Friday, October 30, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Experimental writing
Hello again. Sorry for the absence, I've kind of lost my patience for DF in the last few months. Usenshorast was such a sprawling and endless collection of narrow corridors and trash that my laptop could only run the game at around 10-15 FPS. Not very good, and not at all playable. A friend of mine urged me last night to write a bit more, and, with the influences of H.P. Lovecraft on my mind, I crafted this short little story about what happens when one digs too greedily and too deep. It may also serve as legitimate writing if the dwarf names at the end are changed to normal names. Enjoy. (Warning: I have not proofread this!)
Dire percussion pulsed in the thick, hot air. Each beat echoing from its source, and traveling in a wave down the length of the cavern wall. The staccato of beats continued for long time, each hit hanging in the poorly ventilated shaft.
The miner worked. He worked because he knew he must, and because mining was his trade. Something else, however, tugged at his mind. Today was different. He worked in only one spot, incessantly, and could not bring himself to stop. He was getting close to something, and he could not stop.
The beats continued. In their cadence the miner could see the many things around him. The mile long shaft underneath the fortress, where a hundred others worked and lived. His own room, purchased with his meager salary, lay somewhere a thousand feet above.
In his years, the miner had been on through many notable discoveries. The first striking of a vein of silver. The first to crash into an open cavern containing several beautiful quartz crystals. Some said the miner had a knack for discovery, good or bad. Some called it a curse. The miner did not pay much attention to these claims. He only needed to work.
The seconds flew by, counted off by the strokes of his pick. Just a few more feet. The wall was caving away; yielding the glory of that which was unknown to his efforts. In work, he found edification, and in discovery, he found meaning. Money was never important, only to mine and to dig and to search for that that is lost.
Beneath his feet, a thousand miles of rock, sheltering in its embrace secrets. The miner was on to one of them, something big, something forgotten.
A sharp change in sound caused the beating of the pick to stop. A crumbling, wrenching noise. How long had the miner worked? In the darkness below the realm of the sun, days became minutes, and hours were lost like raindrops in a river. He had not seen another miner in a very long time. Perhaps his tunnel was so far removed from the central mine shaft that he simply fell out of the notice of the others.
Silence. Nothing in the empty air, hot as a man's breath, and stinking of the bowels of the earth. In the absence of the meter of his pick, there was nothing. The miner's ears still pulsed and ached in the places where that sound should have been.
He looked down, and saw his pick stuck in the wall. He had broken through to the other side. No he need only hack his way through it. A mad fervor entered his heart at that moment, and he began to slam his pick into the dark rock. What was once the steady metronome of a funeral march took up the intensity of a symphony played at the speed of allegro. Rock flew from the wall, and chips landed in the miners beard and eyes. From then, no one can say how long the miner toiled. In time, a darkness would swallow him, and he would awake, after a time, with renewed desire to break away the wall.
Soon, at least, soon in the mind of the miner, the wall was broken, and all that lay ahead was the darkness of an open tunnel. The miner paused and stared into the darkness. In the silence and blackness, only his mind had power. Could he trust himself to report accurately on what hid in the shadows? Or should he return to the fortress and tell the others. He waited and thought.
No. He would go alone into the black.
He began to walk into the cave. The beat hammered out by the pick was replaced with a similar pace sounded by the miner's footsteps. At first, that sound reflected the crunch and scratching of raw and unrefined rock. But soon, in the minutes or hours that passed, the sound became more even, like walking on tile. When the torpor in the miner's mind subsided, a torpor brought on by hours of intense labor, he stopped. The tunnel had not widened or become taller since he entered it. It was wide and tall enough for him to walk comfortably in. He reached out his trembling hand to touch the walls. His mind begged for and expected a rough, cave-like feeling, and it was not disappointed. He then hunkered down and let his hand drop to floor. Slowly and methodically, he ran his aging and blackened fingers across the floor. It was smooth, but marred by an eternity of dust.
The miner froze, his heart beating audibly in his ears. What manner of place could this be? A dwelling? Perhaps a forgotten entrance to his fortress. The old structure had weathered almost a hundred years, and perhaps it was possible that some passage had been closed off or forgotten. Possible explanations danced in the miner's head. To him, they sounded as hollow rationalizations. He knew the impossible truth of this place, somewhere deep in his mind. An ancient, racial memory or fear of things dark and mysterious in the miles below the surface of the Earth. He did not acknowledge this fear or skittering shadows and creeping ancestral memories. He did not mind the dread of the dark places, or the fear of the unknown. He simply got to his feet and began to walk.
