. It was a misty and damp autumn day and she really needed a drink. But that was nothing new in her life. She was always in need of a drink—she was a drunkard and a scoundrel, after all. And so what? It was her life and she could do whatever she wanted to do with it. To the hells with the hypocrites decrying her! Well, maybe she had drank a bit too often for the last two years or so. Her terrible hangover kept reminding of that—she had finished the last of her wine yesterday, not a drop left for the morning. It was a struggle to walk the last stretch to her destination, to Waterlures. A torment. Almost like a penance. The Enchanted Bridge better have damn good wine or she'd skewer those dwarf bastards praising the place with her carving knife. Gut them like pigs. Flay them—

“Good day to you, miss,” a fat capybara person standing guard at the town's entrance greeted her, interrupting her thoughts. The animal person was suited in plate armor, covered from head to toe, looking like a ball of steel. “What might be your business in Waterlures?” the capybara said, spear held across Almo's path.

“Um, I'm here to, er, relax... I-I'm in need of a drink,” Almo stuttered. It was the truth. But she became nervous and jittery around armed folk. Ever since that horrid day back at Breachwondered, the abandoned monastery where she and her group had holed up. She barely made it out alive when the four lunatics came. Nusgoz, Idri, Manba and her daughter Sporro... They were all killed by the bloodthirsty madmen. Those bestial animal people. No wonder she drank.

“Ah, you might be then wanting to visit the Enchanted Bridge on the east side,” the capybara guard said with a calm voice. “Or perhaps the Hut of Romancing, near the northern tip of the lake. Datan's mead is quite something... In any case, welcome to Waterlures.”

“Er, thank you,” Almo said, walking quickly past the guard and down the hill, craving for a drink more than ever.





“Mommy, I recited 'My Friend Equity',” little Tholtig said proudly. “This is gaiety.”

“Oh, you did? Well, isn't that nice, dear,” Ònul replied with a chuckle, glancing over her shoulder as she hung her emerald green woolen cloak in the wardrobe. Her youngest son seemed to have quite the broad range of vocabulary for one so young—he was but four years old.

“I saw it! I saw it!” Ingish piped in vigorously from the floor. She then put on a more serious face, and continued, “I felt no delight.”

Ònul burst in spontaneous laughter. She hadn't quite expected that. Clearly the three year old sister of Tholtig hadn't been impressed by the recital.





24th of Sandstone, 385

'Why should I be happy? There's no reason for such things,' Endok Touracts thought, breathing heavily and sweating as he carried the sack of spelt flour to the stores. Life in Waterlures was not so different from the life back at the hillocks. It was the same kind of hard work he did here as in Tradeplay. Sowing seeds, tending to the crops, collecting the harvest. Butchering livestock, tanning the hides. The life of a farmer. That was what he had hoped to get away from.

But no, oh no. He did the same menial tasks here. Except now he had to haul back-breaking burdens of stone, lumber from felled trees, heavy loads of trade goods, and so on and so on. His hope had been that here, in fabled and rich Waterlures, he would have the possibility to craft. To create. Perhaps one day be stricken by a mood and create an artifact! He didn't care about being skilled—he actually thought of striving for mastery quite off-putting. Regardless, he did appreciate craftsdwarfship as much as the next dwarf. It seemed unlikely he'd ever make anything wondrous.

But such is life: once a peasant, always a peasant. At least he wasn't a serf, worked to an early death by the demands of the Unaging King. Not that he really cared about an independent life. Still, he had not quite accepted his fate. There had to be some way to better things, advance his life. Become someone important and rich, perhaps. It was hardly likely, but certainly an opportunity would present itself at some point.

And, in fact, one such had come to him last year, in the form of a visiting dwarf.

It was late summer when Endok had met Camela Gullyrivers, a dwarf scholar from the neighboring elf realm. A dwarf living among elves had intrigued Endok. For since a child he had been deeply moved by nature; by the pine forests reaching up the slopes of mountains; by the glimmering fish scales in mountain streams; the wild fields blooming in spring like colorful gems in cavern walls... And the elves, they managed to live at peace and as one with the whole of nature! Unlike Endok's kin, who saw it only as something to be cut down to fuel their industry that spit ash and soot into the skies. Why could not the dwarves live like elves? Or, at least, have some respect for the natural world.

And there he had Camela in front of him: a dwarf who lived like an elf. So he had bought a round—or who knows how many—of drinks. And they had drank and drank, until Camela made the suggestion and promise.



An offer of eternal life. To live forever like the elves. Camela knew their secrets and could share them, but first Endok would have to do something for him.



There was a sword, a bronze short sword, that the dwarf very much coveted. Lurequakes was its name. And it was here, in Waterlures. For stealing the sword, Endok would receive immortality.

There was no way Endok would pass that offer. So he had stolen it—without anyone noticing it yet—and now he waited for his payment.

There better be a payment.





5th of Timber, 385

Likot Languagehame watched from the mouth of the South Gate as the wagons rolled down the road and over the fields, disappearing into the morning mist. A few stragglers of the dwarven caravan passed her: merchants leading their pack horses and camels. She smiled and waved at the sullen and dour dwarves, who responded with farewell grunts, clearly grouchy due to the weather.

“You seem to be in a jolly mood today,” Baron Oddom said from behind her. Likot turned around. She hadn't noticed Oddom arriving for the morning shift. He was leaning his shoulder against the gate wall, the head of his war hammer, Kilrudsat, resting on the stone road.

“I've been alright lately,” Likot said, and it was true. Things were fine in her life. Though, things could always be better. Some things made her a bit restless and uneasy, but that was just a part of life. One can not always be satisfied, but it wouldn't hurt to have a bit more time to see friends and family. And maybe time to pray properly to the Golden and to Ôsed. She was always so busy, it seemed. It was still much better than the farce when she was mayor.

“Good. I am glad to hear that,” Oddom said after a rather long pause. He looked from under the gate at the sky. “Looks like it'll rain today.”

There was another rather awkward moment of silence. Both of them kept staring into the distance, not paying particular attention to anything. 'This will be another long and boring day,' Likot thought before she broke the quiet. “Yes, so it seems.”





13th of Timber, 385

The bone mace was completed. Melbil Staffdives looked at it with pride, satisfied after creating something worthy of legend. It was, of course, only a decorative weapon and not much of use in real battle. Fourteen year old Melbil knew that much. He would present it to father. Melbil had made it in his honor, for father was part of the Fenced Princes—the greatest warriors of Waterlures! Nothing could stop them.

'You shall be named Knotbreached the Ape of Justifying. That sounds like a good and heroic name. Something the dwarves from legends might come up with,' the young capybara man thought. Melbil cherished the company of the bearded ones, and all of his closest friends—like Vabôk the Monk—were dwarves.





21st of Timber, 385

Autumn was nearing its end and winter was around the corner. The first snow had come a few weeks ago, but all autumn leaves had not yet fallen from trees. Rin was milling spelt in the old mill, like he used to do in ages past, before his adventures. Mayor Fecici had eventually believed Rin and granted citizenship, but it was only after Rin had told the true story, and not the one he had told the rest of Waterlures, which left much untold. Now two elves—sheriff Fayoba and mayor Fecici—in Waterlures knew the true fate of Suwu. How Cañar had succumbed to the call of the Dark Powers and killed her in cold blood. And that Rin had drowned and died, only to be raised from the dead as a death hunter by foul magics wielded by the elephant man.

Still, Fecici had not at first been entirely convinced. The elf suspected Rin to be an agent of the evil sorcerers, but in the end he had come to believe the story. The only thing Rin left out from his tale was how the dark god Bazsa the Sinful had spoken to him, seeking to command Rin to do his bidding.

Rin was uncertain why he left that bit untold, but something in him, some strange, uncanny feeling, told him that he should not speak of Bazsa.

Especially not to Fecici.






3rd of Moonstone, 385

Winter arrived in Waterlures. The air had cooled down quickly at the turn of the month, and the lake had frozen over. It snowed outside and Edzul the Silent was glad he was indoors. He had dragged himself up the ramp to the hallway above the Fruit of Letters when it began snowing. Edzul's wounds hadn't as of yet healed properly from the giant coyote attack, and most likely they never would. Some things can never be mended. He was to be a cripple for the remainder of his life. However, he did not pity himself—he would persevere—although sometimes he felt hopeless. But that was not only due to his wounds.

It was because he had lost his dear friend, Pife.

His wounds and the loss of Pife had changed him. A lot. He was even more withdrawn than before, spending his days reminiscing on his life and his choices. He hardly saw his traveling companions anymore, although they tried to get close to him. To be friendly and offer help. He pushed them away, despite seeing friends as one of the finest things in life. But they reminded him too much of the hedgehog man. And he feared that if they became any closer to him, he would lose them too. It would be too much, and he was certain he would succumb to the dark whispers of Nokor offering an easy way out from misery: death.

Edzul pushed the thought of Nokor aside, calmly. Indeed, he rarely felt anger anymore. That, too, had changed in him. Well, at least something good came out of it all,'he thought and sighed. He filled his mug with the contents of one of the barrels in the hallway and tasted it. Carrot wine. Not his favorite, but good enough—it would quench his thirst.

It wouldn't make him forget Pife, though. Some wounds can never be healed.

=====

Okay, this turned out to be super long, again. Sorry 'bout that!

There just was so much happening during this year and I wanted to get most of it down. But I got only to the start of winter, so didn't even play the whole year through yet.

That was quite interesting that the human drunk came to visit. Somehow the name sounded familiar, so I saved, made a backup and checked legends. And lo and behold! Almo was one of the few survivors of the first bandits that Tanzul and company slew.

Then there was the thing with the dwarf Endok. A necromancer dwarf came to visit, and I was sure the same one had been visiting before. So legends mode again. Found out Endok had been offered immortality and he had stolen Oko the badger man's sword from the vault. Turns out I had either forgotten to lock the door or then something weird had happened and unlocked the door.

Well, in any case, there's quite the number of plots going around, so it's a bit hard to keep track of them and I keep forgetting things despite notes. So, sorry for all the loose ends, which probably will never be solved.

I'll try to keep the next writeup shorter!

[Salmeuk]

I am reading these and loving every one. . the gifs are the magic touch. ascii dreams forever ~

“I saw it! I saw it!” Ingish piped in vigorously from the floor. She then put on a more serious face, and continued, “I felt no delight.”

a very dwarven experience hmm. Ingish seems particularly stoic!

[brewer bob]

Part VI:
Complaining Citizens



Early Winter, 385

A flock of ravens was sighted circling above the South Gate when winter came. Once again, the capybaras deliberated and wondered what did the black birds portend this time around. Perhaps in the coming year new runts would be born? There had been no births this year, so it was something many hoped for. Those of a more gloomy disposition said it was most certainly an ill omen if anything, but that kind of talk was generally dismissed and frowned on.

Regardless, work slowed down to a crawl, and preparations for the coming Winter Festivities were made. The last of the detritus from the sewers had been cleared, and come spring, engineers would make the finishing touches to the waterworks. Surely the sewers would be functioning by the end of summer. It would make life in Waterlures more pleasant and less smelly. And there would be one thing less Outpost Liaison Tirist could complain about!





22nd of Moonstone, 385

Alåth Clearednet, the dwarf leader of the Ochre Snarls, stood watch at the Temple Gate. It was a cold day and snow fell from the sky. Alåth had been feeling a bit lonely lately, and it didn't help that she was all by herself on guard duty. Mostly her life in Waterlures was satisfying and pleasant, but the winters were something that always reminded of her loneliness. While others were merry with friends and family during the festivities, she usually ended up sitting in a corner, drinking alone. She did have friends, though not any particularly close ones, and that really wasn't the problem. What she most lacked in life was a family of her own. It was one of her greatest dreams in life that she, too, would one day have one.

Alåth snapped out from her thoughts as she saw something scurrying across the snow from the corner of her eye. She turned to look and there was a small fluffy hamster rushing to and fro, burrowing in the snow, peeking out, making a dash for some food scraps or whatnot and then rushed back to hiding.

“Say, little one,” Alåth bent over to get a closer look of the rodent. She pulled out a piece of bread and crumbled it on the snow. “You look like you're in need of something to eat. Here have some.”

It always cheered her up when she helped someone, no matter how tiny they were.






24th of Moonstone, 385

“Yes, indeed. Most unfortunate thing, but such is the cycle of life, that eventually our mortal bodies fail,” Tirist Brasshandles said solemnly to the capybara woman Astesh. The outpost liaison had stayed longer in town than usual, but he was soon to leave. He was with Astesh in the uppermost gallery encircling the main hall of the Enchanted Bridge, talking about matters related to the Creed of Adventuring, one of the sects formed around the worship of Ôsed.

“So true, so true,” Astesh said with a nod. “The soul of His Holy Lapiness, the First Wind Cerol, is now shining among the brightest of Stars. He is at peace now, dancing aside Almighty Ôsed.”

“Well said, Astesh. Well said,” the outpost liaison said with a smile. “Aah, it is good to talk with a fellow worshipper. And I am sorry that word of the First Wind had not reached your ears. I am certain I told mayor Fecici about it two years ago. I am aware of the importance of the Great Doe to many in Waterlures, so I would not have left it out. Perhaps Fecici forgot to mention of it then? There were much news and other things we went through, after all.”

“Worry not. I know of it now, though the news saddens me,” Astesh said somewhat melancholy. “And who might be the successor, the next First Wind, if I may ask?”

“Ah, it is one Geshud Puzzlevessel who was anointed,” Tirist said and went on telling all he knew about the head of the religion—embellishing it quite a bit and making up things where he forgot the details.




As Moonstone neared its end and midwinter approached, it was time for the yearly Winter Festivities. Throngs of capybara folk and other denizens of Waterlures began to stream into the Fruit of Letters, packing it to the point of bursting. The smells of cooked foods, spilled beer, stale sweat and wet fur mingled, making the more sensitive noses twitch with irritation. The air was warm and humid, but it was better than being out in the snow and cold.

And so stories were told, songs were sung, prayers said, merry was made and meals were had. Though the meals were nothing quite like what old Kib Spearmobbed used to make—or so said Dôbar Tombhold of her grandmother's cookings.





Early Spring, 386

Spring arrived and with it the Winter Festivities were over. It was time to return to daily life and toil.

But—alas!—it was to be the second spring in row that the shadow of Abod fell upon Waterlures. Asmel Earthenlures the hoary marmot woman and Mestthosite monk had come to the end of her journey. A stout defender of the town with her bare paws, she died peacefully at the age of sixty-four. She would be sorely missed by her comrades, and her friendliness and compassion would surely be remembered.

Yet it was not only Asmel who passed away. Id Pucefloor the naked mole dog man, loyal to Ïteb the gorlak prophet, wasted away at the age of seventy-four. His life in Waterlures was a sad one. It was one of unfulfilled desires—the result of his unhealthy sense of duty—and one of loneliness, a life without friends. But such things were not known to the others, for he kept his own counsel and none knew what was hidden within his heart.





18th of Granite, 386

The lake had thawed, but the ground was still covered in snow when the spring caravan from Ula Tefe arrived. The elves led their reindeer and mules into Waterlures through the Hill Gate—not quite their usual route—and across the walkways to the Trade House. The citizens of Waterlures scurried off to fetch goods for trade, and Atír prepared himself to haggle with the forest dwellers, hoping that this year they might have something interesting to offer.




6th of Slate, 386

“Oh, I don't know, Sibrek... It feels like sacrilege!” Astesh lamented, tears in her eyes. She had run to Sibrek's home after hearing news that the old unfinished temple outside the town walls was to be torn down. “How could they? How can they do such a thing! It-it is so wrong!”

“Astesh, Astesh, please, try to understand,” Sibrek said soothingly, putting a paw on Astesh's shoulder. “The walls were all weathered, all but crumbling. It was becoming a danger, a hazard. You yourself said that it looked like falling apart, tree saplings pushing from between flagstone cracks. Think if children would go playing there and hurt themselves. What then? Who would be to blame? For once, I think it was right of the mayor to make such a decision.”

Astesh yanked herself away from Sibrek's touch, looked at him angrily and said, “I can't believe you are siding with mayor Fecici! Not finishing the temple to Ôsed in the first place was wrong. That was a horrible mistake! It is like this place has turned its back to the Great Doe, condemning their souls to the Prince and Darkness!”

“I... I don't know what to say,” Sibrek frowned and sighed. Clearly Astesh was upset and being all riled up, but, then again, it was true that for some reason the temple had not been completed. Had the citizens abandoned Ôsed? But that could not be true. There were many faithful in town, and they spent much of their spare time praying to the Rabbit in the Sky.





16th of Slate, 386

“Look out!” Someone yelled from above.

Rin turned to look up, only to see planks speeding down towards him. Immediately he tried to jump aside, but he was too slow and his leg was hit by the spinning wood. It was but a glancing blow, though it was enough to knock him off balance, sending him plummeting down from the walkway.

—SPLASH!—

Into the lake he fell, sinking straight to the bottom. Memories flooded his mind. Slipping and falling. Floundering in water, his mail weighing him down, dragging him  into the depths. His lungs feeling like bursting, gasping for air—only to fill his lungs with water. Panic. Consciousness fading. Then death. Darkness... It was strange going through all the memories again, but it did not trouble him. Fear and such were something he could not feel any longer. And, besides, he could not drown, not this time, for he was not really alive.

Slowly he made his way to shore, walking on the muddy bottom of the lake.





18th of Slate, 386

Sheriff Fayoba sighed and looked at the lamb and eggs in front of him. For some reason he had lost his appetite. Well, the reason was quite obvious, given what Ònul's son Tholtig Treatydreamed had come to tell him. Another theft. This time a ring, a family heirloom. And, once again, no leads, no nothing. How was he supposed to solve these cases? He couldn't just go around questioning every one, suspecting each and every citizen, like some had suggested he should. As long as he was sheriff he would frown upon such ideas. He didn't really care what others thought of him. If they thought he was lazy or incompetent, so be it then.

'If Rin were the assistant sheriff, things would be easier,' Fayoba thought, 'but he has no interest in it anymore.' Indeed, when Rin had returned, Fayoba had asked if he'd like his old job back. But Rin had refused. Perhaps he'd have to find a new assistant?

“Say, you wouldn't be interested in being a sheriff's little helper, would you?” Fayoba said to little Tholtig, who had stayed in his office and was now playing on the floor.

Tholtig turned to look at Fayoba, confused by the question.

“I was merely jesting, little one. Please, continue with whatever you're doing,” The sheriff said with a smile and chuckled as he imagined a five year old trying to solve crimes with him.





While Fayoba was pondering about thefts plaguing Waterlures, Dimbulb was stomping angrily down the walkways. The hippo man was furious, but that was his usual state of being these days. In fact, ever since the encounter with the giant coyotes, being wounded, and the shock of Pife's death, his emotional state had gone downhill. His anger was ever growing, like an avalanche. He was in a constant state of internal rage, and it was only a matter of time when he would explode in fury.

He reached the Oaken Gold—the guildhall—and slammed its doors open, treaded across the hall to the southern door. Osod looked up from one of the tailor's tables, away from his knitting, eyeing the hippo man. “Hello, Dimbulb,” the llama man said calmly. “Is there something wrong?”

Dimbulb didn't respond or look. He just waltzed out the doors back outside, banging them shut behind him. He was so mad, so mad that he felt like he soon needed to punch someone. If he had stayed any longer at the mayor's office, he surely would have punched the elf. 'He's so full of himself. Bossing folk around. Stupid elf! He makes me so angry!' Dimbulb fumed in his thoughts, imagining all sorts of different ways to beat up the elf, but soon he felt bad about thinking such mean things.





'By the gods, that was awful!' Mayor Fecici thought as he walked along the wooden walkways across the lake. He was feeling such contempt that he was uncertain he'd felt quite like this ever during his long, long life. He had tried his best to listen, to console, to find out what exactly was the problem, but... It was no use. The hippo man had to be one of the foulest and dumbest beings ever living in Minbazkar. Fecici had tried to remain calm, to keep his voice down, but there was only so much he could bear. The hippo man had the audacity to insult him, and to make matters worse, he did so in an unbelievably dim-witted way!

Though, he had to admit that he did feel pity and empathy. It was that he did not like being yelled at. Especially when there was no reason and Fecici had only tried to comfort him. Well, maybe it helped Dimbulb to vent out his anger at him. At least for the moment. It probably wouldn't be easy to find a solution to the hippo man's problems, to make him happy. Fecici would have to think about it for quite some.





20th of Slate, 386

It was as if the gods themselves disapproved of the dismantling of the unfinished temple.

Etur Laborworth—the youngest of the Mestthosite monks—looked in horror as the scaffolding above him came crashing down along with the stones lain upon it. He was knocked off the boards and went tumbling down to the ground, air escaping his lungs as he impacted. Then horrible cracks and thuds as a stone block fell on his leg, another on his right shoulder and a third on his left paw, crushing it to smithereens. He was overwhelmed with stinging pain.

The pain was unbearable and Etur passed out, bruised and broken.




The elephant man monk Eman Crowglee carried poor mangled Etur to the infirmary. The capybara man was barely conscious, mumbling confusedly, but at least he wasn't bleeding any longer. He would survive, though it was still too early to tell how well he would recover. His leg and arms were a gruesome sight, crushed and twisted into unnatural positions.

“Do not fear, brother Etur,” Eman said to his fellow monk as he lay him on a bed of the hospice. “You will be in good hands soon. You are strong and you will pull through this. Rest, rest now. Mestthos be with you.”





“Um, are you sure you know what you're doing?” Etur asked nervously, as Osod examined his leg looking puzzled. Etur flinched as the llama man poked his leg with a finger, pain almost knocking him out.

“Hmm, the bone appears to be crushed into little bits,” Osod said gloomily, scratching his chin while his mouth was open. “The suturing was the easy part. I'm afraid I'll have to set the bone, then apply a cast. This might hurt a bit...”

It was an understatement. Were it not for the piece of wood Osod gave Etur to bite on, he would have screamed out loud when the llama man pushed the fractured bones together, massaging the small parts back in place or close enough. The operation felt excruciatingly long and Etur was barely conscious, drained of strength, when Osod finished his tormenting.

“There. It is almost as good as new,” Osod said, satisfied as he looked at his handiwork. He wiped his bloody and dirty hands on his tattered silk trousers, and continued, “I have to admit, I am a bit surprised how easily that went. It was the first time I did something like that.”

Etur whimpered, a mortified look on his face.





17th of Felsite, 386

'Aw, that was so nice of Amane,' Coni thought as she walked through the furnace hall. She had bumped into the fairy and had stopped for a little chat. Coni was moved that Amane—who she barely knew—had confided in her with something she had never told anyone. It was quite touching, really. She could not but feel empathy when the fairy told of her arrival in Waterlures over a decade ago. It was just like when Coni had arrived—during a horrible late spring blizzard!

'Well, I do hope I won't be thinking of the snow storm and being all miserable about it in ten years,' the hamster woman thought. She suddenly stopped in her tracks and looked around. She was going the wrong way! She wasn't supposed to go the Fruit of Letters, but to the animal pens to see if any help was needed there. She had completely forgotten about it when she talked with Amane. How silly of her!

