The Journal of Saint, High Overseer of Murdermachines, Master of the Void-Wraiths, and Templar of Armok.
OBSIDIAN 30, YEAR OF ARMOK 251
As of this day, Murdermachine's interregnum is over.
The heir apparent buggered off after the Founder, bless his Void-begotten heart, stepped down from the position of Overseer, and after about six hours of booze-soaked anarchy it has fallen to the Military - more specifically, me - to take command of this outpost, not even in its second year, and make it into a fortress worthy of the Void Wraiths. It will not be easy.
Primarily because the dwarf woman I have been provided as a host is delicately described by the others as "just incredibly fat".
Even in death, the world still finds ways to torment me.
Now then, to business!
The fort appears to be in decent shape, unlike me, and we have enough food to last us a good long while, most of it being some incredibly well-made turkey egg biscuits. Superior, I'd go so far as to call them! Additionally we have alcohol. Ah, sweet rum, how I've missed -
Ale? All that time spent wasting away in the Void, and all I get when I come back is some biscuits and bloody Dwarven
ale?
Where is the rum?
Why is the rum gone?
This must be fixed. What barbarians only drink ale? Why, it's undwarflike! Elfin, I would go so far as to say! Patches of sweet pods must be grown immediately! For peasant consumption, there shall be wine and ale and such - but for a Templar, only the finest rum will suffice.
Where was I...aha! Yes! Work orders!
Poor Ulborb, the chump, appears to be digging an immense chamber out that has no discernible purpose all on his lonesome. I'm not sure if it's some personal obsession of his or the last dwarf in the big chair was really just that sadistic, but I can't tell what in Armok's name the fellow is contributing with this, aside from a great deal of rocks. He'll be reassigned shortly to more rum-related projects.
There's also a few levers in the military area that I'm uncertain as to the purpose of. One is being connected still, but the other I just ordered somebody to pull on to see what happens. The dwarf responsible wandered back to me afterwards and said there was a piece of parchment labelling it as the door control. We have two doors - above and below ground. Huh. Go figure.
The Trade Depot is inaccessible due to some...interesting hallway designs, and otherwise this place has a distinct lack of traps. I can see a great deal of work here is needed before we can fight off the goblins.
GRANITE 6, YEAR OF ARMOK 252
One of our miners was whining about quickly I want them to dig out the rum distillery and how he felt his true calling lay in carting blocks of shit around instead. New edict: If you can hold a pick, that's about all you're doing for the rest of your life. Deal with it.
GRANITE 7, YEAR OF ARMOK 252
Some blighter named "Space Cat" was exploiting a loophole in his host's contract to let him get away with "storing an item in a barrel, sir!" as his sole mode of gainful employment. Fuck that, I said to him. You're on rum duty now. Hope you like mud.
GRANITE 11, YEAR OF ARMOK 252
Took the entirety of the first squad off-duty. Normally, I'd say "sure, keep training. We'll need some bodies to hurl at the goblins when they come and we have no traps." Not now, however.
Now, we are in a crisis situation. On this day, Murdermachines ran out of seeds.
The ale isn't far behind.
Emergency measures have been taken. Much as I love the biscuits the chef prepares, I have ordered cooking of food to stop. We will gnaw on raw mushrooms for a while to get the seeds. Plump Helmets, able to be eaten raw, are now not to be cooked under pain of exile.
GRANITE 19, YEAR OF ARMOK 252
Prosnorkulus has started whispering sweet nothings to his axe. It's pretty damn disturbing in bed, I can tell you that.
GRANITE 21, OH ARMOK HELP ME 252
Well, I got the housing district set up. Ulborb's weird giant room has been subdivided into nice private apartments to be distributed on a first come, first serve basis.
That big apartment is mine, by virtue of when the miners complained I sat on Jables until he yielded. Sorry, lad, you can haul shit around some other time.
Booze is almost gone. We have three ales left, and I really must commend these fellow Void-Wraiths for their restraint - the miners have been thirsty for days, and yet refuse to even sip from the cache out of civic duty.
Why do we have so little booze, you might ask? Well, because
somebody didn't listen when I said "no more fucking biscuits" and every new rock pot that rolls off the assembly line becomes a Murdermachines Special Crock o' Biscuits!
So, we're in dire straits on the sober front, with two legendary stonemurderers on the brink of realizing exactly what the hell is going on most of the time, and what do I get? What divine answer to my prayers for booze and pots does the Great Armok send?
I need some rum...
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Topic: Murdermachines - Return of the VoidGod (Deathgate II) (Read 827544 times)