He walked solemnly, with eyes aghast and breath bated, and one hand ever held on the left wall. As time and space fled from him in the night, everything began to change. The tunnel bled with memories, at first joyous. Scenes from his childhood in the fortress, and serving with his father as an apprentice miner. The memories flitted away at him from the corners of his vision, visible specters of lost days and years. As he walked, the memories took a turn for the grim. His father's death in collapse, his mother's illness, the death of his wife in childbirth, and the taking of his son by war. These memories, though filled with their own profound sadness, were conventional and in their own way comforting. In this alien place, even sad memories of a true past were a comfort.
Before long, this peace shifted. Strange, half-imagined scenes entered the miner's mind, as if he was falling into a dream. The cavern itself changed to reflect this. Sometimes it became tight, and the miner had to crawl on his stomach, and other times the cave widened to form antechambers many feet high, and the miner had to guide himself by following the walls. What he saw in his head was shapes and ideas, but never anything concrete. Vague whispers of fear primordial.
In time, the miner saw a light, hanging mournfully in the distance. He marched towards it with grim conviction. Counting off the seconds, the miner knew he had been walking towards the light for many minutes, but it still seemed as distant as ever. His waking dreams became nightmares lasting only seconds. They were powerful images that impressed only the faintest and most powerful primal emotions. Fear and rage coursed through him with each of these walking phantasms. He reached the light, and saw ancient artwork scrawled on the walls. It was at once alien and familiar. It glowed with a strange and eerie light. Ahead, the miner saw what had lead him to dig in the dark forgotten spot that the other miners ignored. A glittering vein in the dark, a precious metal. He reached for his hand pick and rushed towards it, eager to escape the oppressive darkness of the tunnel.
He slammed his pick into the glowing metal, again echoing out the grave drumming of a miner at work. At first, his mind was so clouded by the din of his own work that he did not notice the rhythmic pulsing in the corner of his mind. As it slowly became stronger, he was forced to stop and listen. A potent bass note echoed out along the walls. A powerful rumbling almost too deep to be heard in the ears, but more easily felt in the chest. It grew in power. The heartbeat of the earth shook the miner in his place. In the distance he could hear the grinding of stone, and in his mind he could almost imagine the words of some ancient choir of celebrants, singing out the chorus to worship their earth god.
The miner did not know the madness that led him to this place, but he knew he must flee. As he turned to run from the tunnel, the choir in his head became louder, and the pulsing of the rock became more profound. What sin had the miner committed that would cause such a punishment. The figures in his mind became almost clear, like the figures of men, but somehow changed.
As his mind's eye found its way to the face of one of the figures, the pulsing increased to its final crescendo. The fear in the heart of the miner reached its most severe height, and the miner fell into darkness, forgetting himself, and his place in time.
“Hey, Zasit, wake up. Go home, shift's over”
The miner stirred from his deep and ancient sleep
“You hear me? Go home. You're done.”
“But...I..,” He paused, wiping sleep from his eyes and shaking it from his head, “What happened to me?”
“Reg found you unconscious in a service tunnel. Looked like you had been mighty busy digging. He dragged you over here. You've been muttering something pretty funny.”
“I was asleep?” The miner asked.
“Seemed that way, next to some tunnel you'd unearthed. Mighty fine work. Who would have known that was there? It's true what they say: You've got the gift.”
Panic jumped up in the miner's throat. “A tunnel?! I unearthed a tunnel?”
The supervisor answered, “Well, I mean, yeah. You didn't know? Nobody had seen you in two days, so we started looking. You must have been hard at work, so nobody can really fault you, you know?”
The miner ignored his words. “What did you do with that tunnel? Tell me you sealed it up! Tell me!” His heart raced in fear.
“What are you kidding me? Who knows what's down there? And considering your past intuition, we thought it would be a good idea to check it out. We sent a ten man expedition down.”
The words flowed over the miner like rain. He did not hear them, but understood their meaning. And below him, on the hard cave floor he lay upon, he could feel the ancient rumbling of that place. In his mind, he again thought back to the faces of the figures approaching him in his dreams. As the rumbling below him grew stronger, the face became clearer. As the figure turned around to show his face, the miner could only appreciate the dark glassy nature of the figure's eyes before surrendering to the darkness, and slipping into a slick and fleshless nightmare.
Dire percussion pulsed in the thick, hot air. Each beat echoing from its source, and traveling in a wave down the length of the cavern wall. The staccato of beats continued for long time, each hit hanging in the poorly ventilated shaft.
The miner worked. He worked because he knew he must, and because mining was his trade. Something else, however, tugged at his mind. Today was different. He worked in only one spot, incessantly, and could not bring himself to stop. He was getting close to something, and he could not stop.
The beats continued. In their cadence the miner could see the many things around him. The mile long shaft underneath the fortress, where a hundred others worked and lived. His own room, purchased with his meager salary, lay somewhere a thousand feet above.