She turned around and headed back, chuckling to herself, 'If I continue this way, I'll soon be as scatterbrained as Amane is.'






7th of Hematite, 386

Fecici was at his office, looking at the trinkets on display. The large gems had been replaced, but he was unsure if the new items were any better. The mortar and pestle made from polished green stone—malachite, the miners' had said—with all kinds of decorations were certainly more interesting, the bands of varying shades of green making captivating patterns naturally, but still perhaps not what the office needed. A cleaver and fork—both bronze—sat also on the plinth and the skull of a giant sparrow crowned the queer choice of knickknacks. The other pedestal had an assortment of books, but they were only copies of the originals and lacking in the quality of their illuminations.

'Now where is that hippo man?' Fecici thought as he picked up the bird skull to inspect it. He was waiting for Dimbulb, who once again had some complaints to make. Fecici was not eager to meet up with him and he was running out of patience. It was obvious that he'd be yelled at and called names for things that were not his doing. The mayor grumbled and put the skull back. He had better things to do, plans to make. Things to consider.

The sewers should be good to go by the time the autumn caravan and the outpost liaison came. It was now the beginning of summer, so there was plenty of time. The stronghold, however, was not progressing nearly as fast as it should have and Fecici was running out of excuses. Tirist will not be happy to hear that. Truth be told, Fecici was a bit suspicious of the whole building project. It was something that the legitimate baron of Waterlures, under orders of the Unaging King himself, had commanded to be built. A stronghold, a living space, beneath the surface, in the safety of stone. It was to be a safety measure—a place to hole up in—if the worst came to pass: if the enemy lay siege on Waterlures and the walls did not stop them.

However, what baron Stukos required from the stronghold spoke of something else than a place to withstand a siege. The rooms and halls and everything else seemed like the plans for a small fortress. The halls were to be grand, the living quarters opulent. There needed to be places for work and places for leisure. Places for worship and places for study. Grand cavern gardens built in the underground quarry...

It all seemed as if someone was planning a place suited for a large amount of dwarves to live in. And it disturbed mayor Fecici. For if that was the case, things were bound to change once the 'stronghold' was completed.





12th of Hematite, 386

“Yes, they should stop all the silly daydreaming,” Upu the snow leopard man said to baron Oddom. The two were on sentry duty at the South Gate, passing their time chatting idly of this and that. Somehow they had ended up discussing about romance and marriage, how some folks seemed to complain how they couldn't find true love, and how they yearned for a family of their own. Or, more precisely, it was what Oddom thought folk complained about.

“Indeed. It has worked out quite well with me and Istrul,” Oddom said, nodding his head. “It was a practical choice to marry, not one out of love. That is not to say that we do not care for each other. Quite the opposite, in fact. We have grown to love each other. I do believe this way a relationship and family has stronger foundations than when based purely on romantic desires.”

“Spot on, spot on,” Upu agreed vigorously. “It is best to ground oneself in reality, not strive for some impossible fantasy. If one wants a family, then start one. There is no need for romance to make it happen.”

And so the two went on for quite some time, agreeing and backslapping each other, bolstering their confidence of being right in the matters of this and that.





As was expected, merchants from the Just Union came to Waterlures during early summer. Somehow it still managed to catch everyone off guard: “The humans are here!” and “What? Now? Already?” could be heard all over town. And then the streets filled with laborers running about—some almost panicking—heading off to fetch all sorts of trade goods.

Though, this time there was much hustle and bustle even before the caravan arrived. The town was quite the hive of activity with all the finishing touches to the sewers, the tearing down of the old temple grounds, building new houses, and so on... The occasional grumblings about too much work had grown more frequent, and some—such as Dimbulb—were clearly overburdened by it all.

All it would take was a little push to send the grumblers over the brink.





24th of Malachite, 386

It was the turn of the elf Mame Fordedrises and the capybara woman Inod Oilyrounds to stand guard at the South Gate. A fine summer day with nary a cloud in the sky—such a waste to be on duty today, they both agreed. But such is life, and someone has to keep watch lest foul beast or skulking vermin crawl in to do nasty deeds.

“I'd rather be out in the forest to get some fresh air,” Mame complained, running his fingers through his long silver hair. It was something he had a habit of doing when he was bored, and he most certainly was bored now. “I'm sick of that stench of rotting fish,” he pointed at the middens outside the walls, “sick of that sound of hammering cobblestones,“ he looked up the slope to the mausoleum plaza. “Why bother to cover the ground in stone? There was nothing wrong with the dirt paths and green grass.”

“Maybe it's not perfect, but it's good enough. Much better this way,” Inod said, feeling somewhat uncomfortable in Mame's company. She didn't really understand the mindset of the elf—or of any typical elf, come to think of it. It was just beyond her, all the fuss about nature and the wilds. “What's it to you, anyway? Why fret about the bricking? It's not like the fields and forests beyond the town walls are being paved.”

“Ugh. You almost sound like a dwarf,” Mame said with disgust, feeling like wanting to pick a fight. A good argument would put an end to the boredom, at least for a while.

“Whatever you say,” Inod muttered sourly, turning her back on Mame. She was not at all in the mood for this.






19th of Galena, 386

Zefon Syrupcurl sat in her room, in the Dwarf Quarter beneath Waterlures proper. She had a bowl in front of her, but she did not feel like eating. It wasn't that the yak lung filled with scrambled peahen eggs wasn't tasty—Dodók's cookings were almost divine. It was because Zefon had become haggard and drawn. There was just too much hard menial labor that she had to do. She wasn't cut for it. She was not one to grumble or protest. It was something she held very important: to never complain, no matter what. That was the way, the proper way. Yet, she had thrown a fit—screamed, yelled—before coming to eat. She was disappointed in herself. Like an unruly child she had been, throwing a tantrum like that.

'I'm eating in a dining room. A fantastic dining room. Isn't this bliss?' Zefon tried to be positive as she chewed on a mouthful of food. It didn't work. It certainly didn't feel like bliss.






3rd of Limestone, 386

It was the beginning of autumn. Dimbulb was stooping at the blade weed plot. A constant drizzle of rain fell from the sky, making the air a bit misty. The foliage of the old plum tree provided some cover, but Dimbulb hardly noticed it. He was too wrapped in his own thoughts, dwelling upon old arguments he'd got into—mostly with Galel—and thinking of it made him angry. And that did not help to ease his already troubled mind.

All the hassle and strain caused by life in town, the sheer amound of work there was to do was becoming too much for him to bear. The storm inside him was getting worse and worse. He was not one used to civilized life. All that sillyness with having to act and pretend when talking with people—especially with the stupid nobs—felt so wrong.

But who was he to mock them? Dimbulb was, after all, a “barbarian”, like people smarter than him said. He knew he wasn't smart or wise. He wasn't special, really. That's why he kept his mouth shut most of the time, to not make a fool of himself—

“Hello, Dimbulb,” Deler said as he arrived at the plot, interrupting the hippo man's thoughts. “How're you doing today? Been busy?”

“I dunno, Deler,” Dimbulb replied glumly. “I just get fed up sometimes. I just want to help, but then someone says something mean and I get all mad.”

“Huh. I'm sorry to hear that,” Deler said as he began to help weed the plot. “It happens to us all sometimes, and some people are just ungrateful. So, don't pay attention to the naysayers and bullies. Think of something nice, like... Like a good jolly party!”

Dimbulb straightened up, rubbed his chin with a mud-caked hand, thinking. Maybe it was a good idea? Maybe he just needed some time off, just doing nothing, or, like Deler suggested, have a party? At the very least he could have a drink or two in the evening.

“I think that's a great idea!” Dimbuld said, a hint of a smile appearing on his face.




10th of Limestone, 386

Dôbar Tombhold was strutting down the walkway, her tummy all full after a fine dish. She was quite content and ready to head back to work, which in her case meant hauling resources from one place to another. She was still undecided on what to pursue in life, what would be her trade. She wanted to be an artisan, to create something truly magnificent one day. But what would she focus on? Stone? Wood? Bone? Or perhaps clothes? She was sixteen and by this time many had finished their apprenticeships. She hadn't even begun one.

All of a sudden she felt an odd tingling sensation creep up her spine, her hair standing up. It wasn't a cold or spooky feeling, but one full of warmth and inspiration. The tingling took hold of her mind, removing all doubt and questions. Everything was clear now. She knew what she would become.

She headed to the craft guild, her steps determined and full of confidence. It was time to create.





14th of Limestone, 386

“What do you care how I speak or live? You're just making fun of me! You're a mean bully!” Dimbulb bellowed at Fecici. He was once again at the mayor's office complaining how things were awful in his life. And complaining had turned into arguing and yelling. It wasn't that the elf said anything nasty—he was trying to help—but Dimbulb either misunderstood Fecici or needed to vent his frustration.

“Mind your tongue, hippo man! I'm not trying to torment you—I'm trying to help you!” Fecici snapped at him, waving his finger in front of the menacing giant of an animal person. He was quite fed up with the wailing and tantruming of this citizen. “Now, I have more urgent things to do than listen to your fits. The autumn caravan has been sighted, which means that the outpost liaison is about to arrive. This meeting is over! Thank you, now goodbye!”

With that mayor Fecici ushered the hippo man out of his office, not the least bit afraid that he'd make Dimbulb angrier. He himself was at the point of becoming enraged and for the moment he couldn't care less if things escalated. Fortunately it worked, and Dimbulb left without causing further issue.

'This will be a tough nut to crack,' thought Fecici as he slumped down in his chair, finally alone in the office. 'But that's a problem for another day. Now I really, really need to prepare for the meeting with Tirist...'





“Why the sour face this time? The weather is fine, for once,” mayor Fecici asked Tirist. Indeed, it was a sunny day outside, quite unusual for early autumn. Yet, the outpost liaison looked as grouchy as ever.

“Well, it is not only the rain that I hold a grudge against,” Tirist said rather offendedly. “As you well should know by now, there are other things I find most unpleasant in Waterlures. For instance, the smell is still here—I thought you would have that taken care of by now.”

“Yes, yes. The sewers are finished, but they are not yet in use,” Fecici said as he walked to his desk and put down the bushel of hemp plants he was carrying. “There were some... delays. But, rest assured, by next autumn they will have been in use for some time.”

“Hmpf! They better be. That would be one less annoyance,” the outpost liaison snorted. “It will not, however, take care of some other nuisances and discomforts this town has to offer.”

“And what would those be?” Fecici asked, slightly irritated.



“Well, you see, this time around I was coming down the hill—I visited the marvelous statue garden at first, lovely place, really—in my mind going through matters we have to discuss,” Tirist began his tirade, his nostrils flaring. “Really, I was minding my own business, when, all of a sudden, this absolutely horrendous buzzing sound approached me. I looked around and I could not but scream the Rabbit's name out loud when I saw this horrid black cloud, this swarm of mosquitos, come straight at me! It was ghastly! The fiends stung me here and there, feasting on my blood—do I look pale by the way?—like, like some blasted vampires! I barely made it out alive!”

“A-ha, I see...” Fecici said laconically, sitting down on his desk absent-mindedly.

“And as if that were not enough, there were other, more foul things to come!” Tirist fumed, his fists clenched and his whole body shaking, sending ripples across his belarded frame.

“And what would that be then?” Fecici asked with a not-so-discrete yawn.



“Pixies, good man! Pixies!” Tirist quivered, clearly upset by his experiences. “Nasty, foul, whizzing pixies! Speeding and dancing around me, making me all dizzy in the noggin when I tried to shoo and swat them away!”

“Really...?” Fecici didn't know what else to say. It might take some doing to get Tirist to calm down before they could get to the matters at hand. It'd be a long, dreary meeting and Fecici wasn't one bit happy about it.





26th of Limestone, 386

Thob Helmlabored felt blissful. She had given birth to a boy, her first child! All her prayers to Ôsed were finally answered! And she was not the only one to give birth on that day. Her aunt, Olon Seerlances, had birthed her seventh child, a girl, merely a few hours before Thob.

'Oh, thank you, blessed Ôsed, thank you!' Thob praised the Doe Goddess. It was as if all her worries and insecurities had been wiped away.


(Continued in next post...)

[brewer bob]

(...continued from previous post.)





6th of Sandstone, 386

Zefon's mood kept taking a turn for the worse. There was so many things troubling her mind, and to make matters worse, she had been there, at the old temple grounds, when the accident happened only a few days ago... Or was it weeks? She couldn't quite remember, but she could remember what happened. The sudden rumble, the yelling, the dust. The crash. Then screaming. Sesle's hand sticking out from under the pile of dirt and rubble. Death, death had arrived, claiming the life of the human prophet. He had moments before told Zefon how satisfied he was, how he liked physical work. Then a few heartbeats later he was dead. Mangled and crushed. How fleeting life could be!

Zefon wiped tears out of her eyes as she walked through the dining room of the Baronial Quarters, taking a shortcut to the vault stairs. She was taking the phyllite earring the capybara woman Dôbar had made to be stored behind lock and key. It was strange that she was entrusted with this task after what she had done all those years ago. How she had been a coward, fearing that goblin monster slayer, that cursed Salore! And to her shame she had stolen Brimrabbit the Fin of Mouths, the lay pewter goblet of Odda the leopard gecko woman.

But sheriff Fayoba was a merciful soul. Upon seeing her plight, he had let her go. He had let her go. Like that! She would have deserved a punishment for her sins, but Fayoba... Fayoba had let her go.

Zefon burst into tears as she placed the earring on the pedestal. Then she ran out of the vault, sobbing into her hands.




Despite the grim moods of some and the tragic death of Sesle, life went on as it normally did in autumn. The Trade Hall was filled with bustle and haggling, goods changing hands; the vinyards were harvested, the grapes bountiful; coopers made new barrels, cobblers new shoes; fishery workers handled smelly fish, and cooks cooked fresh meals. And the sewers, they were ready, the channels slowly filling up with water.

And Ôsed's blessing was once again upon Waterlures, for eight more children were born!





21st of Timber, 386

Autumn was nearing its end. The ground was already mantled in a layer of snow, and it was about to thicken, for more white flakes fell from the darkened sky at an increasing rate. A snow storm was approaching, it seemed. Baron Oddom and Mame Fordedrises stood at the East Gate, guarding the entry to town. They were both wrapped tightly in their cloaks to keep the biting chill away.

A traveler entered through the gate, clad in thick layers of clothes made from pelts and fur, cowl pulled tightly over her head. “Good day and welcome to Waterlures, traveler,” baron Oddom greeted the hunched woman, who appeared to be a goblin, judging by her fern green skin and plum purple locks.

“G'day, capybara man,” the goblin croaked as she walked past. She was a vicious looking creature, this one. Her large red eyes had a malign cruelty in them, something that sent shivers down Oddom's spine. Her face bore a nasty jagged scar, running down from the temple to jaw. The scar pulled her upper lip towards the cheek, giving the goblin a constant wicked sneer. And her neck: a straight scar ran across it. Doubtless, someone had tried to slit her throat.

But Oddom was not one to judge by appearances. Who knows what horrible things the goblin had faced leaving her face so ruined? If he would be mutilated as badly in battle, certainly he would feel glum and sulk about it all the time, would he not? Suddenly, he realised there was something familiar about the goblin... Had he seen her before? When? No, that wasn't right. He hadn't seen her. That much was certain. But he had heard a description that fit the goblin.

Now, where was it that he had heard it and in what situation? He pondered and pondered, trying to recall it... Then, after a moment, he remembered.

“Mame! I think you best fetch the sheriff,” Oddom commanded the elf. He was sure he knew now what this was about. “An old thief has come back to town.”





Fayoba was satisfied how the interrogation had turned out. He had been right in trusting his intruition on how to make the goblin talk. The goblin was not as hardened as she looked: a simple threat had been enough to make her tongue loose. Salore, or rather Atu Touchlies—a fitting name—spilled out everything. How she had threatened and forced Zefon to steal the lay pewter goblet, making the poor dwarf her accomplice. It was good to have the case finally solved, even though the stolen goblet was still missing.

However, there was more Atu had confessed to when Fayoba had cornered her. He had felt there was something Salore—Atu—was hiding. And he had been right. Though, he now wished it would not be the case. The goblin had told troubling things, disturbing things. The theft was but the mere beginning of her sinister plots. She had planned to sow seeds of doubt in town, to agitate citizens to the point of rebllion. To cause chaos and disorder. To weaken the rulership, so that it could be overthrown with little trouble.

But who did she work for? It seemed unlikely that Salore was alone behind this. Yet, try as he might, the goblin revealed no names, no pointers as to who lurked in the shadows and pulled the strings. Regardless, justice would be served and Atu would face severe punishment for her treachery.

“This time there is no escape for you,” Fayoba said sternly, his hand on the hilt of his sword. “You will be judged and you will be punished. May Mater have mercy on your soul.”






28th of Timber, 386

“You can hurl all the curses and threats in the world at me if you want! It will not save you from the hammering,” baron Oddom mocked Atu's pitiful attempts to frighten him. The goblin had tried to threaten him and his family, claiming that there's worse to come. She tried to curse him, screamed how demons from the Underworld will feast on his and his family's souls. Oddom had responded with a beating, kicking and punching the goblin until she lay on the library floor, broken. He had then shackled Atu, and was now taking her to the dungeons, dragging her behind him through the snow.



“Fifty hammerstrikes, Atu. Fifty hammerstrikes,” Oddom taunted Atu as he pulled the mangled goblin onward. He was exhilarated and felt zeal after delivering the beating, and now waited for the moment when he could bring the hammer down on her. The law must be upheld, after all. But it was also a personal matter, for he did not take kindly to those who threatened his family. He looked down at the goblin and went on, “There's no surviving the hammer, I tell you. You'll be begging and screaming for mercy long before the end. But if for some reason the gods and fate decide to keep you alive, it won't be over. Oh no, not at all! You'll be thrown into a cell and left to rot in the darkness. You'll never see the open sky again, feel fresh air in your lungs, nor the grass under your feet. You'll be alone until the end of days.”

The goblin glared at the capybara man, her face all bruised and swollen. She spat blood on the snow and grinned. Little did Oddom know that she had no need for such things, nor did she feel pain. For she was one of the undead and she would endure.

=====

So, yeah, another writeup that had to be split into two posts.

After a long time there's some unhappy citizens. Not entirely sure if I'll manage to save Zefon and Dimbulb seems to accumulate stress easily due to getting enraged all the time.

I've also started removing combat hardness from all citizens. Otherwise I've been happy with the 0.47.05 stress fix, but I'm not such a big fan of everyone getting so quickly used to seeing bodies. So that also contributes to the stress, I guess. Most of the citizens are still at negative stress (many at -99k) so I don't believe there's any time soon going to be any general tantrum spiral.

[brewer bob]

Part VII:
Nasty Affairs




12th of Moonstone, 386

It was early winter and the citizens of Waterlures were busy at work. There were still things to do before the Winter Festivities and time was running out. Etur the Mestthosite Monk had recovered swiftly from the accident, to the surprise of everyone. He was going about his daily tasks as good as ever. He was on his way to fetch building materials when the magics permeating the surroundings of the Lakes of Saturninity took hold of him. Or perhaps it was the divine will of Mestthos? None were sure what caused the strange moods, but everyone knew that whoever was possessed by the unknown forces crafted things worthy of legend.

So would be the case with Etur. A new artifact would be created by his paws.






The dwarf Zefon Syrupcurl pushed the weasel man Ònul Tranceceiling aside as she stormed into the Hut of Romancing. “Hey! Watch it!” Ònul snapped angrily at the dwarf, but Zefon just grumbled, wiping the snow off her shoulders as she passed him. A snow storm was raging outside, but it was nothing compared to the foul mood Zefon was in. She had had quite enough and was having another of her tantrums. Two cats on the way had narrowly averted her wrath and it had made her all the more enraged. The people gathered in the tavern were not to be as fortunate as the cats, if she had any say in it.

“Zefon! Came for a drink, eh?” the dwarf Zasit greeted Zefon, raising his mug up high drunkenly. “I myself have already drank a few, and you certainly look like you need a whole keg, har har.”

Zefon stared icily at Zasit as she turned to head for him. Further off, she noticed a group of patrons congregated next to one of the booths. Dimbulb the hippo man, several capybara people, the human newcomer, whose name Zefon didn't quite remember, and the elf sheriff. They looked like they were having a jolly good time and that infuriated Zefon. She was not enjoying herself the least bit and she envied them. The company of friends was something she treasured, but she was in no mood for such pleasant things. As if anybody cared how she felt, she scoffed.

“Bad day, huh?” Zasit asked, raising his brow. “Well, I have just the right thing for you—whoaah!” His words were cut short when Zasit threw a punch at him. It was surprising that he managed to duck the blow, though he lost balance and fell on his haunches with a heavy thud. Zefon followed with a kick, but Zasit rolled aside, shouting at her, “Stop! Calm down! What's the matter with you!?”

As Zefon tried to kick and punch the rolling and scrambling Zasit, the screaming and scuffling inevitably drew the attention of the other patrons. Noticing the commotion, sheriff Fayoba put his mug down on a table, wiped his mouth, excused himself and made haste to break the fight before it turned ugly.

There seemed to be much need for a sheriff these days in Waterlures.




17th of Moonstone, 386

“Yes, well, you see, mister mayor,” Sibrek Paperpriced explained to Fecici as he tried to keep pace with the elf's swift stride. “I had quite some expectations when I came to town. I had heard all these stories of the grandeur of Waterlures, its peacefulness and piety—not to forget its wealth—so, you see, you can possibly imagine why it has been a bit of a letdown for Astesh and, of course, for me...”

Mayor Fecici paid little attention to the capybara man's ramblings. This was not yet the meeting they were to have, and besides he was already well aware of all the grievances Sibrek had. This wasn't the first time he came to voice his complaints. Quite frankly, there were other more urgent things to consider, such as the two deaths on the cusp of the Winter Festivities. Yes, Mister Sheriff Brutal Style of Limbs had been actively chastising criminals.

Zefon Syrupcurl had ended up dead after her tantrums turned violent at the Hut of Romancing. Justice delivered when she had calmed down and returned to work, died with chisel still in her grasp. It was a pity, a waste of life. Such were the laws of Ustuth Ïdath, and those laws were upheld in Waterlures, despite the town trying to keep its distance from the dwarf kingdom. And, truth be told, maybe this was for the best. Zefon's mood was only getting worse and worse. She would've eventually withered away, like a tree left without nourishment. Fecici sighed.

“...and then there is the thing that I feel terribly, terribly lonely—not that I don't have friends, mind you—quite often these days, truly, and actually...” Sibrek went on with his tirade as the two climbed up the stairs.