In his years, the miner had been on through many notable discoveries. The first striking of a vein of silver. The first to crash into an open cavern containing several beautiful quartz crystals. Some said the miner had a knack for discovery, good or bad. Some called it a curse. The miner did not pay much attention to these claims. He only needed to work.
The seconds flew by, counted off by the strokes of his pick. Just a few more feet. The wall was caving away; yielding the glory of that which was unknown to his efforts. In work, he found edification, and in discovery, he found meaning. Money was never important, only to mine and to dig and to search for that that is lost.
Beneath his feet, a thousand miles of rock, sheltering in its embrace secrets. The miner was on to one of them, something big, something forgotten.
A sharp change in sound caused the beating of the pick to stop. A crumbling, wrenching noise. How long had the miner worked? In the darkness below the realm of the sun, days became minutes, and hours were lost like raindrops in a river. He had not seen another miner in a very long time. Perhaps his tunnel was so far removed from the central mine shaft that he simply fell out of the notice of the others.
Silence. Nothing in the empty air, hot as a man's breath, and stinking of the bowels of the earth. In the absence of the meter of his pick, there was nothing. The miner's ears still pulsed and ached in the places where that sound should have been.
He looked down, and saw his pick stuck in the wall. He had broken through to the other side. No he need only hack his way through it. A mad fervor entered his heart at that moment, and he began to slam his pick into the dark rock. What was once the steady metronome of a funeral march took up the intensity of a symphony played at the speed of allegro. Rock flew from the wall, and chips landed in the miners beard and eyes. From then, no one can say how long the miner toiled. In time, a darkness would swallow him, and he would awake, after a time, with renewed desire to break away the wall.
Soon, at least, soon in the mind of the miner, the wall was broken, and all that lay ahead was the darkness of an open tunnel. The miner paused and stared into the darkness. In the silence and blackness, only his mind had power. Could he trust himself to report accurately on what hid in the shadows? Or should he return to the fortress and tell the others. He waited and thought.
No. He would go alone into the black.
He began to walk into the cave. The beat hammered out by the pick was replaced with a similar pace sounded by the miner's footsteps. At first, that sound reflected the crunch and scratching of raw and unrefined rock. But soon, in the minutes or hours that passed, the sound became more even, like walking on tile. When the torpor in the miner's mind subsided, a torpor brought on by hours of intense labor, he stopped. The tunnel had not widened or become taller since he entered it. It was wide and tall enough for him to walk comfortably in. He reached out his trembling hand to touch the walls. His mind begged for and expected a rough, cave-like feeling, and it was not disappointed. He then hunkered down and let his hand drop to floor. Slowly and methodically, he ran his aging and blackened fingers across the floor. It was smooth, but marred by an eternity of dust.
The miner froze, his heart beating audibly in his ears. What manner of place could this be? A dwelling? Perhaps a forgotten entrance to his fortress. The old structure had weathered almost a hundred years, and perhaps it was possible that some passage had been closed off or forgotten. Possible explanations danced in the miner's head. To him, they sounded as hollow rationalizations. He knew the impossible truth of this place, somewhere deep in his mind. An ancient, racial memory or fear of things dark and mysterious in the miles below the surface of the Earth. He did not acknowledge this fear or skittering shadows and creeping ancestral memories. He did not mind the dread of the dark places, or the fear of the unknown. He simply got to his feet and began to walk.
He walked solemnly, with eyes aghast and breath bated, and one hand ever held on the left wall. As time and space fled from him in the night, everything began to change. The tunnel bled with memories, at first joyous. Scenes from his childhood in the fortress, and serving with his father as an apprentice miner. The memories flitted away at him from the corners of his vision, visible specters of lost days and years. As he walked, the memories took a turn for the grim. His father's death in collapse, his mother's illness, the death of his wife in childbirth, and the taking of his son by war. These memories, though filled with their own profound sadness, were conventional and in their own way comforting. In this alien place, even sad memories of a true past were a comfort.
Before long, this peace shifted. Strange, half-imagined scenes entered the miner's mind, as if he was falling into a dream. The cavern itself changed to reflect this. Sometimes it became tight, and the miner had to crawl on his stomach, and other times the cave widened to form antechambers many feet high, and the miner had to guide himself by following the walls. What he saw in his head was shapes and ideas, but never anything concrete. Vague whispers of fear primordial.
In time, the miner saw a light, hanging mournfully in the distance. He marched towards it with grim conviction. Counting off the seconds, the miner knew he had been walking towards the light for many minutes, but it still seemed as distant as ever. His waking dreams became nightmares lasting only seconds. They were powerful images that impressed only the faintest and most powerful primal emotions. Fear and rage coursed through him with each of these walking phantasms. He reached the light, and saw ancient artwork scrawled on the walls. It was at once alien and familiar. It glowed with a strange and eerie light. Ahead, the miner saw what had lead him to dig in the dark forgotten spot that the other miners ignored. A glittering vein in the dark, a precious metal. He reached for his hand pick and rushed towards it, eager to escape the oppressive darkness of the tunnel.