“I see, go on,” Fecici said, feigning interest for a moment, then returned to his thoughts. As if one deadly beating wasn't enough, there had been the case with the visitor, the drunk goblin picking fights for any stupid reason she could think of. Now, what was her name? Ah, yes, Covema Fordcanyon. She had been drinking too much and had tried to brawl with Zon Mineburned, the old capybara man. Instead of a fight she got a personal audience with the sheriff's fists. And that was the end of Covema's life. Battered to death in the middle of the patio outside the Enchanted Bridge, right in front of many a citizen. Understandably it had left the witnesses shocked and shaken—as if there were not enough sour moods in town!

This didn't seem like a good end for the year. Not at all. A little chat with sheriff Fayoba might be in order.





20th of Moonstone, 386

Idar walked through the alley and the door at its end, leaning on her crutch and carrying a barrel of sheep's milk under her other arm. It was a pleasant enough winter day, the sun shining in a clear sky, the air crisp, snow crunching beneath shoes. She was heading to make some cheese for the Winter Festivities and to fill the stores, though there was no shortage of cheese. That was the way the dwarf cheese-maker liked it and she would do her best to keep it that way. As long as milk flowed there would be cheese.

Once inside the dairy, Idar poured the milk in a pot and put it on the fire. She began whisking it as she brought it slowly to a boil. This was the life for her: making cheese and spending her spare time at one of the taverns. In fact, she had earlier this day seen a performance—a rehearsal for the festivities—and it had delighted her very much! She could hardly wait to see what kind of a party it would be this year.

Coming to Waterlures was probably one of the best decisions of her life. She hardly missed her life at Hushedfins and the Familial Brim. She rarely thought of how Papos and the rest were doing, and, to be honest, she didn't really care. They had treated her like dirt, made her do all the disgusting work, and worst of all they had insulted her cheese!

There was none of that here. This place was home.





Galel was scaling fish at the fishery below his home. There was still a lot of rainbow trout that needed to be scaled and gutted, but the ostrich man was in no hurry. The winter cold would preserve the fish well enough. He didn't really care for this kind of work—he never had—but he didn't mind doing it. It was work and that was good enough, although he was more of the fisherman than the fish cleaner—back in the north fishing was his life, all there really was.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. There was also the drinking and arguing with others. And that he liked.

Regardless, life in Waterlures seemed to be decent enough. At first, while waiting for citizenship, it felt like this would be a boring place with nothing happening. But that was not the case. There was so much happening here, and many recent events had stirred things up, made tempers flare and emotions go wild!

And there seemed to lie things hidden beneath the surface, too. Sinister secrets to be uncovered if one stuck his beak in the right places.




Only a few days earlier, when Galel had been to the old mill's stores, he had noticed something strange. A faint light had flickered in a dark nook, hidden behind wooden beams and windmill axles. Curiosity had taken hold of the ostrich man and he had investigated the source of the light. How he had been surprised to find a makeshift shrine in the gloom, a sputtering candle casting its last light on a vile bone idol—a secret place of worship!

The figurine depicted a robed human clutching a large, cruel dagger in his raised skeletal hand, ready to strike. In front of the man an elf was on his knees, submissive and weeping. Beneath his hood, the man's skull was twisted into a laughing grin. The skeletal man was clearly one of the Dark Gods, but Galel was unsure which one of them. It wasn't Akkar, of that he was certain, nor any of the dwarven gods. He would have to seek answers in the library when he had time.

What was most interesting and disturbing in the graven image was the elf. He looked suspiciously like the sheriff. The uncanny resemblance to Fayoba was undeniable. The question was then: what was the meaning of it? The shrine itself had to be erected by Rin the goblin—there was no doubt, for he lived in the room next to it. There was something malicious brewing here.

'I knew he was scheming and hiding something,' Galel thought smugly as he finished cleaning the fish. 'Now, what is that devious goblin up to?'




Mid-Winter, 386

The Winter Festivities began in the early days of Opal, in mid-winter. Animal person, elf, dwarf, human and goblin alike made their way to the Fruit of Letters as was tradition. It was time for warmth and coziness, for friend and family, for song and drink. Or, at least it should have been like that. The recent deaths marred the moods of all, and the towering hippo man on the verge of a breakdown did nothing to improve spirits.



In a shady corner, Rin the goblin sat, staring blankly at the boisterous crowd from beneath his hood. The normal sounds of making merry were befouled with bickering and arguing, the tension in the acrid air was palpable. It reminded Rin of a time and place several centuries back, when he had still lived among the goblins. His ears warped the sounds of the festivities into the jeering and snickering filling the dark pits. In their halls the goblins feasted and brawled in an orgy of drink and violence, the flames of fire pits casting twisted shadows on the walls. Plots were unveiled when hidden knives were pulled out and thrust between the ribs of rivals. Blood and murder paved the way to higher station.

Rin tried to push such memories aside. What was happening to him? Why was he thinking such foul things? This was not the time or place to meditate on murder and death.

But no matter how much he tried, he couldn't keep the thoughts away.





16th of Obsidian, 386

“I am sorry, but what is the meaning of this?” Osod asked the elf, worry in his voice. The festivities had ended a few days ago, and most had returned to their daily routines. Some, however, had decided to “keep the cheer up” for a few more days. Osod was one of them, as was Ririli, the elf who was currently dragging him by the loose skin of his neck.

The two were visibly drunk and several bypassers shook their heads at the sight, trying not to laugh out loud. To them it was quite obvious what Ririli was about to do, pulling the llama man with one hand, holding shears in the other.




“It's shearing time!” Ririli cheered, raising the shears and snipping them in the air.

“Oh... It is?” Osod said, relaxing a bit. He looked at his wool. It was thick and long. Warm. Maybe even a bit too warm with spring soon to come. Yes, Ririli was correct. It was time to shear. “Hmm, I suppose it is. My wool will make good yarn and warm cloth—let us be off to shearing then!”






6th of Granite, 387

Baron Oddom looked at the two green glass statues in niches carved into the throne room wall. The first was a depiction of him striking down the hydra Agwa Mitebreaches the Pulpy. It was an exceptionally made statue, the pose of Oddom heroic and triumphant. The moment when supposedly the very age of the world was changed. It certainly didn't feel like it. Things had changed, yes, but not because of a dead hydra. Oddom scoffed, and shifted his attention to the other statue.

The second statue was a rendition of Baroness Kasat Waxedtiles, his mother and founder of Waterlures. She was depicted like he remembered her: a proud, strong and resolute woman. A true leader. She was the one who made this place safe and thriving. A place that was more than home: a place of hope and a better future. If only people would remember that, and not indulge themselves in selfish pleasures, whining when faced with even the smallest of hardships.

Yes, things had changed, but not in a good way. It was due to the lack of proper leadership and loyalty. First Likot as mayor: a disaster. Then the elf—that obnoxious peacock—who has been re-elected for who knows how many times now. And that was unlikely to change any time soon. Forming the Citizens' Assembly was a terrible mistake, Oddom scowled in his mind.

“Papa, what are you thinking?” Young Uvash, who was playing next to the throne, asked him.

“Loyalty, my son. Loyalty,” Oddom turned to face his firstborn and put his paws on his shoulders. “It is loyalty that keeps society running. Loyalty and faith to your grandmother and her vision is why we have a place to call home. Is it not so?”



“Yes, like you have taught! And when all other bonds wither, friends will always be there,” Uvash said excitedly, eager to impress father. Oddom, however, was not impressed by the answer. His grip tightened and his expression became stern.

“No. That is not what I have told you, Uvash,” he said, his voice grave as he looked his son in the eyes. Uvash was soon to be twelve, an adult, but he had yet so much to learn. “Friendship is important—that much is true—but friends can change. The friend of today may very well be the enemy of tomorrow. No, faith must be placed elsewhere.”

“Where then, papa?” Uvash asked, his lower lip quivering. He felt ashamed for letting father down with the wrong answer.



“Family. Family is where we find the truest of bonds. It is the founding pillar of society,” Oddom said, releasing his grip and straightening himself into a regal pose, his eyes glistening with zeal. “Your uncles, your aunts. Your brothers, your sisters. Your parents—your mother and I. Your family. That is where to place your faith in. Nothing else in this world can be trusted like it. Remember that, my son, for one day you will be baron.”






9th of Granite, 387

The elves from Ula Tefe came to trade early that year. A blizzard was tearing over Waterlures when they arrived, forcing the peddlers to wade slowly through the snow. They looked with interest at the snow-covered mounds of rubble and stonework as they walked across the old temple grounds. Where once had stood signs of civilization, now grew young trees and saplings—a sight that brought warmth into their hearts and minds, despite the harsh weather.





20th of Granite, 387

It was not only elf merchants who visited Waterlures that spring, when winter seemed not to loosen its grip. One cold evening a lone elf entered town through the South Gate, wrapped in coarse peasant rags, her hood pulled low to keep the biting chill away. She passed Ana the fox woman who stood guard at the gates, responding to her greeting with a nod. Her destination was the Enchanted Bridge, and the way there was well-known to her. This was not her first time in Waterlures. No, she had been here before, and the last time she visited, she had been forced to make a hasty retreat lest she be persecuted by the law.

For some reason, Fira Flowerelbows—the guise of Fale Eldertwig—had decided to return to town.






21st of Granite, 387

Sheriff Fayoba strode quickly across the walkway towards the Enchanted Bridge. Word had reached his ears that 'Fira', or someone who looked like her, had returned to Waterlures. 'It can't be her. She wouldn't be that stupid, would she?' Fayoba thought, feeling cautiously excited. He really didn't know what he should do if it really was Fira. Yes, she had been sentenced in absentia, and she should be punished. But the thought of having to administer another beating terrified Fayoba. He was having recurring nightmares of himself pummelling Covema—the brawling goblin—in the middle of a crowd, the goblin pleading him to stop, only to hear himself laugh wickedly as he continued pounding the goblin's head until it was but pulp. Then waking up to his own screams, covered in cold sweat. Of course, the punishment hadn't gone like that in reality, but he could not deny the exhilaration and zeal he had felt. That had been real, as well as Covema's death. And it horrified him, what he was capable of and, even worse, could enjoy in the moment.

He walked past Zon's Tailory and looked at the patio pavilion. A swarm of pixies buzzed over its roof and two patrons were sitting at the tables. A goblin and an elf. His steps slowed a bit. Fayoba hesitated. Yes, Fira was there alright. 'Well, perhaps I'll just take her for a talk and see what she's up to,' he thought, took a deep breath and walked straight to the thief who had decided to return.




“Fine, if you don't want to tell more, then don't,” Fayoba said to Fira who leaned on the sheriff's table, flaunting her long silver locks. “There's no need to be all smug about it.”

Fayoba had finished putting Fira through the mill, making intimidating remarks to try and get her talking. It had seemed to work at first, when Fira had slipped out that “there's definitely something brewing” with her and an unnamed accomplice in town. When questioned further, she had become cagey and shut her mouth. Perhaps Fayoba had made a mistake by promising that he'll revoke her previous sentencing and let her go? He felt a bit stupid for that now, but he wouldn't go back on his word. Truth be told, he thought the punishments according to law were too severe. Back in Múya Loré the theft would have resulted with disapproval by the community. Treason, however, would have had her exiled and declared outlaw—almost the same as a death sentence, but still better than a hammering.

“In any case, I will not push any further,” Fayoba said with a sigh and crossed his arms across his chest. “You are free to go, you have my word, Fira... Or would you prefer I called you Fale?”

“Fira will do just fine,” Fira said as she hopped up and dallied to the door. Before she stepped out, she hollered over her shoulder, “And don't you worry, I won't be causing you any trouble this time, mister sheriff!” She yanked the door shut behind her.

“...you can call me Fayoba,” the sheriff muttered, listening to Fira's jolly laughter fading as she skipped away along the corridor. His head sank down against his chest and he sighed. He had a terrible feeling that letting Fira go would come back to bite him one day. At the very least some citizens were bound to be upset once they heard that the sheriff had been lax in his duties.






11th of Slate, 387

The dwarf Endok Touracts was coming from the Orange of Buds, the farmers' guild, enjoying the spring sun. For once, it did not rain and the sky was clear with no clouds in sight. He was in a fairly good mood and his mind untroubled. Or mostly untroubled. Daily life was as dull as it always was, what with all the farm work and such. It was toil without end. No matter how much you worked, there was always more to do. Quite unlike crafting, Endok pondered. Once you complete a piece of art, it is done.

Endok grumbled to himself, stopping at the animal pens. What was he complaining about? He wasn't one to work hard to be as skilled as a master craftsdwarf. The whole notion of practicing a craft for years on end to reach such skill as required to be a master made him sick. Fortunately he was quite content with admiring what others had created.

All of a sudden, as his thoughts began to race to all the wonderful art found in Waterlures, his eyes went wide, his mouth agape—a strange vision struck him and mysterious forces possessed him.

“Megidlek,” Endok proclaimed as his legs began to guide him towards the leather works in the old derelict house where Ova once lived.

It seemed Endok would create something beautiful, after all.





15th of Slate, 387

The crow man Meng Manywalled was perched on a wooden post, looking at the unicorn parading all alone in the trampled grass and weeds. Meng scratched the downs of his fat throat, his corvid thoughts meandering all over the place, but mostly he thought of that stupid argument with that dumb weasel man! 'So rude, so crude! Such insulting Ònul did!' Meng griped in his mind. He couldn't really remember what the argument was about, or how Ònul insulted him, but clearly it had happened, because he was so furious about it!

'One must always return a favor,' Meng thought, grinning deviously. Yes, yes. He would have his revenge one day and then it would be the weasel man who was insulted! How would he feel about that, hah! It would be Meng who would have the last laugh. Now, he only had to formulate a plan... But the rumbling in his belly interrupted his schemes for vengeance. Meng was feeling hungry. He flapped down from the post and headed to the Enchanted Bridge to get some food.

Revenge could wait a little bit longer.





11th of Felsite, 387

'Hmm, the shelves are empty here. A layer of dust on everything,' Galel contemplated the bookcases of the odd room he had found high above the House of Knowledge. It had been a rather uneventful spring with nothing much happening. Unless you count that goat leather bag, Slidbristle, Endok created as something noteworthy. Sure, it was grand, a dwarven masterpiece, but in the end it was just a bag, pfft! Nothing really to fuss about.

Yes, it had been a boring spring, so Galel had decided to wander around town, to see if there was something he hadn't yet discovered. It was a few days short of four years since he arrived, and it was a pleasant surprise that there was still much he was unaware of. Given time, he was bound to uncover all manner of secrets. Like what lay beyond those steep wooden stairs leading up at the room's end. Perhaps he should first ask what where the stairs led before he stuck his beak up there? It wouldn't look good if someone caught him snooping around.

'Another day then,' Galel squinted his eyes and rubbed his beak as he deliberated. He left the room, descending the spiral stairs, keeping his back against the wall. A single misstep could send him plummeting down the wide open space next to the stairs—something he dearly wanted to avoid. Death by splattering all over the place was not a good way to die.

Once he reached the main hall of the library, he saw Dimbulb reading a book. A book! He had thought the hippo man couldn't read. Well, in any case, it was good to see the silly brute studying. Maybe he would learn something useful?

“Hello Dimbulb, pick up anything new?” Galel asked the hippo man, waving around his luxurious midnight blue silken cloak.

“Yah, I learned about the phases of the moon,” Dimbulb said, looking up from the book that seemed small in his big hippo man hands. “It's interesting. And there's funny drawings of angry animals in it.”

“Hah! Phases of the moon! What's the deal with that?” Galel snorted and flapped his hand demeaningly. “As if there's anything more to learn about the moon! There's waxing, there's waning. There's the new moon, then there's the full moon—” He paused and stiffened. The full moon. Galel shuddered. It reminded him of the horrifying moment when the braying beast came and almost got him. “...say, what kind of drawings did you say there was?”

“Look, funny isn't it?” Dimbulb showed the stone-bound codex to Galel. It was an illuminated manuscript, though not a very good one. There were plenty of flourishes and miniature illustrations, but the style wasn't impressive. Still, the decorative initial in the beginning of the page and paragraph caught Galel's attention. He looked closer at it. It was the letter 'O', with a starry night and two figures in it. There was a dwarf—or was it an elf?—who was holding his hands up to shield himself, facing a... No, it couldn't be! Galel felt a chill creep up his spine. It was an image of a horrible mockery of a man with the head of a donkey—a weredonkey!

“Haha, t-that's very funny, ha, ha,” Galel faked laughter nervously, tapping his finger on the picture and gulped loudly. He felt beads of cold sweat form on his brow and a sudden urge to run away took hold of him. He turned on his heels and without a word made a hasty retreat out of the library.

“Uh... Huh? Did I do something wrong?” Dimbulb wondered aloud, looking at the ostrich man speeding away. The hippo man was left quite confused, but soon turned back to the book and chuckled at the picture of the weredonkey. “Haha, funny angry donkey-thing.”






17th of Felsite, 387

Tanzul looked back over his shoulder as he made his way to Edu's Fishery and the crafts workshop above it. Dimbulb was meandering slowly behind him, a blank stare in his eyes, his shoulders drooping. Tanzul had tried to talk to the hippo man, make some contact, but he was unresponsive. For some time now Tanzul had been worried about his friend, as were the rest of his companions—even Galel was, at least somewhat. Yet no amount of cheering and comforting helped the hippo man or eased his pain. In fact, Dimbulb's state only got worse and worse by the day. Now things were at the point that he stumbled around obliviously, completely unaware of his surroundings.

It was quite discouraging and heart-wrenching. But at least it made Tanzul's own “problems” seem quite insignificant and petty. Yes, he had been bored lately, his senses felt dulled and he often was unmoved by songs and poetry at the taverns. Hardly problems, really. 'Everything's alright,' he thought. Boredom could be solved. Like doing something creative, carving something out of wood, which he was about to do.

But how to help Dimbulb? Tanzul had no answers to that.





21st of Felsite, 387

Melbil Staffdives, the sixteen year old son of Fikod and Kogan, put down his wood cup with a trembling hand. He had come to the wine cellar under the brewery to fetch a drink, but now he was shaking, trying to hold back his tears. Atìr the broker, who had just finished his drink and was tipsy, noticed that something was troubling the young capybara man and walked to him.

“Hullo Melbil, is something wrong?” Atìr asked his nephew, sounding more cheerful than he intended to. “You look like you've seen a ghost!”

“Huh? No. Uh, I'm alright, uncle,” Melbil snapped out of his thoughts. “I-I just thought of... remembered... Covema came into my mind.”

“The goblin, was it? You knew him?” Atìr inquired, scratching his cheek fur and looking at the ceiling thoughtfully.

“Her, uncle. Covema was a her,” Melbil corrected and rolled his eyes.

“Ah, yes. Quite. A horrible thing, really, the whole nasty affair,” Atìr said with a sigh, his shoulders sinking down, but within a moment he staightened up and continued, “The sheriff does get carried away quite easily, it seems. Few escape his Brutal Style of Limbs, eh? Get it?”

“Gah. You're drunk,” Melbil moaned at the reference to the dubious moniker Fayoba had earned. He really hated it when his uncle behaved like this, trying to be all witty and funny, acting like Melbil was still a little child. Especially in a situation where he wanted to be left alone.

“Well, I guess that I am!” Atìr chirped in a cheerful singsong voice, inching past Melbil towards the door. “But there is much work to do, so now I must go-ooo!” He finished his “song” with a raising pitch, out of key, and danced out of the wine cellar.



Melbil waited in silence, listening to Atìr's singing grow faint. When he was sure his uncle was far enough not to hear, he burst into tears, grieving the death of Covema. He had hardly known the goblin, but still it felt bad. It hurt. The suddenness of it all, the unfairness. It wasn't supposed to go like that, the punishment. Even sheriff Fayoba had been shocked by it.

'Ôsed, if you are listening, I beg you, let Covema's soul into your heavenly herd,' Melbil prayed to the Rabbit in the Sky, hoping that the goblin's spirit was now among the stars of the night.





25th of Felsite, 387

Galel chuckled by himself as he walked up the slope, heading to the barracks to fetch his old trusty whip. He had managed to convince the Militia Warden Kumil to allow him into the town militia. And not only that, Galel was free to form his own band and act as its captain. 'That's Captain Muterealms to you, peasant,' the ostrich man gloated in his mind, imagining how he could annoy his friends and acquaintances with his new title. Not that he had any respect for those who thought of themselves as better due to their heritage or station. Galel had no interest in being one of the higher-ups, except in the sense that it could make it easier to sow discord among the nobility. Now that he would like to do. But it was better to take it one thing at a time. There was no need to be hasty.



'The Fenced Twigs'. That's what Galel decided to call his group, which for the moment consisted only of him. The name, well, it obviously was meant to mock 'the Fenced Princes', the elite group of warriors of Waterlures led by Kumil and baron Oddom. Galel chortled, thinking it a rather clever quip. Oh, how much fun he was yet to have, what kind of chaos he would cause! A glorious mess was what he preferred.



As he stepped from under the boughs of the old oak, passing the shrine dedicated to Icemì Apedives, the hiss of a heavy downpour swept over him and torrents of rain fell from the sky. Within moments Galel was soaking wet, his mood soured and bitterness taking hold of him.

“You just couldn't wait until I got inside, you sheep-fondling scut!” Galel squawked angrily, shaking his fist at the clouds.

At that moment the black bear woman Urdim Planrocks came rushing out of the barracks, protecting herself from the rain with her shield. She tilted her head quizzically, wondering what was wrong with the ostrich man cursing and yelling obscenities all by himself in the rain.







4th of Hematite, 387

It was a beautiful and sunny day, summer had arrived and the spring rain ended. Momuz Speartours leaned his elbows on the banister of the Bell Tower, cupping his chin in his paws. He took a deep breath of the fresh air blowing from the lake. He was quite delighted, reminiscing on the wonderful stories and poems he had heard during the Winter Festivities, the bliss brought by his own home and bed, the good meals, and the satisfaction preparing fish brought him. It was a good and meaningful life he lived, the service he did to Waterlures when he was posted at this tower serving as lookout.

Yes, despite all the bitterness and the storm raging inside him, he was quite content. He had learned much in the past year, his skill with the sword had improved considerably. Yet, he was still far from what it would require to be a true swordscapybara and worthy of Mestthos's respect. 'The quest for skill is never ending,' he thought, turning his head to look into the woodlands beyond the town walls.

What was that? Something caught his eyes under the trees beyond the old temple grounds. There was movement and was that glimmering? It looked as if the rays of the sun were reflected from something. He rushed to the northern side of the tower to get a better look. He stretched over the railing, and what he saw made his heart leap and pound wildly.



Up the grassy slopes snuck a band of ten or so crouched figures, covered in a patchwork of fur, hide and crude iron. Red eyes gleamed from under rusty kettle hats and bascinets—some with iron masks shaped into demonic faces—green and grey skin flashing from uncovered places.



Goblins! A goblin raiding party had arrived!

It was time to sound the alarm.

=====

So, a cliffhanger, sorry for that.

Decided that it's a good place to stop so that the writeup doesn't end up being too long. I was already wondering why we haven't been seeing any goblins. Well, now they came back. I doubt that this one will be a big problem since it looks like there's only a squad of them (9 recruits and 1 crossbowman).