He slammed his pick into the glowing metal, again echoing out the grave drumming of a miner at work. At first, his mind was so clouded by the din of his own work that he did not notice the rhythmic pulsing in the corner of his mind. As it slowly became stronger, he was forced to stop and listen. A potent bass note echoed out along the walls. A powerful rumbling almost too deep to be heard in the ears, but more easily felt in the chest. It grew in power. The heartbeat of the earth shook the miner in his place. In the distance he could hear the grinding of stone, and in his mind he could almost imagine the words of some ancient choir of celebrants, singing out the chorus to worship their earth god.
The miner did not know the madness that led him to this place, but he knew he must flee. As he turned to run from the tunnel, the choir in his head became louder, and the pulsing of the rock became more profound. What sin had the miner committed that would cause such a punishment. The figures in his mind became almost clear, like the figures of men, but somehow changed.
As his mind's eye found its way to the face of one of the figures, the pulsing increased to its final crescendo. The fear in the heart of the miner reached its most severe height, and the miner fell into darkness, forgetting himself, and his place in time.
“Hey, Zasit, wake up. Go home, shift's over”
The miner stirred from his deep and ancient sleep
“You hear me? Go home. You're done.”
“But...I..,” He paused, wiping sleep from his eyes and shaking it from his head, “What happened to me?”
“Reg found you unconscious in a service tunnel. Looked like you had been mighty busy digging. He dragged you over here. You've been muttering something pretty funny.”
“I was asleep?” The miner asked.
“Seemed that way, next to some tunnel you'd unearthed. Mighty fine work. Who would have known that was there? It's true what they say: You've got the gift.”
Panic jumped up in the miner's throat. “A tunnel?! I unearthed a tunnel?”
The supervisor answered, “Well, I mean, yeah. You didn't know? Nobody had seen you in two days, so we started looking. You must have been hard at work, so nobody can really fault you, you know?”
The miner ignored his words. “What did you do with that tunnel? Tell me you sealed it up! Tell me!” His heart raced in fear.
“What are you kidding me? Who knows what's down there? And considering your past intuition, we thought it would be a good idea to check it out. We sent a ten man expedition down.”
The words flowed over the miner like rain. He did not hear them, but understood their meaning. And below him, on the hard cave floor he lay upon, he could feel the ancient rumbling of that place. In his mind, he again thought back to the faces of the figures approaching him in his dreams. As the rumbling below him grew stronger, the face became clearer. As the figure turned around to show his face, the miner could only appreciate the dark glassy nature of the figure's eyes before surrendering to the darkness, and slipping into a slick and fleshless nightmare.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Court of Inemong. 1076, Felsite. All records made by Verus Certan.
The judges entered the room three hours past noon. The days deliberation was to concern the recent trade expedition to Usenshorast. The last caravan that traveled there left with 15 warriors and 3 merchant wagons. Four of those 18 returned. Three of them are currently unconscious and recovering from serious wounds. Trade goods offered in payment from Usenshorast are onboard the caravans, but the accounts of goods traded and goods received do not match. Fully half of the goods expected have not been given equal trade for. An investigation was launched to consider the suspension of trade to Usenshorast, and possible military action.
The three Magistrates, Jorda, Caeton, and Cerevus opened proceedings. Only one witness was to be called; the lone conscious survivor. Before long, a heavily bandaged man entered the court. He walked on crutches, supporting his weight on only one leg. The remains of the other were wrapped in bloody gauze. As he approached the bench, the clattering sound of his crutches beating against the marble floor spread a grim pallor throughout the chamber.
He was told to communicate the events. I have recorded his statements.
"This had been something like our sixth or seventh trip to Usenshorast. Our trades were often fruitful, yielding marvelous stone, bone, and woodcrafts from their humble home. The diplomats and Merchant Princes that came along with us were always pleased by their hospitality. Though we'd heard tales of hostility from the elves, the dwarves probably just didn't want to kowtow to their tree-felling limits.
In recent years, as we left the fort's surroundings, we often noticed the remains of goblin camps. If our reports from the dwarves are true, they are regularly sieged by the goblins of Oneago. Elven caravans had been attacked attempting to trade with Usenshorast, so this year, we doubled our military force.
The trading went as usual. The Duchess did the actual brokering, and they took their supply of food and drink as per the norm. We often camped in the trade house they had built for several days before heading out. However, the night before our departure, braziers were lit in their tower, and bellowing klaxons were sounded. I asked a guard the significance of these events, and he told me that the goblins had come to siege.
The dwarves surreptitiously entered their cave and sealed the doors. A keen-eyed sniper stood watch in the tower above. Without warning, the twanging ring of his crossbow rang in the dark. Far off, screams of pain, and the sound of bodies falling on earth. We thought the danger averted, but before we could rest, three full squads of goblin rushed through the doors of the trade house. We initially thought to defend our position, and slew many, but before long we were overrun, and forced the flee. That was our biggest mistake. As soon as we left, a torrent of cruel goblin arrows fell from the sky like rain, and pierced and killed many. I was lucky to have only been crippled. In the hail of fire, I saw the sniper from the tower run to our aid, only to be pinned to the ground by arrows. The merchants and I crept back into the trade house. I think the goblins thought us dead, and we might as well have been. The rest of them rushed to charge the fort itself, but in the fury of combat, it seems they forgot the traps, and most of them were shredded. Those that fled were chased by members of the dwarven military and guard, and few escaped.
We gathered up what little we had, and departed that place. The merchants pushed on through the pain to deliver us home, but I spent the way back in a realm of darkness."
Magistrate Jorda asked what had become of the goods.
"I suppose the dwarves took whatever was left in our flight out of that place. I can't really blame them, though that is our livelihood."
The magistrates deliberated for several minutes. The conclusion was that Usenshorast was not in error for the deaths of the human merchants, but their thefts could not be excused. We would return to Usenshorast, in time, but offering would be demanded to ameliorate this situation.
These decisions will be sent to Manager Thortithonul in the morning.
The judges entered the room three hours past noon. The days deliberation was to concern the recent trade expedition to Usenshorast. The last caravan that traveled there left with 15 warriors and 3 merchant wagons. Four of those 18 returned. Three of them are currently unconscious and recovering from serious wounds. Trade goods offered in payment from Usenshorast are onboard the caravans, but the accounts of goods traded and goods received do not match. Fully half of the goods expected have not been given equal trade for. An investigation was launched to consider the suspension of trade to Usenshorast, and possible military action.
The three Magistrates, Jorda, Caeton, and Cerevus opened proceedings. Only one witness was to be called; the lone conscious survivor. Before long, a heavily bandaged man entered the court. He walked on crutches, supporting his weight on only one leg. The remains of the other were wrapped in bloody gauze. As he approached the bench, the clattering sound of his crutches beating against the marble floor spread a grim pallor throughout the chamber.
He was told to communicate the events. I have recorded his statements.
"This had been something like our sixth or seventh trip to Usenshorast. Our trades were often fruitful, yielding marvelous stone, bone, and woodcrafts from their humble home. The diplomats and Merchant Princes that came along with us were always pleased by their hospitality. Though we'd heard tales of hostility from the elves, the dwarves probably just didn't want to kowtow to their tree-felling limits.
In recent years, as we left the fort's surroundings, we often noticed the remains of goblin camps. If our reports from the dwarves are true, they are regularly sieged by the goblins of Oneago. Elven caravans had been attacked attempting to trade with Usenshorast, so this year, we doubled our military force.
The trading went as usual. The Duchess did the actual brokering, and they took their supply of food and drink as per the norm. We often camped in the trade house they had built for several days before heading out. However, the night before our departure, braziers were lit in their tower, and bellowing klaxons were sounded. I asked a guard the significance of these events, and he told me that the goblins had come to siege.
The dwarves surreptitiously entered their cave and sealed the doors. A keen-eyed sniper stood watch in the tower above. Without warning, the twanging ring of his crossbow rang in the dark. Far off, screams of pain, and the sound of bodies falling on earth. We thought the danger averted, but before we could rest, three full squads of goblin rushed through the doors of the trade house. We initially thought to defend our position, and slew many, but before long we were overrun, and forced the flee. That was our biggest mistake. As soon as we left, a torrent of cruel goblin arrows fell from the sky like rain, and pierced and killed many. I was lucky to have only been crippled. In the hail of fire, I saw the sniper from the tower run to our aid, only to be pinned to the ground by arrows. The merchants and I crept back into the trade house. I think the goblins thought us dead, and we might as well have been. The rest of them rushed to charge the fort itself, but in the fury of combat, it seems they forgot the traps, and most of them were shredded. Those that fled were chased by members of the dwarven military and guard, and few escaped.
We gathered up what little we had, and departed that place. The merchants pushed on through the pain to deliver us home, but I spent the way back in a realm of darkness."
Magistrate Jorda asked what had become of the goods.
"I suppose the dwarves took whatever was left in our flight out of that place. I can't really blame them, though that is our livelihood."
The magistrates deliberated for several minutes. The conclusion was that Usenshorast was not in error for the deaths of the human merchants, but their thefts could not be excused. We would return to Usenshorast, in time, but offering would be demanded to ameliorate this situation.