I'm actually quite satisfied that I've been removing the combat hardness from citizens. There's more reaction from them after deaths (note: the stressed citizens were over-stressed already). We'll see how the aftermath of the siege goes.

[brewer bob]

Part VIII:
Fair Weather, Foul Meetings




4th of Hematite, 387

“There are few who have my trust,” Kumil the faun declared to his comrades-in-arms as they walked through the Mill Gate, ready to confront the approaching goblins. Their weapons were drawn and eager to taste blood in the coming battle. “But all of you have earned that trust—it is an honor to have the like of you by my side! Onwards, my friends! For Waterlures!”

“For Waterlures!” The warriors' shouts echoed up the hill, heralding their coming. Excitement and thrill coursed through the veins of those who were among the first to head for battle. Not all of the Fenced Princes and the Orbs of Focus had arrived on time at the rallying point next to the old bowyery, the house where Suwu once lived.

Kumil had made the decision to mount the offensive immediately and not wait any longer. It was entirely possible that not all citizens had made it within the safety of the town walls yet. They would be easy prey for the raiders if there was nobody to defend them. That was something Kumil could not allow. Waiting was not an option.






“It's great to be with you all, to be mirthful together even when the battle nears. Together we will prevail!” Urdim Planrocks the black bear woman tried to boost the morale of the Ochre Snarls who had stayed behind to guard the Mill Gate. In truth, she said it mainly to calm herself, for she could feel the anxiety building up within her. She was not one who dealt well with stressful moments.

“Speak for yourself! Better to trust your own blade and skill. Relying on others only breeds weakness and disaster,” Istrul Wheelscrow snapped. She was in a sour mood and she was not at all feeling confident about the upcoming fighting. The death of Cusal—and what it did to her husband Oddom—was still fresh in her memory. All she wanted was peace and quiet, but apparently forces beyond her control said otherwise.

“Oh? Do I hear you saying that praying to the gods is a sign of weakness, then?” Nish Prisonpaddle jabbed at Istrul, thinking himself quite clever. This very morning he had seen Istrul praying at the shrine of Ôsed, which in her own words was weakness. For what else was praying than depending on others, on the whim of the fickle gods? What a hypocrite!

“What? That is not at all what I said, young man,” Istrul spouted angrily. “I did not say 'relying on the gods'. Praying is not the same as relying, if that is what you were thinking.”

“Oh shut up, you both!” Alåth Clearednet, the dwarf captain of the Ochre Snarls, thundered at the bickering two before things escalated any further. “Save your rage and fury for the enemy! We're not here to discuss or debate religion or philosophy. We're here to defend Waterlures!”





Inod Oilyround charged at the first of the goblins coming down the hill. The fur-clad goblin screeched from behind its iron mask shaped in the image of a sneering demon, ready to tackle the capybara woman armed with spear and shield. With bare hands the goblin attacked Inod as she rounded the trunk of an ash tree. But Inod was nimbler than the goblin expected and she jumped past him, thrusting her spear in the goblin's shin. The spear tore through trousers, skin and muscle all the way to sting the bone. His knee bent in an unnatural position by the impact, snapping tendons and ligaments alike.

The goblin howled and fell down, the reedgrass softening his landing.

Inod swirled around, ready to face the onslaught of the rest of the goblins. With one graceful move she ended her spin in a thrust—a crossbow bolt whizzing past her—striking the leg of another green-skinned raider, sending it, too, reeling to the ground, unable to stand and yowling in pain.

It was only then that she noticed that the rest of her group were far behind and the goblins were about to swarm her.

“This is a fight! Terror and death!” Nako Doomjumped, a goblin of the Fenced Princes, yelled as he rushed behind Kumil to aid Inod, waving his sword madly in the air. He was at the same time terrified and exhilarated, seeing the capybara woman stab one of the downed goblins in the gut.

Soon he too would feel the joy of slaughter!



Inod was driven further and further into the teeming mass of goblins as she stabbed and jabbed, left and right, dodged and jumped, blow after blow. She left behind her a path of screaming goblins lying on the ground, clutching their wounds—easy pickings for the rest of the Princes and Orbs.



In mere moments the goblins realized that this ferocious rodent with her savage spear and battering shield was even on her own an unstoppable force. A furious tempest with blunted snout and shaggy hair, raining ruin around her! And there were more of these beasts on their way!

Their confidence and bloodlust soon turned into despair, despair into fear, fear into terror. Panic spread among the goblins' ranks and the first of them turned to flee. A goblin scampered up from the trampled ground and bolted for the hills, screaming and crying for mercy in the name of all that was holy and unholy!




But the goblin turned around, regaining her courage as she heard the dying screams of her group as the rest of the Waterlures militia fell upon them. Perhaps she knew that fleeing back to the dark pits with tail between legs would entail a fate worse than death, or perhaps madness decended on her and she thought she could vanquish these warriors all alone?

“So easily broken...” Inod said as she pulled her spear free from the head of the goblin she had slain. Horror and fear began to creep in after the worst of the fighting was over. All around her lay the broken bodies of goblins, her comrades finishing off those who still had breath in them.

The defenders of Waterlures turned to look west, hearing the yells of one more goblin—the one who fled, but decided to return, to meet her doom.



It was a massacre.

One unarmed goblin against the spears of the capybara woman Inod and the panda woman Cóce; the swords of Kumil the faun, Ana the fox woman, Atera the coyote man and Nako the goblin; the hammer of Upu the snow leopard man, the mace of the goblin Caÿilu, and the axes of the pig man Osime and the capybara men Kogan and Litast.

There was no way the goblin could have survived their onslaught.

It was a gruesome affair when the mixed group of warriors piled on her, hacking and slashing, stabbing and whacking. Only an unrecognizable mass of gore, broken bones and shredded clothing was left behind, staining the soil and grass.



Yet, one more goblin remained, one who had stayed behind.

Up on the hill, crossbow in hand the goblin trembled in terror, unable to move, listening to the dying screams of his kin. As the last of the screams faded, he saw the head of a stupidly grinning pig man rise up the slope into view, then the rest of the body and then the axe dripping with blood he carried, loping up the hill in search of more to kill.

“Come'n join the fun, little goblin!” The pig man squealed with glee, his beady eyes gleaming with murderous intent, his tongue licking his lips.

The goblin shrieked in terror, turned tail and fled. He ran and ran, not looking behind, fear for his life gifting him unnatural speed and endurance to leave his pursuers far behind.

He was the only goblin raider to make it out alive that day.






While the militia of Waterlures was dealing with the goblin threat, most of the citizens were sheltered in the taverns or the library. Some, however, were in the Oaken Gold, the guild hall, hoping to find safety within its wooden walls.

“There's just no room for mercy in this world,” Coni said gloomily to the elderly capybaras Libash and Zon, fiddling nervously with the dark stone scepter in her paws. It disturbed her that she felt that way—she really wished she didn't—but it was the hopeless conclusion she had come to. It was a cruel world they lived in: kill or be killed. “Showing mercy will only put you in the gutter with a knife in your back. The wicked can't be fought with kindness. That's the way it is, and it is sad.”

“Such has the world ever been, and so it shall be until the End of All, when everything shall be consumed by the Nothingness,” old Libash proclaimed in a dry and foreboding voice, standing straight and twirling a finger in the air. She then let out a chuckle and eased her posture. “But truly, think how terribly dreary and dull life would be if there was no strife or struggle. Indeed, the ringing of the alarm let us escape from the humdrum of daily toil. And it allowed us to see our skilled warriors marching—truly a beautiful sight to behold!”





12th of Hematite, 387

Early summer was blessed with remarkably fair weather and the citizens of Waterlures basked in the warmth of the sun as they went on with their work. Although the sudden and unexpected raid by the goblins had left a lingering sense of uneasiness in its wake, gnawing at the back of many a capybara's head. This was something the leadership of the town wished to address by calling for the Citizens' Assembly to gather in mid-summer.

Sudden—but hardly unexpected—was also the arrival of the human merchants from the Just Union. Like always, the workers paused their work, rushed hither and thither to fetch barrels of fish and meats, jugs of royal jelly and crates full of crafts of stone and bone for trade—almost forgetting to bring forth old betattered clothing that the fripperers were eager to purchase.





14th of Hematite, 387

“RAAAAAAGH!” Dimbulb bellowed in anger over the pond on the hill, his fists clenched, kicking dirt into the murky water. It was not fair, life was not fair! Why couldn't every moment be as delightful as when feasting on a truly decadent dish? He turned to look down at his belly. It had grown quite some since the hippo man's arrival in Waterlures. He barely fit in his fancy long-skirted doublet! So much was wrong in his life! It wasn't fair!

Dimbulb slammed his fists hard on his thighs, cried “ow!”, and turned to stomp down the hill. He needed to vent his anger somehow. Scream at someone. Yes, he would go to visit the stupid elf mayor and yell at him, maybe even punch him if he was annoying. Yelling at the small man always helped a little. Maybe punching would help more?




Dimbulb grabbed the lowered drawbridge at the Hill Gate. He was inflamed with hatred and rage. He really, really needed something to vent his anger on. Now. He pulled on the thick planks, his muscles bulging beneath all the layers of fat, his tunic and doublet stretching nearly to the point of tearing. He huffed and puffed, put all the might within him into the act of vandalism, the veins of his neck almost bursting due to the strain.

—CRACK!—

The planks ripped apart and Dimbulb threw them all around him, panting after the exertion. The deed was done, the stupid bridge was destroyed—oh, the triumph he felt!




1st of Malachite, 387

Malachite arrived on the calendar and it was time for the Citizens' Assembly to meet. The people of Waterlures flocked into the Enchanted Bridge, filling the main hall and upper galleries. A constant chatter and murmur filled the inn as capybara person, dwarf, elf, human and goblin alike awaited the meeting to begin.




Some, like Idar the cheese-maker, for reasons unknown, decided to bring sheep to the meeting, dragging the struggling beasts behind them across the walkway. The capybara man Nish Prisonpaddle waltzed past Idar proudly, his polished plate armor gleaming in the sun. He laughed heartily at the dwarf tackling the rebellious ewe, “Are you going to use the sheep as a cushion or what?”

“I might as well do so! Maybe not the best of pillows, but good enough!” Idar whipped back at Nish. She returned her focus on the sheep, addressing it in a gentle yet threatening tone, “Don't you fret, sheepy. I'm not really going to sit on you... but I will do so if you won't start behaving!”





“Now, now, people of Waterlures! Everyone calm down, please! Let us take one thing at a time!” Mayor Fecici shouted desperately over the uproar and commotion raging in the hall. The meeting was beginning to spiral out of control with everyone shouting over each other, accusations flying here and there. It was understandable that the sudden raid had caused much distress and harrowing memories had resurfaced, tearing old wounds open.

Many were afraid that new assaults might follow, just like had happened some years ago. Questions were raised. Who were the goblins, where did they come from, and why of all times now? When there were no clear answers, the first claims of incompetence were hurled randomly. Up next came worries of safety, “what about the stronghold?” and “why isn't it finished yet?” The explanations of the dwarves—who were in charge of the design and mining—were not good enough. Instead, accusing fingers and paws were pointed at them, blaming them of being agents of the usurper baron Stukos or possibly the Unaging King himself!

And as if that hadn't been enough, soon old unsolved crimes were brought up, the sheriff getting his part of scorn and ridicule. Fecici had not expected the meeting to be this tense nor that it would be so difficult to calm down the riotous rodents.

“I know many of you are fearful of what may come—it is understandable and well within your rights,” Fecici asserted himself to the throng, walking to the center of the hall with hands stretched out. “But might I remind you that we have prevailed through thick and thin, through much worse than this. Our warriors are brave and skilled, they have kept you safe this far, and they will do so in the years to come.”

“But what about Ïteb? Surely she'd think otherwise—if she'd still be alive!” Someone shouted from the crowd, followed by several grunts and yells of support.



“Don't you dare drag my sister-in-law into this!” Ònul Strickenrelics barked back from the front row of the assembly, her voice full of murder. She peered into the mass, trying to pinpoint the yellers, but it was futile to discern who they were. “I've lost my fair share of family and friends to the evils of this world. My firstborn, Sodel, killed by a lumbering troll when he was but two...” Ònul's voice began to falter as she thought of the loss of her son. The hall quieted down, some turning to look at the floor in shame, feeling guilty for their rowdiness.



“It was old Kib Spearmobbed—the mother of Ïteb—who put the murdering beast down. But she was too late to save my son. Did I blame her? No, i did not. It is the same with the Fenced Princes—they were too late to save Ïteb,” Ònul went on, her eyes almost in tears. Everyone was listening intently by now. “But they put the cyclops down. And what do you do? Blame them! Such behaviour, it is shameful, disgusting. Without them there would've been more dead!“



The capybara woman's voice grew stronger and bolder as she kept on going.”We did not invite evil here—it came unwanted, unannounced. There is no wall, no stronghold so strong to keep us always safe. There will always be tragedy and hardship—I wish it were not so—but if we stick together, look after each other—like Kib did, like the Fenced Princes do—then there is no evil in this world that can bring us down!”

The hall erupted in a storm of cheers and applause, some citizens making their way to Ònul to shake paws with her or clap her on the shoulder for her rousing speech. Ònul flushed with the attention she received, only now realizing that she had spoken on impulse to the whole congregation.





'Fira Flowerelbows' leaned her shoulder on one of the upper gallery's support pillars, looking down into the main hall. She was flanked by sheriff Fayoba on her right and on the left by a young capybara man—Edëm Weakenoars, barely an adult—wearing a dark blue woolen cloak. Fira had stayed at the Enchanted Bridge for the meeting, hiding in the gloomy parts of the gallery. The meeting had already begun when she was noticed by Fayoba, but he let her stay even though she was not supposed to.

“...completing the underground stronghold is an urgent matter, I agree,” the voice of the mayor rang clearly from below, “but these things can not be rushed—they must be done proper, with utmost care...”

Fira let out a barely audible snort. The mayor was a skilled speaker, a good politicker, saying one thing, but meaning nothing. Honied words, but empty. She had to give him credit for that—why, she herself almost believed in the mayor's assurances! But only almost. She was not as gullible as the naïve capybara folk of Waterlures. They were just too easy to deceive.

“...however, our bold warriors can not be in all places at once,” the mayor kept on going, now talking about matters military. “To do so, they need all the help you—we—can offer. Hence, I urge those of you who are capable—and willing—to volunteer and join the militia...”

Interesting, Fira thought and scratched her cheek. It sounded like there was a shortage of professional soldiers in town. Her 'associates' would certainly be pleased to hear of this. She might just as well stop at Deadhollow on her way back north and pass the information. Although, on second thought, it probably wasn't such a good idea. Somehow she had grown fond of this place—easy pickings and such—and she'd hate to see something bad happen to it.

“And what might be going on in your mind, 'Fira'?” Sheriff Fayoba interrupted her thoughts, placing emphasis on her alias. “You do seem quite interested in what is being said in a meeting where you aren't supposed to be.”



'Ugh, what does the idiot want now?' Fira grumbled mentally. She turned to face the sheriff, putting on an innocent smile, “Oh, nothing in particular. It's just that your mayor is a captivating speaker. Astonishing, really.”

“Yes, that he is,” Fayoba said with a hint of spite, glancing down into the hall and crossing his arms in front of him. “He used to be a poet, did you know?”

“Oh, really? I am shocked,” Fira feigned surprise and grasped at her heart, sarcasm oozing from her lips. She really didn't like or respect the sheriff, and it bugged her that he was acting like they were friends. How dare he after all those threats! And, she had to admit, she was a bit scared of him even now. There was a reason why he was called 'the Brutal Style of Limbs.' It could be entirely possible that Fayoba was only trying to get her to spill her beans by playing nice. She had to be careful with this one.

“Look, you obviously don't like my company,” Fayoba sighed, gripping the railing and turning to stare into the distance. “Why should you? After all, I am the one who is responsible for maintaining the law and doling out punishments. Your enemy in other words. All I ask is that—and this is not a threat—you don't do anything that would require me to... do my duty. There are only so many times I can make excuses for not doing so.”

'Huh, maybe he is just feeling guilty?' Fira thought and kept her mouth shut. She might be able to use the sheriff to her advantage.





Baron Oddom was delighted by the poem Nish had recited. It was a very much needed break from the wearisome meeting. Indeed, the meeting seemed to go on and on, and there are limits to what one can bear—even when interested in the matters at hand. Now, invigorated by the recess, the meeting had proceeded, the topic shifting to the goblin raiders once more.

It felt somewhat ironical that the most likely answer was to be found, well, from the mouths of the goblins who lived in Waterlures. “It was a scouting party, sent to feel out our defenses. An expendable force comprised of unarmed slaves,” Nako Doomjumped of the Fenced Princes had explained his view. “I'll wager the scum came from the filthiest pits of the Hell of Miseries. And you can be sure there'll be more of the bastards coming,” Caÿilu Searend had spat and voiced her suspicions, ”If you ask me, someone's been eyes and ears for the filth.”

This had naturally led to shocked gasps and uneasy muttering among the crowd, almost returning disorder to the meeting. Fortunately things had quieted down on their own this time. And now it seemed that the ostrich man was about to take the stage. What might the quarrelsome newcomer have to say? Oddom watched the long-legged troublemaker strut to the center of the hall, his hands behind his back and head bent down.




“Fellow citizens! I advise you to contemplate what the goblin said,” Galel proclaimed, puffing his chest out and nudging his head in Caÿilu's direction. “It is a worrying thought, a disturbing thought, that perhaps those with ill intent have moused their way in, using our hospitality to wrong us...”

'Oh no, what is Galel up to?' Coni snapped from her drowsiness when she heard the ostrich man's voice. She had been dozing during the terribly boring meeting, but this begged her attention. She began to wriggle her way through the crowd, to get closer to the center of the hall.

“Indeed, it would be folly of us not to think there were some rotten apples among the numbers of folk coming and going,” Galel squawked and spun around, his silk cloak billowing as he whirled. “And have we not caught such nefarious 'visitors', and—presumably—punished them as law requires, hmh?” Galel flicked an accusing glance up where he knew the sheriff was.

There was some uneasy shuffling and mumbling, until someone yelled, “Get to the point!”

“Yes, I will get to it. My point being...” Galel hissed, slightly irritated. He squinted his eyes as he looked around. “My point being, we may have caught some of the scoundrels, but we most certainly have not caught all who wish us harm. There are many wrongdoings still unsolved—so I have understood—so could it not be that even now some miscreant is lurking about, hmh?” Galel paused, trying to be dramatic. He raised a finger and continued impishly, “And—here is a thought—who are we to say that only a visitor can be an agent of evil? What if—I am not saying it is so—just what if, one, or some, of us are acting as... spies? Now that is a troubling thought if there ever was one, hah!”

Gasps of shock. More muttering, then grumbling. Shouts of outrage erupted, the uproar soon spreading throughout the hall and galleries. Mayor Fecici moaned, pulling his cheeks down with his hands. 'No, not again. This meeting will never end!' He anguished in his mind.




“Galel! Stop!” Coni screamed as she squeezed herself to the front from between the capybara women Likot Languagehame and Fikod Livingglazes. She shouted to the crowd through paws cupped around her mouth. “Don't listen to the dumb ostrich, he's just trying to mess with you all!”

Heads turned and the commotion began to quiet down into murmuring. Fecici sighed in relief and wiped his forehead.

“I-I... I, uh...” Coni stuttered, anxiety taking hold of her as she noticed all the expectant eyes set upon her. She shuffled nervously, trying to sink back between Fikod and Likot. “Sorry...” she whimpered, ducking her head, desperately trying to make herself invisible.

Galel glared icily at the hamster woman, watching her slink behind Likot's plump form. Before he could continue his speech, a loud voice rolled from within the crowd.




“Master ostrich!” Fecici stepped forth, his face stern and imposing. “If you have nothing else to say than your sneaking suspicions, then I must ask you to hold your tongue. Unless you have substantial evidence to support your dubious claims, we should move on with the meeting.”

“Evidence? Hmm... Well... Maybe?” Galel swallowed nervously. He looked down, resting his elbow against his paunchy belly and rubbed his beak ponderously. How to tackle this? He didn't have actual evidence, only his suspicions, which could be wrong—not likely, but possibly. Although, there was the hidden shrine in the mill. It reeked of some kind of devilry or other such nastiness. He was not yet certain what was the meaning of the shrine, but he could mention it, perhaps? But that could warn the devious goblin, foil his investigations into the matter. He had to be cautious. Now, what if—

“Well? We are waiting,” Fecici interrupted Galel's thoughts. “Do you have anything to back your claims or not? You are trying our patience.”

“Yeah! Speak or shut yer beak!” Someone shouted angrily.

“So... What if, um,” Galel fumbled, trying to quickly think of something to say. “What if I were to tell you that there are hidden things, secret things,” Galel smirked, a plan formulating in his brilliant mind, “things I have come aware of, things pointing to something foul and profane?”

Fecici cocked a brow, then let out a sigh of frustration, waving his hand dismissively. “Hidden? Secret? Spare us your ambiguous words and speak clearly. We have better things to do than listen to this drivel of yours.”

“Ah! Well, would you then be surprised to hear that there are secret shrines in this town, hmh?” Galel let out, smiling triumphantly. He raised a hand and squawked to the whole audience with fervor, “Yes! Secret shrines that stink of filth and blasphemy! Crude shrines oozing the taint of the Dark Gods and all that is unholy—I have seen such a shrine with my very own eyes!”

Once again gasps of shock and outrage filled the hall. Voices full of anger and contempt barked over one another, some demanding the removal of the offensive ostrich from the floor, some insisting he should be allowed to continue.

“So you have seen a shrine? A 'hidden' shrine dedicated to the... darker powers? And this relates to spies... how?” Fecici questioned Galel in a sardonic tone, pacing in front of him and shaking his head slightly. Fecici stopped, his eyes turning to meet Galel's eyes. “Now what makes you think such a shrine was hidden? That it is secret? Perhaps it was not meant to be in the open? Have you considered such a possibility? You do know that we have not one, but two shrines dedicated to the Prince of Duty, right?”

More gasps could be heard upon the mentioning of the Death God. Astesh and a few others could be seen making signs to ward off evil.

“Um... Well, I... Uh, you see...” Galel couldn't get anything else out of his mouth. He hadn't really thought of the possibility that such shrines were not necessarily frowned upon. He felt a bit embarrassed now. Quite a bit, actually.

“I thought as much,” Fecici said, an arrogant grin spreading on his lips. He gestured broadly and continued in a steady, clear voice, “Indeed, there are many in Waterlures who pay their respects to the gods who are of a less... benevolent nature. Some think it is only wise to keep them appeased—to keep them at bay this way. That is not something I would call foul and profane. And these shrines, they are not kept in the open, but rather placed somewhere where one does not have to see them all the time. That makes them not secret nor hidden. You understand now, master ostrich?”

Fecici paused for a moment and looked at the ostrich man who had fallen awfully silent, standing still as if frozen in place. “Good. So much for that then,” Fecici said, a satisfied smile on his face. He clapped his hands together and turned to address the crowd, “Now, if that was all, let us return to other more pressing, more sensible matters, shall we?”