These decisions will be sent to Manager Thortithonul in the morning.
Monday, May 19, 2008
To Tax Collector Monom Luritcatten from Captain Unibdostob,
You may have noticed an abrupt change in civilian leadership recently. You may also have noticed the lack of official electoral process in this change. For this I apologize, and, if any ill come of it, I am prepared to take full responsibility, but, until then, hear me out. City Manager and Hoardmaster Thortithonul is beyond corrupt.
Many would think Alath as beyond reproach; creator of Linemebal, dutiful public servant, highly skilled craftsdwarf and clerk, etc. Quite frankly the list goes on for quite a long while. My dealings with him have always been sincere, candid, and pleasant. In short, to the people, Alath is a hero. My men and I have learned unfortunate facts about this one, and thus, his recent deposing.
If you'll recall, last year, Thortithonul, after the "election" that placed him in the mayoral position, was holding frequent meetings with fellow craftsdwarves. I was never invited, nor were any of my men, but peasants later made circumstantial reports to me and the ret of the Guard. They apparently discussed prices, job scarcity, other mundane issues. Obviously their reports were flawed.
Weeks later, a deal was struck, and all of the Nobles were informed. More crafting jobs were made available at first, but it was not for many months that the truth of the matter was revealed. Sergeant Usengoden snuck into the Mayor's office while he slept, and looked over the wage and tax records. Payment for craftsdwarves had increased by fifty percent. In addition to the new jobs offered, Alath had also been making payments to craftsdwarves throughout Usenshorast. These payments were tracked, and, under advanced interrogation, Urdim Edosmeng caved and admitted that the election results had been fabricated by his guild.
It was clear at that point that Alath had been manipulating events throughout our Home in order to place himself in a position of power. We hesitated to act; his fame among the proletariat could have spelled protest or outright revolt if he were to be publicly reprimanded. However, while we hesitated, the craftsdwarf's salary crept ever higher. The misuse of power was appalling. It was clear that Alath had rigged the election so that he and his guild would profit. It may bear repeating that Alath was a stonecrafter, and thus was legislating into his own coffers. We had to act.
Ten of my men cornered Alath in the statue garden, and, under the watchful eye of the statue of formermayor Ducim Berkomurvad, we threatened him with grave injuries if he did not immediately leave office. Though mighty indeed, Alath agreed without argument. I fear that we have only played into his hand, and he will rise to power again.
In the meanwhile, the Guard held a mock election and offered the explanation that Thortithonul had merely stepped down in order to pursue more time at the workshop. Guard Vabokmemad was placed in his position by my personal order, and he will serve until such time that I feel corruption has been expunged from the office.
I apologize for acting so quickly, and without your or the Duchess' approval. I humbly request you not share any of this information with the peasantry or with the military. And, as a personal request, do not discuss this with Alath. I fear he only bides his time.
-Captain Unibdostob
You may have noticed an abrupt change in civilian leadership recently. You may also have noticed the lack of official electoral process in this change. For this I apologize, and, if any ill come of it, I am prepared to take full responsibility, but, until then, hear me out. City Manager and Hoardmaster Thortithonul is beyond corrupt.
Many would think Alath as beyond reproach; creator of Linemebal, dutiful public servant, highly skilled craftsdwarf and clerk, etc. Quite frankly the list goes on for quite a long while. My dealings with him have always been sincere, candid, and pleasant. In short, to the people, Alath is a hero. My men and I have learned unfortunate facts about this one, and thus, his recent deposing.
If you'll recall, last year, Thortithonul, after the "election" that placed him in the mayoral position, was holding frequent meetings with fellow craftsdwarves. I was never invited, nor were any of my men, but peasants later made circumstantial reports to me and the ret of the Guard. They apparently discussed prices, job scarcity, other mundane issues. Obviously their reports were flawed.
Weeks later, a deal was struck, and all of the Nobles were informed. More crafting jobs were made available at first, but it was not for many months that the truth of the matter was revealed. Sergeant Usengoden snuck into the Mayor's office while he slept, and looked over the wage and tax records. Payment for craftsdwarves had increased by fifty percent. In addition to the new jobs offered, Alath had also been making payments to craftsdwarves throughout Usenshorast. These payments were tracked, and, under advanced interrogation, Urdim Edosmeng caved and admitted that the election results had been fabricated by his guild.
It was clear at that point that Alath had been manipulating events throughout our Home in order to place himself in a position of power. We hesitated to act; his fame among the proletariat could have spelled protest or outright revolt if he were to be publicly reprimanded. However, while we hesitated, the craftsdwarf's salary crept ever higher. The misuse of power was appalling. It was clear that Alath had rigged the election so that he and his guild would profit. It may bear repeating that Alath was a stonecrafter, and thus was legislating into his own coffers. We had to act.