Grunts of approval, applause and a few cheers sounded from the gathered mass. Fecici was pleased with himself, how he handled the situation. Perhaps the rest of the meeting would run smoothly and without further disturbance?






5th of Malachite, 387

Indeed, the meeting ran its course without added drama, coming to a close when the last rays of the sun retreated beyond the horizon. It was a tedious and tiresome meeting, but many a concern was put to rest and plans for the future made. Work on the underground stronghold would continue as intended, and, whilst it was being built, the citizens' militia would resume their patrols that had been on hold for some time now. It was also agreed that scouts should be sent into the surrounding lands at some point. Possibly even as far as the tower of Finderblunts, to make certain that no evil had crept back.

Some dats later, sixty-nine year old Libash Blotcoal thought back on the meeting as she carried cloth to one of the tailor's shops. She was rather amused by the ostrich man's farcical display. It was quite brilliant how he had managed to cause a stir and disrupt the gathering. Without it, well, it would have been a dreadfully boring meeting. She didn't of course believe in Galel's suspicions—they were quite far-fetched—but there were some who listened to him, seeds of doubt now planted into their heads. If that was the ostrich man's intention, he had succeeded in it.

Libash entered the tailor's shop and put the cloth down from her paws. She stretched her old, weary bones before sitting down to work. 'Oh, sometimes I just feel like I should spend the rest of my days without doing nothing,' she thought as she looked at the sewing tools in front of her, 'Spend them with sweet Zon, thinking of all the good old times.'

Yes, Libash and Zon had decided to marry in their elder days. It wasn't a marriage born out of romantic love, but one based on a lifelong friendship. Although, the decision to do so had been made on a whim and oaths had been exchanged in secrecy.

Now there was a 'secret' for the ostrich man to discover, Libash chuckled.


(Continued in next post...)

[brewer bob]

(...continued from previous post.)






9th of Malachite, 387

Dimbulb kicked at the door in the alley, then one of the walls. “Ow!” the hippo man cried, then whimpered a sob. Kicking the stone wall hurt his toe and did nothing to make his mood better. He was already fuming with rage, though that was nothing out of the ordinary. Truly, it was pretty much how he felt all the time and things were unlikely to change any time soon.

Just a moment earlier, the black bear woman Urdim had entered the alley and narrowly avoided the fury of the hippo man. Fortunately for her, she was a skilled warrior and ducked the incoming punch. She didn't wait for another blow to come her way and made haste to find sheriff Fayoba.

It had made Dimbulb only angrier. But soon around the corner had come the capybara man Åblel Sprinklegorges, unaware of the unruly ungulate. Dimbulb had found Åblel to be more entertaining than Urdim. The capybara man's desperate dodging, then falling and struggling to get up and flee Dimbulb's frenzy had been quite the sight.



Oh, how satisfying it was to grab and pull Åblel by the ear! Then pull his toe, and then his thumb! Haha! Such triumph it made Dimbulb feel! At least something fun for a change, the hippo man thought. A pity that Åblel, too, got away, ending his little fun... until a few runaway sheep stumbled into him and were brutalized by the tantruming hippo man.

Dimbulb was getting quite out of control, it seemed.





13th of Malachite, 387

Not all things were miserable in Waterlures. Some things still brought joy and meaning to the lives of the capybara folk. Indeed, it was a joyous day when Thob Helmlabored gave birth to a baby boy, making her and Asmel very proud parents, blessed by Ôsed's light once more.





4th of Galena, 387

Tanzul was taking his catch to the fish barrels lined against the walls of the brewery. It was once again raining, the sunny days over as summer entered its final stage. 'Blasted rain! I so wish the good weather would've continued a bit longer,' he grouched in his thoughts. Tanzul didn't really like getting his fur and clothes all wet. It was annoying. Then again, if being rained on was his biggest problem, things were quite well for him. Yes, despite the occasional boredom and repetitiveness of daily life, he was quite content with his life. He had work to do and it allowed him to be outdoors, his skill in fishing improving—a blessing from Sas, certainly. And he had a place to call home, though meager it was, but he liked it that way. Not to forget that he had people around him who he could call friends, though he had hardly made any new ones since his arrival in town.



Truth be told, Alåth Clearednet, the dwarf captain of the Ochre Snarls, was the only new acquaintance he considered a friend. She was a good dwarf, a friendly and helpful dwarf. It was rather easy for Tanzul to speak with her freely. A few days after the tumultuous meeting at the Enchanted Bridge, Tanzul had talked with Alåth about the planned scouting expedions. He happened to mention his meeting with Themiyi at Twilighthum, how the elf had asked the companions to urge Waterlures to take initiative and attack their enemies when they were weak. Of course that had happened over four years ago, so things might have changed since then. And Tanzul himself wasn't so sure anymore of Themiyi's proposal. He was certain he wasn't fit to go on such a risky mission, despite still dreaming of the glory and thrill of war.

However, Alåth was intrigued by the idea to take the fight to the enemy. She had promised to talk to Kumil the militia warden about the possibility of such a venture. However, it was unlikely that there were enough capable—and bold enough—warriors to launch an assault any time soon. But, at least, talking about it was one more burden off Tanzul's shoulders.

That was good enough for the fox man.






“It is the ninth hour and all is well,” Maloy proclaimed loudly as he shuffled down the paved road. He wasn't exactly sure if his count was accurate, but he guessed it was halfway between noon and sunset. It wasn't easy to tell the time today, thanks to the dark clouds in the sky. He wished for the sun's warmth on his face, but at least the light drizzle had stopped, which was a welcome change.

“Good day,” the elephant seal man greeted bypassers, his majestic nose bobbing as he nodded. It was good to do his part in keeping order in Waterlures. Despite being made a captain after he was granted citizenship, there had been little need for his spear. His strength had been of more use elsewhere, mainly in construction work and the fields. But the goblin attack had changed that, and now he had finally formed a band of his own, 'the Pages of Indignation'.

Well, it was barely a group, really. At the moment it consisted only of him, Tanzul and Osod. But he was confident that given time more would join.





11th of Galena, 387

Edzul the Silent flung himself up, eyes wide open and his sleep interrupted. He was sitting now, clutching his sheets, but was he awake? It felt as if he was still in a dream, the echoes of chiseling and picks hitting stone from further away turning into the hissing of rain, then into whispers. The walls of his chamber appeared to distort into strange ghostly faces, beckoning him. Urging him. “Wake up, wake up,” they seemed to say as they moved towards the door, calling Edzul to follow.

Edzul dropped to the floor and winced. He had forgotten he was unable stand. He cursed and began dragging himself across the floor, through the door, away from the Dwarf Quarter. “Avalrâluk Nakaskukon,” echoed in his ears as he crawled towards the mason's hall.

The Silent had joined the ranks of those who had been taken by mood, and soon another artifact would be born.






3rd of Limestone, 387

“Yes, what to do with him? That is a good question,” mayor Fecici wagged a finger as he groused to sheriff Fayoba. The two elves were at the mayor's office discussing the problematic hippo man. It was autumn now and over a month had passed since Dimbulb assaulted Urdim and Åblel—and two unfortunate rams—during one of his many outbursts. Fayoba had refrained from punishing him, feeling pity for the clearly distressed hippo man.

“But, alas, I have no good answers, and nothing I do seems to help,” Fecici sighed, throwing his hands up in the air. “I am at a loss, feeling quite helpless with this one. Soon he will be completely out of control—if he isn't already. However, you made the right call not to do what law would demand and instead chose to wait. But, unfortunately, we can not keep it that way for long. As you are very well aware of, some have been grumbling of your less than... diligent way of handling matters. A lack of enthusiasm, some might say.”

“Let them think whatever they want to,” Fayoba said unfazed. It really didn't bother him what others thought of him or of his ways of doing things. Besides, he could hardly be blamed for all the unsolved crimes. How and where does one begin when there is no place to start from? He was not going to go about asking questions willy-nilly. “If my way isn't good enough for them, then it isn't, but I am not changing the way how I work because of that. Perhaps Waterlures needs a new sheriff then?”

“Fortunately we are not at that point,” Fecici said as he walked to his chair and sat down. “But we may soon be. However, that is a discussion to be had if, or when, we come to such a point. For now, back to the hippo man... What to do, what to do? He won't stop with his tantruming by himself, that much is certain.”

“Punishing him will just make things worse,” Fayoba voiced his opinion. 'Or kill him,' he left unsaid, the death of Covema still haunting him.

“But it would keep the people happy. Or, at least, keep them believing in justice,” Fecici pointed out. “You must not forget the victims of his actions.”

'What about the victims of my actions?' Fayoba thought and flinched, feeling a sting of pain in his soul. He didn't want any more deaths on his hands, but Fecici was right. Something had to be done. Dimbulb simply couldn't be allowed to batter citizens and animals without any repercussions. Sooner or later someone was bound to be seriously hurt. Or worse.There might be one way though, but... it was harsh. However, he was out of ideas, so he might just as well throw it on the table. Fayoba crossed his arms in front of his chest, sighed and spilled out what was on his mind, “What if... What if we would do it the Múya Loré—and Ula Tefe—way? The old elven way?”

“The old elven way?” Fecici arched an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers together. The old elven way. Yes, indeed. Why not? It was certainly a more merciful way than how dwarven law handled matters. Fayoba had made a good suggestion. After a moment of contemplation he finally replied. “Exile. You suggest exile. Now that may be something to consider.”




4th of Limestone, 387

Åblel Sprinklegorges smacked his lips, pleased by the taste of mead still in his mouth. He had grabbed a pint of Datan's finest in the Hut of Romancing, and now, emboldened by inebriation, he was heading to the dark deeps beneath the earth. As he pushed open the doors to the entry hall leading to the mine shaft, he flinched his nose. The smell of a damp and moldy dungeon was not among his favorites, and in this hall the stench was particularly pervasive, the walls of one corner dripping water, the floor slimy and growing fungus.

'I'll just have a look at it this time, nothing more,' he assured himself as he began to descend the long winding path into the dark. Åblel was after a long time heading to see what he had accidentally stumbled upon oh so many years ago. His secret, his treasure. The beautiful bluish green stone—his passion and obsession. Dreams of the mysterious stone had returned to trouble him once more, and he could not resist the temptation to set his eyes upon the underground spire any longer.

What harm could a little peek do? Just a small glimpse, maybe even touch and feel the stone. It wasn't forbidden, was it? But why then had he not told of the stone to anyone? Why did he hide it, guard it so possessively? A precaution. Someone might become envious and covet it if they knew of it. Yes, that was it. There were untrustworthy folk about, just waiting to lay their crooked paws on the possessions of others. He was only being careful. After all, who knows what would happen if some two-faced scoundrel claimed it as their own!




'Besides, this'll be a good chance to have a little adventure,' Åblel kept on affirming himself, 'It's about time I get some excitement in my life.' He suddenly panicked, the incident with the unhinged hippo man besieging his mind. He had to stop for a moment to calm down. It had been a close call that one. He barely escaped unscathed. Not exactly the excitement he wanted. He shuddered at the thought of what could have happened if the hippo hadn't been so slow and clumsy. Now, if only sheriff Fayoba would do what he's supposed to do and throw the hippo man in the dungeon. But no, the menacing brute was still free and unpunished, allowed to spread fear among citizens.

Once Åblel reached the cavern he twitched his ears. He could hear shrill calls echoing faintly through the twisting passages, sending shivers down his spine. It was nothing out of the ordinary, possibly just some odd cave animals. However, reasoning did not clear his uneasiness. There were old tales that told of ancient things in the dark, terrible things. Maddening things from a time before time itself. Things beyond conception that humiliated all reason. He wanted to dismiss such stories as made up, told only to scare naughty children, but he knew better. Such beasts had been encountered in these caves. They were real.

As he neared the palisade around the perimeter, walking past yellowed bones jutting from  beneath cavern fungus, his steps slowed down. He began to have doubts about this venture. There was a sinister feel to the air. He stopped a good distance from the gate leading to the deeper darks, away from the safety of Waterlures. He listened, turning his ears left and right. He could hear a disquieting rumbling and deep gurgling from the other side of the wall.

—THUMP! THUMP!—

Something large crashed against the gate heavily. Then a mighty and terrifying bellow thundered, forcing Åblel to clutch his ears. THUNK-thunk-thunk! Thrashing against the palisade, the logs shuddering with each and every impact. Åblel felt his heart leap into his throat. It had to be one of the beasts, one of the foul things from the deeps best left forgotten!



Without thinking any further, Åblel turned and ran to the entry shaft. This was something beyond his skill.

This was something best left for the Fenced Princes to deal with.

=====

So, another long writeup. Somehow these always end up being longer than intended.

The goblin raiders didn't have any chances of success. They were all unarmed recruits, except the crossbow goblin who stayed behind and escaped. But I guess soon we'll be seing a bit nastier sieges.

Nothing much really happened except for Dimbulb's tantrums, which are getting out of hand. It seems like his personality is one of those that are just lost causes. His memories otherwise are good, but it doesn't help since he gots constantly into arguments with others and angry because of it. There's really not much I can do about that except isolate him completely.

So, the question is:

What to do with Dimbulb? Should I just go ahead and give him dwarven justice (a beating and jailing) and see how fast the hippo man maxes his stress? Or should I go the "elf way", that is expel/exile him from the fort? The latter would mean that it'd probably be the last we see of him, but at least he wouldn't die of a beating or go insane.

[brewer bob]

Part IX:
Tribulations and Terrors




4th of Limestone, 387

Baron Oddom made haste to the shaft leading deep into the caverns. His brother Åblel had rushed from the depths to him, shaken and rambling about something terrifying lurking in the deep. A beast of some kind was trying to break through the palisade. Immediately the Fenced Princes rallied, heading down to meet the uninvited guest. Åblel did the right thing, to run and find the heads of the militia and not linger or try to be a hero and face the unknown alone.

Indeed, Åblel was no great fighter, though he showed some talent with the spear. 'True skill requires dedication and patience. It's something Åblel lacks,' Oddom thought as he jogged down the spiraling path.





As the Fenced Princes gathered in the dark musty caves beneath Waterlures, Edzul the Silent finished his masterpiece. For many weeks he had been toiling, searching for perfect stones, the best of bones, precious gems and finest wood, adding a bit of steel into the mix of reagents from which an artifact was to be born. And now, finally, his work was at its end.

He looked at the large oblong stone container dominating the stoneworkers' hall floor. The stone—orthoclase—was pale yellow with a tinge of flesh-red in it, its surface polished to perfection. Cut into the sides and lid of the container were grooves fitted with almond wood, and leather and bones from giant peach-faced lovebirds—a common sight over the Lakes of Saturninity. The grooves traced simple and clear geometric shapes along the outer edges of each side, encircling images of laboring dwarves carved from embedded sheep bone.

Along the sides of the lid, the orthoclase was cut into menacing spikes and between them were set masterfully cut red spinels. On each long side hung three rings—large enough to be grasped and used as a handle—carved from grey phyllite and dark andesite.

The crowning piece of the sarcophagus was on the lid: a dwarf of steel lying on his back with hands folded over his chest.

Edzul grunted approvingly, nodded his head and slapped his hands together, a dust cloud poofing from them. The dwarf was very satisfied with his work, even though his hands had been guided by powers unknown. It mattered not for the results were more than pleasing. Once his time came, the sarcophagus would be his final resting place. A burial receptable worthy of a king.



'Avalrâluk Nakaskukon,' Edzul thought and said, “Lovehailed the Enjoyable Recreation will be your name.”

In that moment of fulfillment he did not realize that he was standing and that he had opened his mouth with words coming out. The mysterious magics of the blessed lake had done more than guided him: they had healed him.





“We're still missing Caÿilu,” Kumil said with a frown. He was feeling a bit tense and unsure of this unexpected venture into the caverns. At least the palisade and gate were still intact. Åblel had painted a picture that any time now the walls would come crashing down. Fortunately that wasn't the case, though the deep gurgling rumble and occasional thuds against the palisade were unnerving. “What's taking her so long? I told her there was no time to fetch provisions!”

“She's not one to fawn around,” Mame the elf poked the faun with a bad pun. “Everything's just so in its proper place—us here and Miss Searend missing all the searing fun-fun-fun, haha!” Inod let out a stiffled laugh, feigning a cough into her shield. The others were not so amused.

“We're not here to fool around, Mame,” baron Oddom rebuked the elf, no trace of humor in his voice. “Try to keep your focus on the task at hand. Our lives depend on us working as a whole. So does Waterlures.”

“Well, I certainly hope it's nothing too exciting,” Likot Languagehame said, shuffling uneasily behind Mame. “Not today, when there's things I've pl—”

—THUNK!—

A heavy impact against the gate interrupted the capybara woman. Everyone turned to look at the wooden portal. It still held, but sooner or later it would give in. A deep bubbling roar blasted from beyond the palisade, followed by heavy scraping noises.

“Sounds like we best head out before the beast comes in for the party,” Mame cheered as he unsheathed his sword, eager to get some of the coming excitement.



As soon as the crossbar was unbolted, the gate slammed wide open, the huge beast storming in, its massive body barely fitting through. Baron Oddom was thrown to the side by the surprisingly nimble reptilian monster, but he nevertheless managed to land a blow on its leg, feeling bone cracking under his bronze war hammer. Gouts of blood sprayed from its other front limb, Mame's sword cutting deep through scar and scale, while Inod clung desperately onto her spear after sticking it into the beast's side, yelling “aaahhhhh!” as she was flung about by the monster's flailing and squirming.




The beast was Stuzang, a chthonic monstrosity that had wandered the dark, hidden hollows beneath the earth for a long, long time. A hideous, crocodile-like behemoth with lidless eyes, its gaunt, scaly body almost entirely covered in scars, its snout ending in a short trunk that curled over its lips. Rows of nasty teeth filled its menacing jaws.

Stuzang had been waiting several years for this moment. The moment when something would come and open the gate. And now, now it was time. Time to feast on fresher meats than what the wretched bowels of the earth had to offer, its hunger aroused by the scent of these strange little creatures...

...these annoying, stabbing and slicing wicked little creatures that refused to stay put and be eaten!

“RAAAAAAWRrrggllle!” Stuzang bellowed and burbled in frustration, its appetite almost ruined as baron Oddom dodged its snapping jaws again and bashed it a second time in the leg, crushing the bone further. It thrashed and lashed left and right, its steel-clad prey deftly avoiding its attacks, paying back with painful whacks and slashes. Punch-punch! It was startled by the fists of Mame and Inod battering its left eye in succession, then searing pain among the many stabs and slices when the axe of Litast tore its scales, cutting a gruesome wound in its side.

Soon Stuzang understood that it was not the hunter any longer, the countless wounds and cracked bones sapping its strength. Breathing was becoming difficult, its limbs too broken to support it. Its prey-turned-bane kept on tormenting it, its hunger for meat turning into panic.

It was, however, too late to escape. Unable to move and barely conscious, Stuzang could not but suffer the barrage against it, life withering away from its body as its foul blood spilled onto the cavern floor.

With a pitiful last gurgle, Stuzang flopped to the ground, unmoving and dead.




“That last one was for Îton!” Litast spat on the mutilated corpse as he pulled his axe free from the beast. His thoughts were on his and DÎshmab's son—their first and only child—and to what lengths he was willing to go to keep him safe.

The Fenced Princes had survived the ordeal without as much as a scratch or bruise. Cheering and applauding each other they turned to leave, heading back to the comfort of the surface, to share a drink or two. However, they stopped in their tracks as a shrill call split across the cavern from behind, followed by many a racing thud, crescendoing into a loud crash and sounds of thrashing and shrieking.

It seemed that the deeps sheltered more than one beast.





Southwest of the palisade, between large columns of stone, two giant beasts collided, locked in a battle for survival. Ricote the Submerged Dust, a squirming and fidgeting monster, bearing resemblance to a pheasant with three spiraling horns, was shaken to its core. It was fighting Sapi the Infinite, a hulking quadrupedal abomination made of Winter itself, emanating cold from its icy body.





However, that was not all of the beasts lurking in the dark.

Southeast of the perimeter another battle raged. Zônå, a bloated blob of mud with three tails, sought to vanquish its foe Gozru, an enormous viper with one baleful eye, hissing as it shrugged off the sprays of sticky webs Zônå belched from its orifice.

What hope could the stalwart defenders of Waterlures have when threatened by so many a terrible foe?




A cloud of dust billowed through the open palisade gate, shrouding the entry of Ricote. Even prepared for another beast, the Fenced Princes were surprised by the cloud bursting in and filling the space. Litast coughed and sputtered as he was swallowed by the dust.

“Litast! Watch out! There's something coming in!” Likot screamed a warning to her brother, rushing forth to face the dark, towering form within the cloud.




The fight, however, was over even before it began.

As the dust settled, the coughing and dust-coated warriors saw that the beast they had been hacking and stabbing at blindly, had been dead for some time now. No wonder it hadn't offered much resistance after Kumil's first stab found its mark.

“I sure do admire a clever trap—pfft-pfft,” Likot dared a joke, spitting dust while doing so, “but this one, it was so clever—pfft-pfft—that it baited its setter—pfft-hack-ptui!”





“Haha! The mind thinks best when beasts are put to rest,” Mame laughed and tapped his temple with a gauntleted finger, “Or, even better, after downing a pitcher of wine at the Hut!”

“A sound suggestion,” Kumil smiled as he sheathed his sword. “I believe our work here is done—”

—“SSSSSSS!”-THUD-FLUMP-BONK-“RAAAAWR!”—

A terrifying hiss reverbated from beyond the wall, then something slammed against it and roared furiously. Plans to head for a drink were foiled again as two ancient horrors clashed in mortal combat. Gozru had defeated the pitiful Zônå easily, leaving only a pile of mud behind. The viper had slithered to the palisade, but when it had neared the gate, from around a column of stone had emerged Neca Snotsthrow the Umbral—a huge red lizard with three eyes, its back covered by a spiraling tortoise-like shell—brazenly intruding into Gozru's hunting grounds.




“Brace yourselves!” Kumil shouted to his comrades, preparing to meet the giant serpent surging through the gate. It was Gozru who was the victor of the battle between it and Neca. It was Gozru that was the fittest of the beasts to claim these grounds as its own—all that lived here, were its prey now. Hissing madly, the viper lunged towards its steel-wrapped meal.

“Icemì forgive me!” Mame yelled amidst the conflict, frustrated with the monsters that seemed to never end. “All my time for prayers is being spent on cutting down these vermin!”

But Gozru fared no better than the other beasts had. All the viper's attacks were easily dodged or blocked, with blow after blow returned by the Fenced Princes. The serpent writhed, desperately trying to sink its fangs into its assailers, but it was hopeless. It was denied even one little nibble as swords and spears dug deep into its flesh, as the mace of Likot crushed its bones. The movements of the serpent became slower and slower with every wound and welt to its body, its breath becoming heavy and shallow.

The fight was soon to be over, the Fenced Princes once more triumphant.






It was no surprise that the Fenced Princes emerged victorious in the end, the last of the terrifying foes lying slain in a pool of blood. No matter how many horrors were spat from the depths, Darkness could not smite the Light these servants of Ôsed and Mestthos bore with them.

And now, with battle over, it was time to head back to the surface for a much deserved drink, finally.

“Kumil sure did show his mettle today, huh,” Caÿilu said to Likot as they walked towards the cave entry. The goblin was somewhat bitter that she had arrived late, missing everything else except the last bit with the viper Gozru. “He said he got two of the beasts. Two! That's some swordsmanship there. Unless he's lying, of course.”

“It's the truth, I saw it all,” Likot replied earnestly and yawned, “He's like an artisan with that blade of his, or a cook or whatever. Carving and slicing precisely, like a surgeon or—yawn—I don't know... You get what I mean, don't you?”

“No, not really,” Caÿilu snorted, looking at Likot a bit suspiciously, then she looked at the others. They all kept yawning once in a while, their eyes all droopy and movement sluggish. “What's the matter with you all? Didn't you sleep last night or what?”



Indeed, a sudden feeling of extreme drowsiness had fallen over the Fenced Princes, or all of them who had been caught in the dust of Ricote. From beyond the grave, from the depths of the Netherworld—or from wherever beasts that have been forgotten go after their deaths—the monstrous horned pheasant had its revenge, its sweet and cruel revenge.

Ricote the Submerged Dust had made its killers a little bit sleepy.






13th of Limestone, 387

“The thing is, Mister Mayor, some people can be so angry,” Sibrek explained agitatedly as he trailed behind Fecici, heading up to the mayor's office. The capybara man seemed almost furious as he kept rambling, “I just don't understand it! What's wrong with them!?”

“It is a mystery I have yet to solve,” mayor Fecici said sardonically, stepping up two stairs at a time. Sibrek had difficulties keeping up with his pace. Once Fecici noticed this, he sighed and slowed down. He didn't really have time to listen to the complaints of the capybara man, not with the outpost liaison arriving any moment now... Why did Sibrek keep doing this? He could have come before rather than after the lookouts had sighted the caravan.

“Right, so I've been thinking,” Sibrek kept on going as he scurried after the elf, “maybe it has something to do with the weather here? It's raining an awful lot and it makes folk all miserable and sour.”

“It might be... or it might not,” Fecici replied, not convinced by the capybara man. Such a talkative fellow sometimes. Especially when something was bothering him, he seemed to ramble about things unrelated to his troubles. Regardless, it was for the best to be a listening ear, to try and figure out what the issue was and if something might help. He didn't want any more of his citizens ending on the brink of mental collapse. One was more than enough.

Yes, the hippo man was a tough one. Fecici had some reservations about Fayoba's proposal of exile, but if nothing else worked, he would be forced to banish Dimbulb from Waterlures.





'Awful, just plain awful,' Tirist Brasshandles wallowed in his thoughts as he stepped through the doors of the Enchanted Bridge. It was raining once again, all his clothes soaking wet. Hardly anything unusual, but always as grievous and galling. Such a wretched place to visit year after year! But such was the price to pay for the privileges that came along with being the outpost liaison. He just wished he could rid himself of all these ghastly obligations and stay at home with his wife Kol.

And these stairs. They too were something he wanted to do away. He grumbled and panted as he ascended up, up, up, all the way to the mayor's office.





“What in the name of all the gods were you doing down there, little brother?” Baron Oddom demanded from Åblel grimly, yet there was a trace of concern in his voice. He gripped the armrests of his throne tightly, awaiting the response. It was something that had bothered Oddom ever since the cleansing of the deeps: why had Åblel entered the caverns? But he was a busy capybara man, and until now he had not had time to meet his brother in person and question him.

“I-I... um...” Åblel mumbled, trying to figure out what to say without revealing the truth or telling an outright lie. He hated to be dishonest—especially to family—but he could not bear to reveal his secret. It was his and his alone, the precious stone. Åblel shuffled nervously as his brother's stern gaze bore into him, making him feel pitiful and weak, like a wriggling worm stranded on dry stone.

“Why did you go there, dear Åblel?” Oddom asked again, now in a softer tone. He saw his brother's discomfort and felt sorry for barking at him. It was not his intention to anguish Åblel. “Understand, I ask this only for the sake of concern.”

“I'm sorry, I just felt like going there,” Åblel stared at the floor, daring not to look Oddom in the eye. “I-I didn't mean to worry you, I really wasn't thinking. I just went there.”

“You just went there,” Oddom scoffed. He threw his arms up and slapped them on his thighs. His brother was quite impossible sometimes, behaving like a little child who thinks not of the consequences of his actions. With renewed rigidity Oddom berated Åblel, clutching his throne with one paw and shaking a finger of the other. “The caverns, they are a dangerous place—not some place to go on a casual stroll when struck by a sudden urge to do so!”

“I am not governed by my urges!” Åblel lashed back. He did not like being yelled at. And he didn't like how close to the mark his brother's words hit. It hurt and angered him, cascading out from his mouth in bitter words. “I don't have to listen to this, Oddom! I'm not your son, I'm your brother, and you have no power over me. What I do is no concern of yours. Now, goodbye!” Åblel spun around and stormed out of the throne room.

“Don't you dare walk away from me like that!” Oddom stood up and fumed after his brother, his words falling on deaf ears. The throne room doors slammed shut behind Åblel, leaving Oddom all alone on his seat of power.

“I'm sorry...” Oddom whimpered, slumping back into his chair, his voice quivering. “...I just want my brother to be safe.”





“Bloody awful to hear. Truly, will those dastards never leave our Good King's Realm alone?” Tirist sympathized with mayor Fecici. The elf had given a brief account of the goblins' attempt to raid Waterlures, and to Fecici's surprise the outpost liaison seemed to be genuinely moved by it.

“It was nothing our militia couldn't handle,” Fecici said matter-of-factly, waving a hand dismissively. “Hardly worth mentioning, really, but I am a dutiful mayor and do what is required of me,” Fecici shuffled through scattered piles of paper on his desk, pulling out a folded sheet. “Here, I have written a detailed report for baron Stukos—it has my seal and everything, there—I am certain he will appreciate it.”

“Ah, marvelous! He will indeed be delighted to be informed of all matters related to his holdings,” the outpost liaison said happily, putting the letter somewhere within his creamy white silk robe. It was actually quite a simple but stylish piece of clothing, fitting well with the midnight blue of his shirt and hosen, Fecici thought and tapped his finger on the desk.



Although, that cowl made from the mottled pelt of some short-haired animal didn't seem to fit well with the rest. Or maybe it was meant to be the centerpiece of the outfit—some new fad in Inkedwhims, perhaps? Fecici scratched his chin absent-mindedly as he pondered dwarven fashion.

“Anyhoo, if I may, I would like to make a suggestion,” Tirist went on, holding his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels, “related to this dreadful affair—the goblin nuisance, those pesky crundle-fondling louts—I mean, what else could I mean, ho ho—”

“Yes, please do tell before I die of laughter, ha, ha,” Fecici drawled sarcastically, his fingernails almost biting into his desk. This seemed to be one of those meetings where Tirist behaved in an insufferable manner—like an itch you couldn't scratch. Sometimes it felt like he did it quite awarely, quite on purpose. Tirist was not as dumb as he liked to pretend he was. Of that Fecici was certain.

“Well, it is likely that those pests will return, unfortunately,” Tirist began, stroking his long white moustache, “and the truth is—if I'm being entirely honest with you, and why wouldn't I be?—is that you have less than two score properly equipped and trained folk in town. That might be enough to squash a small raiding party of the green devils, but, I assure you mister Lizardorgans, it will not be enough if—when—they decide to show their full might and descend upon Waterlures in a seemingly endless wave of ironshod verdigris.”

“And your suggestion, then?” Fecici leaned back in his chair, listening to what the chubby dwarf had to say.

“Go to the hillocks, send a messenger, I say,” Tirist motioned southwards as he waddled to the mayor's desk. He put his hands on it and leaned forward, his face all serious now. “Raise a levy from the peasants of the hillocks. Granitehatchet, Rope-entries, Obeygates, Tradeplay—it is their duty to answer your call. Indeed, they should provide you with enough strength to hold against and crush any vile force of darkness that comes your way.”

Fecici steepled his hands, tapping his fingers and contemplated the suggestion. Tirist was speaking the truth—Waterlures had hardly enough soldiers if the goblins came with a full army. Fecici had hoped that more would volunteer for the militia after the recent raid, but there had been hardly any. Tirist's proposal sounded like an enticing—and easy—solution to the shortage of warriors. However, there had to be a catch hidden there somewhere. It was ulikely that Tirist suggested something like this just as a gesture of goodwill.

“And what would our dear baron Stukos say?” Fecici inquired, trying to read Tirist. “I would imagine such a thing wouldn't sit well with him.”

“Pfft-snort—'what would the baron say?'—ho ho,” the outpost liaison chuffed, his blubbery form undulating with every snort. “Well, he would be most delighted to hear that his lands are being protected, of course!” Tirist motioned broadly, then pressed his finger on a piece of paper on the table. “Besides, there is also the fact that it is well within your liberties to do so—haven't you read the town charter at all?—It matters not whether it would sit well with the baron or not. You understand, mister Lizardorgans, there are privileges—not only obligations and duties—granted to townships by Good King Såkzul himself. If baron Stukos dared vex you on this particular, why, he would be forfeit by the King!”

“Huh. It would seem that I have still much to learn about dwarf law and custom,” Fecici admitted begrudgingly, scratching his throat. “I will go through the charter thoroughly and take your suggestion under consideration.”

“Splendid! I knew you would come to see reason—it is a good, solid suggestion, after all,” Tirist said merrilly. He straightened up and clapped his hands, a wide grin appearing on his face. “Now, let us go through the usual stuff about our agreements and so and such... And then I head for a drink!”






19th of Limestone, 387

The sky was gray, the clouds hanging low, when a hooded capybara man stepped in through the Hill Gate, passing Mame the elf and Ana the fox woman who stood guard. He pulled his weather-beaten cloak stitched from wombat pelts tighter around him to fend off the rain and chill wind. He rounded past the Enchanted Bridge, climbing the steep stairs up to the walkway crossing the lake.

The capybara man was excited, for he had been many a year away from Waterlures. He was Unib Bridgeriddle, son of Ilral Begunbridges and Zultan Scorchlancers, and he had been on a pilgrimage. Now, after four years or so, he had finally returned and he was eager to be reunited with his heart's desire.



Ah, Ïteb Workgray! How he loved that sweet capybara woman and her company! It had been a long time to be separated, though Ïteb probably hadn't noticed the passage of time—she became so easily wrapped in her books and thoughts, pondering about Nothingness. Perhaps she had finally made a breakthrough on the topic while he had been away? Thinking of her made Unib smile, made his heart flutter and feel light. Indeed, he was quite convinced that it was time they got married, and raised the family that Ïteb had so wished for.

But little did Unib know that there would be no one to wed, no family to raise. At least, not in this life, for Ïteb was dead.





“Mama!” Îton Brassbolts tugged the hem of Dîshmab's robe.

“Not now, sweetie,” Dîshmab said softly to her son, tussling the little one's head. “Mommy has to be with your uncle Unib.”

She looked at her older brother who was seated at the table, trembling and staring into oblivion. She had been the one who told Unib the news about Ïteb's death—sparing him the gruesome details—and it hurt, it hurt so very much to see him like this. Her brother was mortified, the shock of it all visibly unbearable. This was like reliving the death of Monom—their little brother—at the hands of a night troll a long time ago. She could understand the pain and emptiness that Unib must be going through.

“I should've been here...” Unib said in a weak and quivering voice. “I should've been here to help and defend her.” He clenched his fists and bruxed his teeth.

“It's not your fault, Unib,” Dîshmab tried to comfort him and put a paw gently on his shoulder, though she knew there was not much she could do or say to ease his pain. “There is nothing you could have done—”

“What do you know about such things!?” Unib snapped, turning to glare angrily at Dîshmab. “That is what Mestthos would have wanted from me! To be here, help defend Waterlures—not go on some stupid pilgrimage!” Unib slammed a fist hard on the table. Dîshmab jolted and backed up. Îton began to cry.

“I... I'm sorry, Dîsh,” Unib said, turning to look at his sister with regret and tears in his eyes. “I didn't mean to yell... I didn't mean to...” He buried his muzzle in his paws and began to sob.

“There, there. It's alright—shh-shh-shh—I understand,” Dîshmab said, hushing both Îton and his brother at the same time.





5th of Sandstone, 387

Istrul Wheelscrow was fishing at the pier below Amane's Dyery, her infant girl Rovod Syrupparch next to her. She had given birth recently, her and Oddom's sixth child, and even the annoying rain could not sour her blissful mood. Her family kept on growing and it pleased her, though there were times when she had doubts about her decision to marry Oddom. He could be so unbearable sometimes—well, quite often, actually—with all of his talk of preserving Kasat's legacy and all the nonsense of tradition and nobility.

Nobility! Hah! It was something Istrul couldn't understand, why did Oddom think of such silly things as important. After all, they were not real nobles. Oddom's mother had been stripped of her title and land, for Ôsed's sake! The only title Oddom held was that of the Hammerer and that didn't make him the lord of a domain. The only reason he was called baron was because the townsfolk had insisted on calling Kasat the Baroness, and after her death the title had stuck with her eldest child.

Well, Istrul would make certain the same didn't happen to their children, no matter what Oddom wanted. She would not give in. She was not one to be easily swayed to change her mind.






8th of Sandstone, 387

Young Uvash, the son of baron Oddom and Istrul, was playing make believe in the dining hall. He was celebrating his twelfth birthday by imagining that he was a bold warrior returning from an adventure, crowds cheering him as he walked between their lines sword and buckler in hand. It was one of his favorite things to imagine:  he, the hero, slayer of giants and hydras. Ah, the vast hoards of wealth he acquired on his fantastical quests! Fame and glory he declined in these dreams of his, but the silver and diamonds, those he treasured like nothing else—except maybe the family he would raise one day.

And now that he was counted as an adult, he could finally make these dreams of his come true.






It was not only Uvash who had their twelfth birthday that day. Dastot Dikelucid, the daughter of Fikod Livingglazes and Kogan Girderreigned, was too an adult now. It was quite exciting, for it meant that she would be allowed to pursue her dream: becoming a smith and creating a masterwork. Of course crafting something considered to be a masterpiece would take years of practice—she knew that much—and quite frankly she didn't look forward to that. But perhaps one day she would be lucky enough to be blessed by the magic of these lands and guided to create one?

Surely such fortune would beat having to go through apprenticeship under the guidance of a master. Ugh, the very thought of working with someone disgusted her. She counted herself lucky that Aban Colorwhips had promised to teach her the skills required. He, at least, was a nice capybara man and she regarded him as a friend.






10th of Sandstone, 387

Atír Archsinged the broker was in high spirits, humming cheerily to himself as he walked the narrow paths winding between houses. It was raining and many a time he nearly slipped on the mud as he carried empty bins to the stores. However, such things could not dampen his spirits. You see, his wife Olon had given birth to a girl today—their eighth child!—and there was nothing, nothing that could diminish the happiness it made him feel.




Autumn passed briskly with the townsfolk working at the fields and furnaces, at the fisheries and tailories. A great cleanup of old betattered clothing was ordered; paws and hands rummaged through crammed wardrobes and scattered piles on floors, minds pondering what to save and what to throw away; then citizens wobbled down the walkways, off to dump heaps of threadbare apparel, saving the best for the next caravans. It was a major undertaking, for it was years since the last time such a monumental cleaning had been done.

There were seven more births during Sandstone, as well as one more capybara child entering adulthood at the age of twelve. Waterlures kept growing, its population now one hundred and fifty and three—a third of them children.

Indeed, for most citizens life in Waterlures was as good and enjoyable as ever, or at the very least they were content with their lot. A few, however, were far from satisfied, the burdens of daily life and toil seeming to crush them with loads they couldn't bear. Especially the foul moods and tantrums of one certain hippo man were a constant worry in town. Some feared that it was only a matter of time before something bad happened—something that could not be undone.

And they were right to fear so, for an ill-tempered hippo man could cause much hurt.


(Continued in next post...)

[brewer bob]

(...continued from previous post.)






6th of Timber, 387

“Oh, what do you think they'll do with him?” Coni despaired. She was at home, sitting at the table with Ònul Strickerelics, taking shelter from the rain and having a break from work.

“I don't know, Coni,” Ònul said, a trace of bitterness in her otherwise soothing tone. “It's a serious thing he did, violating the peace like that. The leadership won't be taking it so lightly this time around, I believe. They'll be forced to do something lest folk be all upset and become rowdy. There's been all sorts of ill talk and grumbling—like you heard in the meeting—and it's only getting worse.”

The two were talking about Dimbulb, who had been acting quite foul as of late, and during one of his outbursts he had assaulted Datan Futuretours, an engineer and scholar—a capybara man who was held in high regard in Waterlures. Datan had been collecting scrapped clothing from Ònul's home when the hippo man had barged in and started beating him without warning. It could have turned ugly were it not for Ònul's children who began crying, sending Dimbulb running away after he had realized what he had done.

It was a close call, for Datan had been gasping for air during the battering. A few more punches and he might have perished. Fortunately he survived with mere bruising under his fur.

Dimbulb, however, was not going to be as fortunate. There was no escaping punishment this time.






Be that as it may, there were other things afoot, things far more worrisome than a fitful hippo man.

Deep beneath Waterlures, something stirred, awakened from its long slumber and wait. Gomòk Loyalservants, an ancient giant frog with three long sabre-like horns and sleek, smooth skin, earthen red, had come. A fiend most foul it was, and it had set its single scornful eye upon the walls that separated it from its quarry, the township of Waterlures.

Belching fire it lay waste to the hollows, setting cave moss and fungus ablaze. The raging inferno encroached the palisade, flames licking the wall, burning the wooden gate into ash and cinders. Soon the bloated frog would rain death and ruin upon the children of Ôsed.





16th of Timber, 387

“Outrageous!” Baron Oddom fumed, slamming a fist in his paw. “That impertinent eel causes all sorts of trouble, striking citizens one after the other—my brother one of them!—and you suggest that we merely tell him to go away!? Go away? What kind of madness is this?”

“Calm yourself, capybara man,” mayor Fecici said stoically from behind his desk, his hands steepled in front of his lips. “It is but one option we have, and not one that I put forth lightly. It is a harsh but fair form of punishment in these circumstances. Calling it 'telling him to go away' is quite untrue if not demeaning.”

A meeting was taking place at the mayor's office and almost all of the town officials were there. Mayor Fecici Lizardorgans and sheriff Fayoba Claspedleap, of the elves; baron Oddom Abbeycloister, dungeon master Fikod Livingglazes, manager Oddom Rackknight and broker Atír Archsinged, of the capybara people; and holy bulwark Unib Hammerwhipped and sage Dumed Guisetin, of the dwarves.

Fecici had called for them to come together and discuss the many tribulations of the hippo man Dimbulb and how to deal with it. Fayoba's suggestion of banishing the criminal, which Fecici had put forth, did not sit well with some of the attendees, it seemed.

“Regardless, that is elf law, not our law, which is the law of Mestthos,” the holy bulwark Unib grunted with his muscular arms crossed over his chest. “'Steel thyself, for thy hands must visit violence upon those who visit violence upon thy people'—that is what is written, the will of Mestthos. Will we forsake that and in its stead hold some farsical farewell party, dancing under trees and sing 'Amethysts', being all oo-o-o-oo-ooo?” Unib pranced around the floor, lips pursed and arms flailing—a poor attempt at mimicing dance and song.

Fikod held in a chuckle and Fayoba smiled, shaking his head at the dwarf's silly theatrics. The others... Well, they were not so easily amused and glared at Unib with much disapproval. An awkward silence hung over the room.

“Ahem. May it please you, good people,” the sage Dumed stepped forth and broke the silence, her otherwise formal manner spoiled as she absently scratched her bowl-cut greying hair. “Our esteemed mayor, carrying mandate from the Assembly of Citizens, has asked us to consider in good faith a most unusual of propositions; that of supplanting dignified dwarf law, given to us by the divine grace of Mestthos, with the ways of our tenuous allies from the forest realms. Such a proposition may indeed sound preposterous and unthinkable, forsaking tradition with obscure and obtuse elven ways, but surely this particular is worth our consideration, is it not?”

“Stop your babbling and speak in words we all understand,” baron Oddom waved his arms frustratedly. “What possible worth could lie in the suggestion that we should consider it? Let us deal with criminals the way we always have and do away with all this rubbish, I say!”

“Speaking of rubbish, there is also the matter of my door,” Atír jumped in, trying to bring his concerns and complaints to the table. He wasn't really interested in the rest of the discussion, nor had he really followed it, so this was as good a place as any to say what was on his mind.




The thing was that somebody had recently destroyed the door to Atír's home. He was quite fond of the pomelo wood door and many a time he had admired it. It had brought him so much pleasure, that door. But one day—it was probably the same day when his brother Datan was assaulted, now that he thought of it—when he came home, instead of a pomelo wood door there was only broken wood lying strewn about. Some villainous varmint had committed a heinous act of vandalism—such gall, such rudeness! Oh, but he had his own sneaking suspicions who—

“We're not here to talk about your door, Atír,” his sister Fikod whispered into his ear. Atír snapped out of his thoughts and noticed that, once again, the room had grown quiet. And this time everyone was staring at him.

“Er... Right. My apologies, do carry on,” he said and shuffled back a little.




As the meeting dragged on, at the entry shaft to the caverns stood Zasit Shipfinger the dwarf, sniffing the air, his lap full of old socks. 'Smells like smoke,' he thought as he flared his nostrils. 'There's something burning down in the deep or I'm a tree-loving elf.' Barely visible tendrils of smoke wafted up from the shaft, the grey haze carrying an ashen and stinging aroma.

Perhaps there was some new threat that had emerged from the dark? Zasit was well aware of the monsters that the Fenced Princes had put down in early Limestone. It was entirely possible that more had found their way to the deeps beneath Waterlures. He couldn't be certain of it, of course, but neither was he stupid enough to investigate the matter on his own. It was best to head up and inform the militia and let them deal with it.





“With all due respect, I am not changing my mind,” sheriff Fayoba said adamantly. “If we deal with him in the traditional way—a beating and jailing—it will only make things worse, I fear. Once he has served his punishment, his soul will not be rid of that which ails him. He will be ever more broken, his tantrums far more unpleasant. It will only end in tragedy that way.”

“Nonsense! If he doesn't see the error in his ways, we punish him again and again, over and over until he does,” baron Oddom scoffed. “I tell you, banishment will not satisfy my sense of justice, nor that of many others. There are reasons why people grumble about you, Fayoba,” the baron pointed at the sheriff with extreme prejudice, “and—I assure you—if you choose to exile the hippo man, there will be outrage, there will be righteous indignation and demands for justice!”