Ten of my men cornered Alath in the statue garden, and, under the watchful eye of the statue of formermayor Ducim Berkomurvad, we threatened him with grave injuries if he did not immediately leave office. Though mighty indeed, Alath agreed without argument. I fear that we have only played into his hand, and he will rise to power again.
In the meanwhile, the Guard held a mock election and offered the explanation that Thortithonul had merely stepped down in order to pursue more time at the workshop. Guard Vabokmemad was placed in his position by my personal order, and he will serve until such time that I feel corruption has been expunged from the office.
I apologize for acting so quickly, and without your or the Duchess' approval. I humbly request you not share any of this information with the peasantry or with the military. And, as a personal request, do not discuss this with Alath. I fear he only bides his time.
-Captain Unibdostob
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Concerning the Recent Executions
To Duchess Stukonsonul,
As requested, here is my report on the recent executions. I hope it meets with your approval
As you well know, during the siege of last winter, 3 goblins found themselves trapped in our cages. We captured two archers and a master thief, and had them imprisoned. However, the question of what to do with them plagued the city manager for many weeks. It was eventually decided, considering the massive casualties we have suffered at the hands of Fort Oneago, that they should be executed.
We had no facilities for the matter, unfortunately. I ordered the construction of a small room in the chamber we have for dwarf...removal. Murder-holes were carved in the walls by our expert stone workers, and a lever was constructed using the artifact recently constructed. The mechanic who made it is to be commended.
The cage of one of the archers was dragged to the room, the cage rigged, and the door sealed. Marksdwarves were called for, and I myself activated the mechanism. Our captive stumbled out, not understanding his situation. He walked to and gazed through one of the fortifications only to be greeted by a bolt to the face. He fell back, and his body was pierced by a hail of arrows. He collapsed, bloodied in the corner, and was finished off.
The doors were unlocked, the room cleaned of blood. I had hoped to add his armor for our stocks to shore up steel production, but the philosopher claimed his goods for his own. Blood lust ran high amongst the men, and they demanded the other captives be brought in as quickly as possible. I followed through on their requests, and not before long the air was filled with the shrieks of our captives.
The room is ready for future residents, milady. Good day.
Tax Collector Monom Turitcatten
As requested, here is my report on the recent executions. I hope it meets with your approval
As you well know, during the siege of last winter, 3 goblins found themselves trapped in our cages. We captured two archers and a master thief, and had them imprisoned. However, the question of what to do with them plagued the city manager for many weeks. It was eventually decided, considering the massive casualties we have suffered at the hands of Fort Oneago, that they should be executed.
We had no facilities for the matter, unfortunately. I ordered the construction of a small room in the chamber we have for dwarf...removal. Murder-holes were carved in the walls by our expert stone workers, and a lever was constructed using the artifact recently constructed. The mechanic who made it is to be commended.
The cage of one of the archers was dragged to the room, the cage rigged, and the door sealed. Marksdwarves were called for, and I myself activated the mechanism. Our captive stumbled out, not understanding his situation. He walked to and gazed through one of the fortifications only to be greeted by a bolt to the face. He fell back, and his body was pierced by a hail of arrows. He collapsed, bloodied in the corner, and was finished off.
The doors were unlocked, the room cleaned of blood. I had hoped to add his armor for our stocks to shore up steel production, but the philosopher claimed his goods for his own. Blood lust ran high amongst the men, and they demanded the other captives be brought in as quickly as possible. I followed through on their requests, and not before long the air was filled with the shrieks of our captives.
The room is ready for future residents, milady. Good day.
Tax Collector Monom Turitcatten
Saturday, May 10, 2008
From the desk of the City Manager, Alath Thortithonul, as addressed to Duchess Stukosonul, and Captain Atir Unibdostob.
This notebook was located in the animal stockpile 3 months ago and has only recently been brought to my attention. It appears that the thief we captured and imprisoned had kept a small journal and had sought to send it to our enemies. From his writings, it appears he made a copy of the attached letter and sent it to the military leaders of Fort Oneago. The siege we recently suffered in late spring may have been a direct result. Nevertheless, I trust you will find this interesting. I leave it up to the Baroness to decide what action, if any, we should take.
This notebook was located in the animal stockpile 3 months ago and has only recently been brought to my attention. It appears that the thief we captured and imprisoned had kept a small journal and had sought to send it to our enemies. From his writings, it appears he made a copy of the attached letter and sent it to the military leaders of Fort Oneago. The siege we recently suffered in late spring may have been a direct result. Nevertheless, I trust you will find this interesting. I leave it up to the Baroness to decide what action, if any, we should take.