“Please! Listen to the sheriff, I beg of you,” the dungeon master Fikod pleaded, her sense of compassion giving her strength to overcome her shyness and speak. “What good will a beating or imprisonment do? What good is such a punishment if the worst has come to pass? If someone is maimed and broken, punishment will not heal them of their lameness. If someone lies dead, no amount of beatings will breathe life into them. Perhaps such justice satisfies the need for vengeance, but such satisfaction can only be false and hollow.”

“My lord, Fikod speaks wise words,” the manager—the other Oddom—addressed the baron drily and bowed his head. “I think there is merit to the suggestion of banishment. However, I agree with you, my lord, that it is not enough for the people. By itself it will not satisfy the need for justice, but what if we took a different route, what if we did both? Dwarf law and the elf way? Surely we can consider such a thing.”

“That is one possibility,” mayor Fecici nodded and tapped his fingers together. “What say you of this?”




However, before anyone could give their answer, young Feb Spokenpaper rushed up the stairs and into the room, apologizing for the interruption. He headed to whisper something in baron Oddom's ear, while the rest of the room looked at him and waited. Feb had recently been made a messenger and as his first task he brought word from militia warden Kumil. He was rather anxious and nervous, and being stared at by the town leadership hardly made him feel any better.

“What is it, Oddom?” Fecici inquired, after the young capybara man had delivered the message and left, almost forgetting to bow courteously.

“My apologies, but I must beg my leave,” Oddom said, a sense of enthusiasm in his manner. “It has come to my attention that there is another disturbance in the caverns and we, the Fenced Princes, must go and investigate it. I advise you all to remain calm and stay inside until further notice.”

And with that baron Oddom left, unstrapping his trusty hammer Kilrudsat as he ran in the direction of the Dwarf Quarter. He would rather face a thousand of beasts than havie to endure this dreadful meeting.

=====

So, another update.

We had quite the amount of forgotten beasties in the cavens. Some of them were stuck behind trees, so I teleported them to a place from where they could path somewhere. I was quite relieved that the couple of webspitters got killed by the other beasts. Also, fortunately that dust had no other effect than drowsiness. Other than that our militia had no problems with them.

The beast at the end of this writeup, however... That might be a bit of a problem. There might be a few casualties even though I'm trying to lure it up the shaft before tackling it. In the caverns with flammable terrain it'd absolutely destroy the militia. We'll see what happens.

I decided to "full-heal" Edzul the Silent, since his crawling was a bit tedious and at the same time give him the ability to speak (not that he didn't have such a thing, we've been just roleplaying so, and it was a bit too hard to write him this way). The strange mood gave a some kind of reasoning why such a change happened. Hope that's fine with you Salmeuk.

Oh, the capybara who returned... I'd wondered where he'd disappeared, but legends didn't say anything. I tested unretire-anyone on him and it seemed that he was hanging out in one of the nearby hillocks. That was however after I decided that he'd gone on a pilgrimage and I changed his profession. Also, felt bad when I realized he was the lover of Ïteb who was killed by the cyclops. I used dfhack to give him the 'shocked by unexpected death' thought. I just felt it fitting that he had some kind of reaction.

Other than that, I'm still unsure what to do with Dimbulb, but most likely I'll end up first punishing him from the justice screen (hoping the sheriff doesn't punch him to death) and then expelling him. But we'll see. Suggestions on what to do are welcome.

Next writeup might take a bit longer to do.

[Maloy]

I meant to respond to the last update from a few days before and even knew what I wanted to say, but forgot lol


Speaking as a humble leopard seal man, not originally from this land, but now calling it home!

What if we put our dear rhino friend into a sort of...solitary confinement? Without the humanitarian issues.
Give him whatever he needs to make the most of the isolation: Punching bags to train martial skills, logs to make crafts, a shrine to pray at, and lots of good drinks! If he makes a come back then we saved a valuable friend! If he loses his mind completely then we at least have our consciences clean!

I also think we can probably allow dwarven justice to met out. I doubt any capybara or dwarf can punch hard enough to kill him and so he'd survive the beating I expect.



Also, Action! Send me to the caverns, noble Capybaras! I am ready to fight whatever horrors wait beneath!

[brewer bob]

Thanks for the suggestions!

In the next writeup we'll see what kind of punishment the capybaras have in store for the hippo man.

And I'll be sure to send your guy with the rest to the caverns when we get the next forgotten beast.

[Salmeuk]

checking to say I am keeping up to date with your entries and they are really enjoyable as winter sets in. So familiar has this fortress become!!

The beast at the end of this writeup, however... That might be a bit of a problem.

a red-skinned flame frog ? good luck militia!

I recently employed a two-pronged strategy against such firecasters, with the second squad flanking behind the first, so as to guarantee that one of the two groups will avoid the first burst of flame and subsequent pathing issues (they will stop dead in their tracks if fire is present).

another proven strategy is to fight in a watery arena of 2zlevel depth . This seems preferential as, despite the great clouds of boiling steam, the dwarves can then continue fighting without pathing issues.

[brewer bob]

Part X:
The Prince's Domain




16th of Timber, 387

The Fenced Princes stood ready in the Dwarf Quarter, peering down the sloping hall that led to the caverns. The deep croaks echoing from below grew louder and louder as the beast they were waiting for approached.

“Well, it's been rather boring lately,” Mame the elf sauced, adjusting his grip on his sword, “so it's nice to get at least some excitement in life.”

“Whatever suits you, I guess,” the goblin Azstrog—called 'Cagebird' by some—shrugged, shifting her weight uneasily from one foot to the other. “Everyone's got their own way of life. Me, I'd rather be gutting fish or slopping out than this.”

“Focus on the task at hand and be ready!” Kumil barked at the two. “There'll be time for talk after we've dealt with whatever is coming!”




Up the winding path rounding the mine shaft slowly crawled Gomòk, creeping low like a cat stalking its prey. its bloated belly dragging on the floor. Tendrils of smoke puffed out of its nostril slits with every low-pitched croak it made, its throat bulging as it drew in air.

Soon, very soon, it would reach its prey and roast them with its fiery breath.





“Steady, steady,” Kumil shouted orders, keeping his shield up. The beast was near now, its croaks as loud and terrifying as thunder. “Hold! Hold—”

“Ôsed!” Kumil's orders fell to deaf ears as Likot Languagehame cried and leapt down the hall, her mace coming down and shield in front of her. -SMACK!- The hammer struck the infernal frog-beast in its body, sending ripples across its bulbous body. A jet of fire shot out from its mouth, Likot barely managing to hide behind her shield, the flames singing the tips of her fur and heating her steelen cover.

Behind her came Kogan Girderreigned, husband of dungeon master Fikod, hacking madly with Petalprides, his iron axe. A gaping wound was cloven into the monstrous frog's foot. “I laugh in the face of death!” Kogan yelled, his heart filled with vengeance. The beast buckled and fell to the floor, spewing its fire willy-nilly as it struggled to rise up, flopping back down with each failed attempt.

Rage washed over the beast for its unfortunate predicament. This was not at all how its moment of glory was supposed to go!



But no amount of rage would help Gòmok Loyalservants when the full strength of the Fenced Princes fell on it. It wiggled on the floor, desperately trying to slap its feet at the armored pests that buzzed around it hacking and slashing, whacking and stabbing. It was of no use, its strength drained with every new wound. Even its flames became a pitiful sputter after a while, the beast's breath almost spent, its body viciously rent.

Soon the beast gave up, a couple of goblins hanging from its skin by their vile teeth, humiliating the humongous frog ever the more. The beast accepted its fate, doomed to be mangled by its disagreeing meal and soon to be forgotten by all.

Then its head was chopped off. Its torment ended by Mame the elf.



The beast's short tale was over and its slayers walked away grimly satisfied. In a pool of its own blood lay the mangled and mutilated corpse of Gòmok, a beast from a time before time, its pitiful attempt to ravage Waterlures an utter failure.






10th of Moonstone, 387

Winter fell upon Waterlures when the year entered its final quarter. Inod Massiveabbey sat at a scribe's desk in the House of Knowledge, writing tools arranged neatly and close to the paw. An illuminated manuscript was spread open next to her and an empty quire waited in front of her. She had decided to become a scribe, and one of the first books she chose to copy was 'The Trees When It Counts', authored by one Elufi Treasongolds.

The book was not impressive, the prose and art passable, but that was only a good thing for Inod's purposes. She still needed to learn her trade, and while she was confident in herself, she knew that it would take a long time before she mastered the skill. But it mattered not, for she had the patience for such a noble pursuit.

Inod's thoughts, however, were elsewhere than on her work and she made a mistake with her ink. Inod muttered a curse and scraped the botched line with a penknife. Success! The failure was fixed, she smiled with pride. The young capybara woman leaned back on the chair, stretched her arms, diving back into her thoughts. Yes, the hippo man. That awful, awful hippo man. It was outrageous how he had violated uncle Datan without cause. How could someone exhibit such barbaric behavior, commit such atrocious acts? It disgusted her, such uncouth and savage manners.

Well, she was glad that he had faced his judgment and on all charges he had been found guilty.






14th of Moonstone, 387

Truly, justice had been served, punishment delivered. In the end, the will of the capybara people—or their majority, to be fair—had won and tradition was upheld. Begrudgingly mayor Fecici accepted defeat and bent to the will of the townsfolk. “The dwarf way it is then,” he had said, and truthfully it was not a decision he came to regret—for the citizens were mighty pleased, indeed.

Now Dimbulb lay on a traction bench in the infirmary, bruised and battered, his arm and leg broken. He was resting and his snoring proclaimed it loudly. He had been sentenced to a beating and fifty-seven days in prison. However, prison had to wait until the time after the doctors and healers had tended to them, but they seemed not to be in any sort of hurry to mend the hurts of Dimbulb.






15th of Moonstone, 387

It was a rather pleasant winter day, the sky clear and the rays of the sun giving some semblance of warmth, but it didn't cheer the sentries at the East Gate. Likot Languagehame shifted restlessly to and fro, trying to find a way to stand at ease. She tried to lean on her mace, but it was far too short and made her feel like a weary old crone. Her shield wasn't any better as a support.

“What's the matter?” Mame the elf asked, staring at Likot tossing about awkwardly. “You practicing a new dance or what?”

“What? No!” Likot blurted louder than intended. “I'm just... It's so dreadfully boring. I'm losing my mind with this constant tiresome sentry duty. There's never anything interesting happening.”

“G'day, my lady,” a jovial voice rang from the gate, then continued in a far less enthusiastic tone, “...and elf.” Likot and Mame turned around startled by the unknown and unexpected voice, but they were even more startled by what they saw. A dwarf walked through the gate with a pompous gait, carrying a pile of clothes in his arms—not wearing them, but carrying them—for he was stark naked.

The mouths of both sentries dropped open, their eyes went wide. The dwarf walked between them grinning widely and flashed his eyebrows. Behind him came young Feb, the capybara man messenger, looking deeply ashamed, keeping his eyes to the ground, “...sorry,” he mumbled as he passed the guards.

The stupefied heads of Likot and Mame followed the nude dwarf's arrogant strut, neither able to say anything in such a peculiar place. When the dwarf was halfway to the Enchanted Bridge, he clenched and unclenched his buttocks, cackling wildly at his own vulgarity.

“Oh dear mighty Icemì, that does it!” Mame griped and flailed his hands. “I've had quite enough—naked dwarves are just too much!” He stormed off to the gatehouse, but before Likot could do or say anything, more dwarves poured through the East Gate.

They, however, were wearing their clothes and Likot thanked Ôsed in her mind for that.






Olon Seerlances sighed as she put down the copper bucket, water sloshing over its rim. She looked at the snoring hippo man. It was quite the mess the sheriff had caused when dealing out the punishment. Bones smashed open in the left upper arm and lower leg, the broken bones jutting nastily through the skin. She was not at all thrilled with this kind of punishment, but at least this time around the felon would survive. As long as infection didn't set in.

'Oh, I'd like to have a word or two with them,' she thought of the leadership as she gently washed Dimbulb's wounds clean with giant kea soap, 'but I don't really feel like telling them what I think of this barbaric justice of theirs.'






While Olon tended to Dimbulb, Feb Spokenpaper sat at his table, a bowl full of biscuits made from seeds and sheep tallow in front of him. His first trek out of the shelter of Waterlures would have been a complete success were it not for the terribly embarrassing moment when he returned and the dwarf Vucar Slidletter stripped himself naked. There had apparently been a wager between him and some other dwarves: a week's pay that he didn't dare cause a scene upon arrival. And quite the commotion he had caused by wearing only a smile. Indeed, his uncovered frolicking was the gossip of the day for quite some time.

Regardless, Feb's mission to deliver a message to the hillocks of Rope-entries was a fruitful one. Ten dwarves had answered the call to arms, hand-picked by Lorbam Gemburies, the militia commander of the hillocks. It made Feb mighty pleased that he had done his share to help keep Waterlures safe.





25th of Moonstone, 387

In a small cell cut into the stone Dimbulb the hippo man was, a fine iron chain manacled to his ankle. His splinted arm was resting in a sling, his left leg cast in gypsum plaster. He stared far into the nothingness, completely oblivious to his surroundings. Reality felt like a blurry dream, or nightmare, to him. He did not understand why he had been thrown into the dungeon. The confinement, it made him angry! How was he supposed to attend the Winter Festivities when he was behind bars? It made no sense to him. It frustrated him.

Well, when he would be let out, he was sure he would do something that would make certain folk regret they were ever born. He'd show them what he thought of their stupid prison! Oh, he would have his revenge. There was no doubt about it.




Winter was normally a time of leisure and being with friends and family, time of the Winter Festivities. This year, however, the citizens of Waterlures were still hard at work in midwinter. As the town's population grew, so did the need for housing, and with almost all vacant space on land crammed with buildings—some with upper floors overhanging the streets—the only place left to build within town walls was over the lake. Winter was the best time to lay the supports needed for the new houses and walkways.

With so much work to do, there was hardly time left for the Winter Festivities.





22nd of Opal, 387

“The Creed of Fire? What's that?” Reg Musclehame inquired, her brow furrowed. She had stopped at the Hut of Romancing to grab a quick drink and had managed to end up gossiping with a visiting dwarf. She had told Reg news about somebody becoming the new 'sacred brand' of a creed in some town, but Reg had no inkling as to who, what and where the white haired dwarf was talking about.

“Oh, you don't know?” the dwarf said, her bronze eyes wide open in surprise. She waved her hand slightly and shook her head. “Of course you don't, how silly of me. It's one of the cults worshipping the Flare of Heating, a god of volcanoes. I suppose he's not known this far south.”

“Well, I know very little of the world ,” Reg admitted, scratching the back of her head. “I've never left Waterlures to be honest. What's it like traveling around? There must be so much out there, so much to see!”







24th of Opal, 387

“Hum-dum-dum, du-dum-dum-dee, it's so good being me-he-hee,” Fath Ironorgan sang his happiness aloud as he pranced down the street. He was quite the gleeful capybara man today, and why wouldn't he be? He had almost burst out of joy when after all these years he and Inod Oilyround finally exchanged their vows at the shrine of Ôsed.

Ah, Inod! It almost felt like yesterday when that old sod Zultan had arranged the little “vacation” for him and Inod at the Lover's Hut. It hadn't taken them long to fall in love with each other, but neither had felt the need to go further and be wed. What they had between them, well, it had been enough. That was over ten years ago, them becoming infatuated and all. They had had their ups and downs during that time—arguing and making peace.

There had been so much arguing! Even on the day Inod proposed Fath they had fought. Truly, Fath had been completely flabbergasted when Inod had been so furious at him, “Fath Ironorgan! The smug uppity boy so full of himself that he named his bow after himself! I hate you so much! I hate you sometimes so much that I want to... I want to... marry you, urgh!” She had then calmed down and asked the magic words, “Fath... will you marry me?”

Yes. Yes had been his answer! For what else could he have said to beloved Inod, looking at him with those pleading sparkly eyes?






26th of Opal, 387

“So we've lost him then, huh?” Tanzul said indifferently, pushing around his mug of mead on the table. He was at the Hut of Romancing meeting up with Coni, Galel, Maloy and Osod to talk about the recent turn of events. All of them looked rather glum and the melancholic humming of Unib Bridgeriddle from further off matched their sullen mood.

“I'm afraid so,” Maloy said with a nod, his nose almost bobbing into his pint. “Sheriff Fayoba himself told me and asked me to pass the message. He—”

“Hah! Didn't dare come and tell himself, eh?” Galel interrupted with a loud scoff. Noticing how loud he had been, the ostrich man slunk down in his chair, his eyes darting nervously around the tavern.

“Why don't you let me finish before opening your vile beak?” the elephant seal man frowned. “I was about to say that Fayoba would like to talk to all of you in person—if you are willing—but he had other matters to look into. He wanted you to be the first to know—that's why he asked me to tell.”

“Hmm, it is sad,” Osod said, stroking the short tufts of wool on his chin. “The amount of hate in him... so enormous. The storm within only kept growing all this time, consuming all the remaining goodness in his soul... A terrible loss, that one.”

“It isn't fair,” Coni lamented, staring at the tabletop emptily. “He's already suffered so much. It's just not fair.”





It was a sad day for the companions, learning that their dear friend Dimbulb the hippo man had lost his mind. Being thrown into the dungeon was too much for him. In less than a month of confinement he was overwhelmed by the nightmare his life had become. He was taken by madness, howling and yelling alone in his cell. He rattled the bars, punched the walls, screamed for blood and murder. His soul was devoured, his mind broken.

Dimbulb had gone berserk. There was nothing left to do but let him languish in prison.






Kumil the faun was at the East Gate on watch duty with baron Oddom when sheriff Fayoba had stomped to them across the snowy road. He had demanded to have a few words with the baron, so Kumil had moved further off to give them some semblance of privacy. However, he could hear them quite clearly—it was a rather heated exchange they had.

“It was a fair and just punishment,” baron Oddom said defensively. “It was what the law and people demanded. You have no right whatsoever to question that. It is not the fault of the law that his mind broke.”

“Oh, you might just as well be gloating,” Fayoba snapped, shaking and pointing a finger at Oddom, spilling wine from his mug in the process. “You're just as happy about this as when you mangled the limbs of Atu with your hammer,” Fayoba pointed towards the town, spilling more wine, “You enjoyed it then and you enjoy this now, admit it!”

“Yes, it makes me rather satisfied when justice is served. Is that somehow wrong?” Oddom said innocently to the elf, but his tone became harsh when he continued. “If you want to chastise me for respecting law and tradition, come talk to me when you're sober, not drunk—now, be off!” The capybara man motioned with his paw, glaring at the sheriff.



“Fine! But this isn't the last you'll hear of me,” Fayoba vowed and turned to head back to town. Oddom snorted and shook his head as the elf stormed away. “You'll have to shoulder some of the blame for this one, Oddom!” Fayoba shouted before he reached the Enchanted Bridge.

What had happened to Dimbulb was precisely what Fayoba had wanted to avoid by suggesting banishment as punishment. His fears that the hippo man's state would get worse had come true, though it had happened much faster than he expected. He had no illusions that it was the so-called justice of Ustuth Ïdath that pushed Dimbulb over the brink.

And he had been the one forced to enact the punishment, against his will. He was not sure if he could continue to be the Sheriff of Waterlures much longer.







Early spring, 388

Spring arrived after a winter of hard work. With a new year and spring, the shadow of the Prince of Duty passed over Waterlures once more. The human sage Goto Cherishedburied came to the end of her mortal life and breathed the last of her breath. There was one less scholar at the House of Knowledge. Their numbers kept thinning, for there were few who chose to pursue a philosopher's life in Waterlures these days.

Alas, Dastot the unicorn passed away in spring, too. A rare equine beast in these lands, brought by the elves of Múya Loré a long time ago. It was the last of its kind in Waterlures.






11th of Granite, 388

Istrul Wheelscrow and sheriff Fayoba sat fishing beneath Amane's Dyery, the stilt houses and walkways above providing cover from the cold, wet sleet. Istrul took a sip of wine from her waterskin once in a while as the two talked, kicking her feet that dangled over the pier's side.

“My husband can be like that sometimes,” Istrul sighed. “Or I should rather say that he's like that pretty much all the time. He's become quite impossible since his father died—and I don't mean it's only because of grief—Cusal kept him in check, you know?”

“Huh, I hadn't thought of it that way,” Fayoba said and scratched his chin. Yes. What Istrul said made sense. Since a child Oddom had looked up to Kasat, listening to her with eyes full of wonder. All that talk of proper decorum and tradition, Oddom had fed upon it from the very beginning. His mother had put much expectations on his son, but Cusal was always there, more down to earth, seeing to it that there was more to Oddom's life than upkeeping nobility that had been lost.

 “Yes, it all makes sense now,” Fayoba said with a smile, understanding his friend a bit better now.

“Well, I'm glad to help—ooh, a nibble!” Istrul cheered and began pulling up her spring's first catch.






15th of Granite, 388

“Come along now, you silly sheep,” Idar clapped her thigh as she tried to get the reluctant ewe to follor her. “Ach! Darned snow!” She blew at the annoying snow that kept splatting on her face, desperately attempting to keep them away. “It's milking time, sheep—without milk, there can't be cheese, so you better do the part the Morning of Wind.gave you!”

'Stupid sheep,' she mumbled in her thoughts. She heard the pen's main gate creak and turned to look who opened it. An elf clad in thick cloth robes—made in peculiar elven fashion—entered the closure, leading a donkey laden with enormous packs. Several other elves followed with mules and giant moose as their pack animals.

“Hey, you can't come through here, you'll spook the animals!” Idar yelled at the elves as she rushed after them. The uncooperative ewe finally decided to follow Idar. “Now listen you pointy-eared scoundrels, I say—hey, do you hear me!” The elves paid no heed to the shouting dwarf, walking calmly out the side of the fence and through the Pen Gate into Waterlures.

The spring had brought merchants from Ula Tefe once again, and they had decided to take a shortcut through the animal pen, it seemed.






24th of Granite, 388

Coni sat in the corner of the farmer's workshop watching Astesh spinning wool. It was rather calming and soothing to see how the wool wrapped around the distaff became yarn around the spindle. It looked so simple when the capybara woman did it, but Coni knew she wouldn't be able to do spin even a strand without much practice.

Regardless, it was a good distraction from all the hopelessness and despair she was going through.

“It grieves me so that he is no longer with us,” Astesh said and sighed as she lay the distaff and spindle on her lap. “My heart aches and I pray Ôsed is merciful to his soul.”

“Do you think Dimbulb is among the stars now?” Coni asked, a surge of grief crushing her chest. She still couldn't believe it—everything felt like a hazy dream. Her dear friend had passed away. He was gone, only a memory now. Sheriff Fayoba was the one who had found Dimbulb in his cell, lying on the stone floor, his body cold and lifeless. Coni was among the first to hear of it and she had come straight to find Astesh, to seek comfort for she didn't want to be alone.

“I do not know,” Astesh grieved, grasping her chest with her paws. “I hope and pray he is up there, shining among the rest of the faithful... but I fear the illness in his soul was the evil doings of darker powers.”