To those back at the fort attempting to understand the dwarves of Usenshorast, I present this. Though I have long been expelled from goblin society, in my time spent amongst those stunted ones I have learned to hate them. I seek only their undoing. Do not attempt to contact me when you receive this, I will be gone from here, or dead. Here is hoping that this lowly rat shall find its way to you, Overseer Graulkuk.
I had first chanced upon Usenshorast, or Helpwire in our tongue, upon hearing reports from fleeing compatriots of the fort's great riches, and abundant children. Criticize my character as you wish, but children are easily sold as slaves, and even more easily used to satisfy oneself in the interim. The fortress was apparently founded by the fools at The Divine Honest Urns, a subset of dwarves known as The Stormy Helpful Knife of Pages. Long, wordy, tedious-typically Dwarven.
To describe the place is simple. A tall, patchwork tower is surrounded by a small pit, which echoes with the thunderous sound of running water. A bridge extends to a small area filled with dire traps. Within are guard dogs and more traps. The actual fortress lies two floors below that tower. Near the tower is a trade depot. When I arrived, the area was littered with the bones and armor of our kindred, which were happily being gathered up and transported within the fort. More than once I have chanced across their craftsdwarfship in human settlements, only to be disgusted by the composition of many of them; pure goblin bone. And they call us brutal.
Though my reputation precedes me as a master thief, I was unfortunately captured by a strange caging mechanism. After being sequestered outside, and gawked at like an animal, I was brought into an empty room within the tower. I have been here for almost an entire year. To describe the place simply, I would call it a nightmare. Oblong chambers filled with strange statues of long dead dwarves, abandoned and flooded tunnels that lead nowhere, sandy floored rooms, and the ever present stench of decay are what characterize this place in my mind.
The residents are mad. Tiny tunnels force them into strange, maze-like, go betweens in rooms. Construction is constantly underway to make sense of the structures but it seems little progress is made. No less than several times, I heard howling screams of pain, and witnessed injured guards being dragged off to bedrooms. Most of the rooms are engraved, but the engravings are so slavishly self-referential that it makes a mind ache to ponder them. Dwarves speaking with dwarves, dwarves surrounded by dwarves, dwarves traveling, dwarves laboring, goblins being slain-I am so very sick of dwarves.
Most of them wear several sets of clothing at once, despite the fact that older sets are in tatters. All are covered in vomit, mud, and blood. Nobles preach demands into meeting halls, and a flurry of activity begins to meet them. This place is a contrast of nobility and utilitarianism. Platinum statues encrusted in gems line the halls, and yet, most sleep on the floor. Legendary meals are prepared below, and yet, most eat raw mushrooms. This place's explicit contradictions cause a deep dolor in the pit of my mind.
I will soon attempt to escape. Human traders are expected, and the broker told the trapper that I would make a fine offering. I don't know how I'll get out, knowing this place, I end up in a mine shaft with a pile of coins and a dead dwarf. I implore you, Overseer, send ambushes, sieges, and whatever you have to this place. It is an aberration upon the land, and I would like nothing more than to see every dwarf here dead. Especially the stone crafter, Alath.
We know you have made a masterpiece, no one cares anymore!
Signed,
Axul Rathrak
Welcome to Usenshorast, a blog about my current and future Fortresses in the roguelike computer game, Dwarf Fortress. If you don't know what DF is, its basically a combination between a roguelike like Nethack, and a RTS/City-building game like Sim City. You start a small Dwarven outpost and aim to turn it into the mightiest metropolis in the land. This blog will be primarily in character letters, notes, and memos from the pretend city of Usenshorast, and if Usenshorast be undone, then whatever next fortress I attempt.
This sounds boring, why should I read this?
I'm more interested in writing some brief stories to get a little better at fiction writing. However, I've found that tales from DF make particularly humorous/epic storytelling. The game's unfinished nature gives it some pretty interesting quirks, and the stories I've shared with friends who also play this game have been entertaining, so I'd like to attempt to share some of them. I promise it'll be at least worth a few minutes time.
With that out of the way, welcome to Usenshorast! Let us Strike the Earth!
Links:
http://www.bay12games.com/dwarves/
http://www.dwarffortresswiki.net/index.php/Main_Page
This sounds boring, why should I read this?
I'm more interested in writing some brief stories to get a little better at fiction writing. However, I've found that tales from DF make particularly humorous/epic storytelling. The game's unfinished nature gives it some pretty interesting quirks, and the stories I've shared with friends who also play this game have been entertaining, so I'd like to attempt to share some of them. I promise it'll be at least worth a few minutes time.
With that out of the way, welcome to Usenshorast! Let us Strike the Earth!
Links:
http://www.bay12games.com/dwarves/
http://www.dwarffortresswiki.net/index.php/Main_Page
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