Coni looked at Astesh hopelessly, tears in her eyes, swallowing the lump in her throat. With a quivering, frail voice she managed to ask, “...where will his soul go then?”





Tanzul leaned on the railing of the pier outside his house, the cool spring wind sending ripples across the lake surface. A fish splashed nearby, but the fox man hardly noticed it. He was deep in his thoughts. Tanzul was supposed to be patrolling the walkways, but at the moment he needed to be alone, to keep his own counsel and grieve.

'Another friend dead,' he thought, pounding the brutal truth into his head. It was hard to accept that Dimbulb was really dead, even though he had known this would come to happen. Ever since madness took hold of the hippo man, he had known, but he had pushed such thoughts away. Now he was forced to face the truth and he was almost overcome by grief. He felt guilty, too, for he felt he had not done enough to help his friend in his distress. He could have—should have—done more, but he hadn't. Instead, he had hoped that others would help Dimbulb, and concentrated on his own life, settling in the cozy comfort of Waterlures.

What kind of a friend was he even? A selfish churl who eagerly shared the joys of others, but when they were troubled and dejected, he barely lifted a paw to help. The others had sacrificed so much for him, he none for them.

And even now he was only thinking of himself and not his friends, Tanzul winced, a hurt tearing through him.






“Oh, you should have seen him—sniff—when his mind was still whole,” Sibrek sniffed and wiped tears from his eyes. He was at Fecici's dining hall above the office, crying his grief to the elf, but also interrupting his meal. “Why, we had such a good time on our journey here, together jumping into a stream, laughing and—sniff—and splashing wa—sniff—ter...” Sibrek's voice broke and he began crying loudly, dropping on his knees and burying his head in his arms on the table.

 “Now, now, do not worry,” Fecici lay a hand on Sibrek's shoulder awkwardly and tried to hide the irritation in his voice. “He is in a better place now, I believe,” the elf's voice wasn't really convincing, but fortunately Sibrek didn't pay attention, “at least he should be—what with all the, hmm, Rabbit things and such...”

Come to think of it, Fecici had really no understanding of the beliefs and holy doctrines of the townsfolk. He had never been interested in the spiritual lives of others. But now he regretted that he knew almost nothing about Ôsed, the most venerated deity in Waterlures.

It was something he'd have to rectify sooner rather than later. After all, he was the mayor and a mayor should know such things.





26th of Granite, 388

In one of the lecture halls of the House of Knowledge Datan Fururetours paced back and forth. He was quite elated and excited after finally understanding the mechanisms behind the lever. It was no new invention, of course, but the required formula for precise calculations had eluded the capybara man engineer for quite some time.

'Now, let's see. The greater the distance from the fulcrum,' he thought, holding a paw to his chin, 'then it will move with more ease. So AB will be the bar, then we need the weight and force. Yes, and of course the fulcrum...'





8th of Slate, 388

One of the few new scholars of the House of Knowledge was Zasit Trumpetspirits the weasel man. He was part of the labor force that had come from the hillocks of Tradeplay over ten years ago and had stayed after their work was completed. He really hadn't found any special calling in life and he had ended continuing as a laborer, hauling items to the stores, pushing minecarts, dabbling in this and that... His life was that of a typical peasant and he had been mostly content with it.

But now, at the age of fifty-three, he had come to understand that he would not live forever. There was still so much in the world he did not know and he wanted to do something about that. So he had decided on pursuing scholarly matters and now called himself a Naturalist.

'Whoever wrote this had something against their master,' Zasit thought as he read the scroll titled 'Uncovering the Human'. It concerned the apprenticeship of the elf Amoya Boardglittered, the author, under the human Thuthu Hidecradles. It wasn't much of a read, really, but the vicious writing was quite entertaining.

Besides, Zasit had to start his learning from somewhere.






12th of Slate, 388

“You did? Now who'd have thought?” Vabôk raised his dense eyebrows and stood up, wiping his hands on a dye-stained rag. “The young capybara man who once was so restless with his fists has found the patience for the more pleasant things in life. May Mestthos shield the both of you.” Vabôk bowed and then gave Etur a good hearty hug, slapping him on the back, almost knocking the wind out of the capybara man.

Indeed, against all expectations Etur Laborworth, son of Ilral and Zultan, and Kib Owlroughness, daughter of Kasat and Cusal, had married.






23rd of Slate, 388

The last light of the day had faded and night was upon Waterlures. Likot Languagehame and Nako Doomjumped stood at the South Gate on watch duty. The elephant seal man Maloy had been passing by and decided to stop for a chat with the two.

“A rather cold evening we have today,” Maloy said to the sentries. “But at least there's not many clouds in the sky and the stars are bright.”

“Well, I'd still rather be someplace inside sitting by the hearth,” Likot said, her teeth clattering a bit. “The chill seeps all the way into the bones.”

“Pssh, stop complaining,” Nako snorted at Likot. “If you have a task, do it properly, without whining.”

The three went on talking about the weather and the burden of their duties. As Maloy was about to head back into town, they heard something approaching from the dark, rushing through the reeds and grass. Fast.




Through the grass onto the cobblestone road emerged a horrifying beast, snarling and barking. It loped towards the gate on incredibly powerful legs, its arms corded with muscle ended in sharp claws, and a thick tail whipped behind it with every leap. Its eyes glowed a sinister purple, staring from its kangaroo head, hungering for flesh and blood.

“Werekangaroo!” Nako yelped the obvious, drawing his sword with trembling hands.



The sentries and Maloy ran to fight the crazed marsupial, Nako being the first to reach it and hurled backwards as the beast collided with him shrugging off the gobln's punch. As the goblin and werekangaroo tumbled, Likot bashed it with her mace a solid smack to the leg, followed by Maloy's large fist utterly crushing one of the beast's fingers. It snarled and turned to lash at Likot and Maloy, giving Nako an opportunity to split open its thigh. Foul blood surged from the wound and the leg buckled under the werecreature, sending it crashing to the ground.

The militia members did not hesitate to take advantage of the situation. Soon the thrashing beast was overwhelmed by the shower of sword, fist, mace and spear, its attempts to land even one scratch futile. Where the werekangaroo failed, the militia succeeded. Slash, stab, punch, bite. All hit their mark, more and more beast blood flowing after each blow.

Then, finally, Maloy bit the bloodied humanoid kangaroo in the gut, lifting the beast with his jaws and shook it savagely until its belly ripped open, painting the elephant seal man crimson in a shower of blood and spilled guts.




“Well, that was quite brutal,” Nako looked at the corpse fell with a wet flop on the bloodied road, some of its foul guts still hanging from Maloy's mouth. The goblin reached to slap the stupefied elephant seal man on the shoulder and pointed at the dangling intestines. “You probably don't want to eat that.”

“So easily broken...” Maloy said in horror, letting the guts drop from his mouth, shocked by the gruesome way he slew the werebeast.





4th of Felsite, 388

Rin Fisthearts leaned against the wall next to the doors leading to the meadery of the Hut of Romancing. His eyes were on the human on the other side of the hall; a thin but very muscular man dressed in layers of robes, long white hair flowing from beneath his brimless round cap. His eyes were strikingly blue and bulging, and Rin found them somewhat disturbing. It wasn't the look, but the feel—there was some kind of menace hidden in them.

Mame Apesbury the Poet. At least that was what he called himself. Perhaps that was his name, perhaps it was not. Nevertheless, four old gibbons—tavern pets—hobbled around him in a line, their arms held above their heads for balance, making silly hoots once in a while. It was a rather comical sight, and Rin would have probably laughed or chuckled at it in his old life—well, when he was alive—but now he just stared blankly.

The human had a blank stare too. Rin couldn't be certain, but he believed the human was like him. He could sense the taint of the Dark Gods in him. He could almost feel the undeath of the human.

And if Rin could feel it, surely the undead human sensed the same of him.


(Continued in next post...)

[brewer bob]

(...continued from previous post.)






4th of Hematite, 388

Summer arrived in Waterlures after a spring full of work. The new houses were nearing completion and the dwarves from Tradeplay were slowly settling in. The town's furnaces and forges billowed black smoke, a clangor echoing from the smithies as armor and weapons for the levies was forged. The capybara woman Inod Oilyround and the coyote man Atera Fordwave stood guard at the South Gate, the faint clanging of hammer on steel sounding rhythmically in the background.

“That's not funny,” Inod said to Atera who cracked a joke—if you really can call the one about the giant red pandas and the desert tortoise man a joke. “Why'd the desert tortoise man do that? It makes no sense. It's worse than the stuff Mame spits.”

“It's philosopher humor. Dealing with metaphysics and such,” Atera went on the defensive. “It makes fun of abstract things. It's not supposed to make sense.”

“Well, whatever. It's still not funny,” Inod insisted and leaned on her spear, looking up in the sky where a flock of ravens were circling.

“Wait, what was that?” Inod twitched her ears and straightened herself. A long, sharp blast echoed dissonantly over the hills. It sounded like some kind of a crude horn.




Ònul Strickenrelics walked down the steep stairs of the Old Mill, thinking how she'd like to do something creative for a change. She knew she had hardly any skill in the arts, though she had once made an obsidian figurine worthy of legend. But that was the result of the strange magics of these lands taking hold of her, so it didn't really count. Ah well, maybe she'd try some woodcarving some day—she could manage that.

She stopped at the door, hearing something from outside. Weird. Maybe it was a bird? She shrugged and opened the door. Now she heard it again, more clearly this time—several horns being blown, their high-pitched wailing painfully discordant. Then her heart leapt when the clanging of the alarm echoed from the Bell Tower.

Her heart pounding, she raced down the slope to the Mill Gate, slipping and sliding in the grass and mud, the safety of her children foremost in her mind.




From the hilltop blared troll horns in a raucous cacophony, blending with goblin war cries and shrieks of beak dogs—foul monsters resembling squat, wingless birds with blotchy skin and a wicked bite. The ground itself seemed to tremble and shadows darken as a force of evil marched towards the town.

The goblins had come. And this time they had not come with a pitiful bunch of ill-equipped thugs. This time they had come with a warband of threescore or more, armed and armored, ready to wreak havoc and despoil Waterlures.



“No! Wait!” Kumil yelled and reached out a hand as the Fenced Princes rushed to meet the first approaching goblin. The militia warden's plan—if you can call it a plan—had been to use the Mill Gate as a bottleneck and thin the enemy numbers before heading out to open ground. However, the call of battle was too strong and discipline broke among his soldiers, Inod charging madly at the goblin, her spear poised to strike.

“Drats! Here goes for nothing,” Kumil cursed and scrapped his plans. He darted after the others who were already overwhelming the single goblin, beating him brutally against the gate walls with mace, sword and spear.




The first of the goblins fell quick, hacked and slashed to pieces, but it was not enough to satisfy Inod's lust for battle. “Blood and death! Mestthos!” the capybara woman shouted, almost zealously, rushing out the gates to rain terror upon the goblin horde with her spear.

“Somebody stop her madness!” Kumil barked to the rest as he pulled his sword free from the dead goblin at the gate. “What has got into her!?”

“She's drunk,” Likot Languagehame shouted back, already running after Inod, “and she's a married woman—that's bound to drive you mad!”

Goblin arrows whizzed over the fields and vinyards as the Fenced Princes ran across them, trampling freshly sown seeds and tearing vines. Ahead, a goblin fell to the ground, Inod's spear thrust through its leg. A heartbeat later the goblin was dead, Inod's spear stuck in its head. The fields turned into a killing ground as the attackers and defenders collided. More arrows flew into the raging battle from the hilltop. Caÿilu blocked one with her shield and dodged another one, right after caving in a goblin skull.



The militia of Waterlures pressed on, slowly pushing the stream of green back, leaving a trail of gore and dead goblins on the fields. Steel clashed with iron, capybara barks fought goblin shouts, fists bashed against beak dog beaks. The sounds of battle and cries of the dying reverbated over the town walls, but suddenly they were drowned by low roars rolling down the hill.

“Trolls! They have trolls!” Alåth the dwarf bellowed as she sliced off the ear of a goblin with her spear. The wretched goblin howled in pain and grasped the vicious wound.



A huge troll clad in leathers and furs charged down the slope straight towards Kumil, its head bent down and ready to gore the faun with its horns. Warned by Alåth's cry, Kumil was at the ready and leapt aside easily, slashing the troll in the arm as it hurtled past. The troll roared, angered by the nimble faun, and flung a punch that went wide. Before it recovered, baron Oddom's hammer came down, smashing into the troll's thigh and sent it to the ground with its leg broken. Kumil leapt on top of it, bashing it with his head, slashing it with his sword. Faun and troll tumbled on the ground, but that came to a quick end, the keen blade of Atera's sword decapitating the ape-like brute.

“I could've managed,” Kumil grumbled as he whipped himself up onto his hooves, ready to face his next foe, “but thanks.” But Atera didn't hear the remark through all the clamor of fighting.

Goblin pressed against capybara, capybara pressed against beak dog. More fighters from town rushed in, the spear of Istrul Wheelscrow wreaking terrible wounds on goblins, the pig man Osime slapping a charging beak dog on its hind with the flat of his axe.



“Take that, cur!” Litast shouted as he punched a goblin in the groin. The goblin yelped, bringing its hands down to protect its nethers, but Inod's spear thrust from the side, cleaving its left hand asunder. It let out a shriek of pain and horror—cut short when baron Oddom swung Kilrudsat, smashing its skull into pulp, the hammer lodging in the goblin's head.

Sheriff Fayoba came running over the fields, to do his part in defense of his home. He looked at the madness and chaos unfolding in front of him. He knew not which he found more terrifying: the vile force of darkness or the fury of the militia of Waterlures. He shrugged the thought away and hurtled onwards into battle, becoming himself a part of the frenzied and deranged play.



Trembling on the field, behind the front lines, Azstrog 'Cagebird' was gripped by horror as she saw Osime cleave the head of a goblin in two, drenching himself in a spray of gore. Next to the pig man was the snow leopard man Upu, fighting his own foe, latched to a beak dog's flank with his canines, pounding it with his hammer like a wild beast gone rabid. Further up the sloping ground, the sword of militia warden Kumil severed a goblin's leg, an arrow swooshing past his head, the shrieks of the dismembered goblin horrifying to hear.

It was madness, utter madness. The tormented crying of the maimed and dying, the ringing of weapon against weapon, the curses and battleshouts—they all echoed in Azstrog's mind. They would come to haunt her dreams for the rest of her life, she knew. That is, if she survived this, and she was not sure she would. She was no fighter, she barely knew anything about fighting—it was a small miracle that she knew how to properly hold the flail she carried.

She was afraid, terrified. Yet, somehow she managed to find the courage and will in her to force herself forward and into the fray. At least, if she died, she would not die a coward this way.



The battle went on, the militia pushing the goblins back up the hill. Nearly two dozen of the warband lay dead or dying, but there were much more still standing and with fight in them. Amidst the mass of bodies, the panda woman Cóce punched a goblin in the mouth, splitting its lip and twisting its head, then with her other hand she brought her spear up, thrusting it through the goblin's jaw and into the brain. Beside her Likot Languagehame bashed and bashed a goblin with her mace, her breath becoming labored as tiredness slowly crept in.



Baron Oddom rushed headlong up the hill, slamming into a goblin archer, knocking the bowman over and bashing it in the head with his hammer. As Oddom pulled his hammer back for another strike before the goblin recovered from being stunned, Urdim the black bear woman charged from behind, slipping on gore and crashing against Oddom. The capybara man was flung aside by the impact, sent rolling on the ground, dazed and the world whirling around him. Urdim, however, kept going and struck the goblin on the ground, her long sword severing head from body.





While most of the militia was fighting the enemy, some were missing out the thrill of battle. In his bed Tanzul the fox man slept, dreaming of high adventure and the glory of war. So did Maloy the elephant seal man sleep in his cozy little home, though his dreams were more peaceful and pretty—dreams of sunny forest meadows blooming with flowers, the elephant seal man picking them and sniffing their scent with his majestic nose.



The stalwart defenders of Waterlures did not yield, did not give ground. Inch by inch, foot by foot, the goblins were pushed back, down the slope to the other side of the hill. Beak dogs looked in horror under young trees and among the rubble of the old temple grounds. Once a temple for Ôsed was being built here, but this was not the domain of the Rabbit any longer, this was the domain of Abod—chaos, war and death. The Prince of Duty reveled in it, the sight of the peaceful capybara folk engaged in slaughter, wreaking terrible ruin upon the hordes of green.

The Dark Goddess was pleased this day—this day of bloody ruin and brutal carnage.



The battle was over, finally, the miltia of Waterlures victorious. Exhausted and caked in mud and blood, the bold warriors marched back into town, the excitement and horror of the fight behind them. The townsfolk cheered their glorious heroes as they walked down to the Mauloeum Square. Prayers to Mestthos, Ôsed and the other gods were said, thankful that none of the defenders had fallen.

 Only the recruit Azstrog 'Cagebird' suffered a few scrapes and bruises, but alive she was, relieved that she had survived. Off to the infirmary she went to rest in the tender paws of the town's healers.






13th of Hematite, 388

“We've already had this discussion, Oddom,” Istrul Wheelscrow hissed, her arms crossed in front of her. She held back most of her ire, but it was difficult with Oddom acting all condescending. It was over a week since the battle on the hill, the merchant wagons from the Just Union rolling into town. Istrul was in the baronial throne room, bickering with her husband. The little weasel girl Mûthkat played on the floor next to them, though this was not her home. She was friends with the children of the quarreling adults, so she was not that uncommon a sight in this hall.

“What if something would've happened to you?” Oddom pressed on. “Who would've looked after our children if both of us would have fallen? We cannot both head to battle at the same time!”

“Oh, and it's you then who gets to put his life at risk?” Istrul scoffed, slapping her thighs in frustration. “Have you any idea how much I worry when you are out there, fighting goblins or whatever foul beast came from the depths? This is my family and home, too, and I will defend them—you have no right to deny me that.” She fumed at Oddom, waving her paws around frantically.

“I have every right!” Oddom bellowed, causing young Mûthkat to look at him and draw back. “I am the son of Kasat and it is my duty to uphold her legacy and keep you all safe! You must come to understand that and carefully consider the right course of action! Like I do as baron.”

“Baron? Baron! Don't give me that baron-muck,” Istrul snorted and rolled her eyes. “You live in your dreams, think of yourself as something else than you are. A capybara boy thinking too much of himself, acting like he's the king of the realm—the killer of a hydra, the Age-Changer—as if that made you something more than others. You are no baron, my husband. You are a fool.”

Oddom went silent, the harsh words of Istrul stinging him, ever more and more as he contemplated them. Istrul turned to leave, “Come along, Mûthkat,” she said to the weasel girl and took her by the paw. The two left the throne room, Mûthkat glancing over her shoulder, looking at the capybara man who slumped onto the floor in front of his seat. His seat of power, though in truth there was no power.

The seat was nothing more than a well-made wooden chair, old and showing wear.







21st of Malachite, 388

Galel sat hunched over a table in the Enchanted Bridge, his back to the wall and mug of wine firmly in his grasp. His eyes darted around the hall, occasionally lingering longer on Uvash, who sat on the far side of the hall. There was something awfully suspicious about the baron's son, the ostrich man pondered, 'Nobody takes that long to eat a meal. There's something fishy here, some sort of devilry.'

Galel slurped his wine, nearly spilling it when the door to the inn opened. He gasped and and was about to jump up, his body all tense. It was only Mosus, one of the dwarf prophets. She headed across the hall and into the kitchens, Galel's eyes following her every step, the rest of his body still as a statue. His tension eased when Mosus closed the kitchen door behind her.

'Galel, you have to stop this,' he said to himself in his mind, 'who cares what they think?' He took another sip from the mug and shuddered. It had been so horrible two years ago, almost precisely to the day. He had been carrying a crate of goods to the storage, bent down and heard a tearing sound. At first he didn't notice anything, he only wondered why everyone giggled or chuckled when he went by. Only later in the evening did he understand when Dimbulb had said, “Galel, why is your butt bare?”

Galel shuddered. It had been horrible. His old betattered clothes had torn in places where they never should, putting his very private places on very public display. The embarrassment and humiliation had made him a nervous wreck. He dared not imagine how long he would have gone like that were it not for Dimbulb.

'I miss that big fellow,' Galel sniffed and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.






7th of Galena, 388

Mayor Fecici was annoyed and contemptuous. He was carrying a bushel of hemp under his arm, walking slowly down the cobblestone street. He was heading to his office, once again, to listen to the same fat rodent who kept harrying him with his minor complaints. As if that wasn't enough to sour a peaceful day threshing plant to fiber, it had begun raining.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, the light rain became a heavy downpour. 'Sometimes I feel like I understand why Tirist is always so grouchy,' Fecici thought, cursing the rain as he hurried for cover.







10th of Galena, 388

Maloy the elephant seal man plodded down the main cobblestone road. He was doing his patrol rounds, greeting townsfolk as they went by, making sure all was well. It was a fine day to spend outside, for the heavy rain had ended, quite abruptly in the morning. The weather was clear, the sun was shining. It was late summer, the evenings cooling and the air crispy. But evening was still hours away and Maloy enjoyed the warmth, though sweating in full plate made quite the unpleasant stink by the end of the day.

A sense of guilt and shame had burdened Maloy lately—not because of sweat, but due to waking late. Such an embarrassment that he hadn't woken up to the bells of the angen clanging, nor the shouting and yelling as the citizens ran inside. Oh, the shame of reaching the scene of battle after all enemies lay slain. Except for one beak dog the militia chased down the hill, all the way to the South Gate before catching it and putting it down.

If only he had made it in time there with his spear, he would have proven his mettle. He twirled his spear as he passed the shrine of Icemì. Three visiting elves were in the middle of some kind of ceremony to glorify the Great Force. Their droning hum and bodies swaying like grass in the wind was somehow soothing—it brought the meadows of his dreams into his mind. Some day, perhaps, Maloy would go and travel the world, to see all the great natural places it had to offer.

The elephant seal man twirled his spear again. It felt good in his hand, perfectly balanced, its steelen tip keen enough to split a whisker. It was the work of a master, far better than his old trusty iron spear. He was glad that he had chosen this spear over his old one. Come to think of it, he was actually feeling quite attached to the new spear.

The elephant seal man twirled the spear once more and smiled.

=====

Lots of stuff happened this time.

We lost Dimbulb, which was sort of expected, but I didn't expect him to go insane that fast. In just a couple of weeks his stress bounced from 50k to nearly 90k. The confining was just too much for him, I guess.

Maloy got some action, though he and Tanzul missed the big fight. I was wondering what's taking them so long to reach the fight, but both of them were sleeping blissfully.

Also, it's a pain in the butt to write larger fights. Hope it wasn't too long and boring.

edit. That was weird with the one dwarf arriving with the messenger. I don't know why it happened, but he was the only one to be naked for some reason and was carrying his clothes. I don't think I've seen it before or I just haven't been paying attention. There's been plenty of naked visitors, but this was different.