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[Broseph Stalin]

Well that was depressing.

Well written, certainly, but depressing. Out of curiosity, how close to actual events in the fortress was this story?

There's a great deal of creative license to explain randomness and bring things to a personal level, for example the actual reason she didn't kill the Kobold was that she suffered a minor injury and ran to the opposite side of the arena. The fortress is a composite of several fortresses but Arrowstockades was the one the real Dumplin lived in. I'd say about half of all events happened in Arrowstockades but there's also a great deal I left out, Dumplin was actually an underequipped sworddwarf before she was a marksdwarf and probably did lots of stuff before I noticed she existed. The thing to remember is that Arrowstockades is supposed to be the prototypical fortress or at least one emblematic of my playstyle not necessarily a specific fort. Class based room assignment, zombie attacks and cave dwarf burrows might not be part of every fortress but they're all things that happen in Fortresses I make.

[Broseph Stalin]

... and then it got really, really dark in here.

Surely it can't get any worse...

[fourpotatoes]

I feel a little sorry for Cerol. Unlike Feb One-Eye, I get the impression that under different circumstances he'd have been a good persondwarf, not a monster self-made by necessity.

[Broseph Stalin]

There were no more trees and no more mud and no undead in view but somehow the last leg was the hardest. Okon threw his life away to save a dead woman while Iral, Stodir, and Angzak had all sacrificed their lives to help their comrades gain precious little ground Inod was killed by the defenses of the fortress he fought to protect Tath had finally realized the hopelessness of her situation and unlike Dumplin no longer deigned to justify her continued survival. It was hopeless. She couldn't count how many times she'd thought the word but she meant it now. There was no hope. Any belief however fleeting or deluded that there could be light or goodness in the world was gone
   Today had been one long frantic struggle serving no purpose but to ensure she lived long enough to see the next long frantic struggle- but it had not been today. It had been her life since coming to Arrowstockades. If she had known laboring over her quiver meant imprisonment and a trinket that was closer to the first two pieces of garbage she'd made than anything a real dwarf would wear into battle would she have still done it? If she had known that defeating the goblin raider would mean induction into the military and horrors she could never have imagined would she have bothered? If she had known forgiving the Kobold would make her a target and that the nigh omnipotent overseer would break her would it have still been worth it? After a certain point if one failed to recognize a pattern it was their fault when they suffered for it. She never won, she fought and she bled and she lost some part of herself and got ready to fight the next round far weaker. It was a vicious, inscrutable, little game whose only objective was to figure out how exactly she would lose.

Arrowstockades had killed six more baboons today.

   But it hadn't just killed baboons. It had killed an impressive segment of it's militia. Even the war god of dwarven kind had fallen to the onslaught. It occurred that two immortal warriors colliding and both being destroyed in an apocalyptic battle between the forces of evil and worse evil was precisely the kind of legend that drew migrants. It was odd to be a historical figure. It was like being a regular person but you regretted every choice you ever made and sincerely wished you were dead.

   What would the legends say about Dumplin Lakewanders? That she joined in the defense of Arrowstockades led by Cerol Sabershaft? That she scored a few lucky shots on a few mindless zombies while running away? No, it was more likely that the legends would mention Cerol Sabershaft and Kopoh Torturedrest and perhaps a notable or two but Dumplin had no place of interest in any legends. She was just one of the dwarves who didn't die or do anything particularly important. That was her story. That garbagedwarf that was still alive. Her story would change shortly.    

   She'd seen melancholic dwarves blubber and wail and mope around the dining hall demanding attention, if they were satisfied there were enough dwarves watching they would jump off a guard tower or down a well and if they weren't they would just die of malnutrition in the hope their terrible skeletal form would disgust or horrify those who had hated them in life. She didn't feel like that. She felt more like Cerol or Tath simply seeing enough as being enough and making the calm rational decision to opt out. It was also possible she was just more realistic. The fortress had proven time and time again that it would not deign to look at her unless in fury. How long would the dwarves in the dining hall actually care that they'd watched malnutrition wear away at one of their own while they shoveled food into their mouths? Would the overseer even notice? No, there was no point in trying to teach a lesson to someone who wasn't listening or wound beings that were alive in only a strictly technical sense.

   The great gate stood before them, finally open. It vomited garbagedwarves to pick at what remained of the apocalyptic battle and doctors to carry those who could be stolen from the jaws of merciful death. Some wore looks of terror or fury but most were their usual implacable selves. The militia also began trickling in some screaming despondently with the horror of the day, some crying out in agony, and others wearing the bored look that Dumplin imagined she herself wore.

    There was a twinge of fear as she looked upon the great fortress. Like an abused dog she found her home only slightly less terrible than the unforgiving world outside. This was a terrible place to live. Perhaps it was better for a child, for one who had never seen the world outside and simply didn't know that the world had the potential to be better. That it was somehow wrong to labor under the capricious whims of a vengeful overseer. Feb One-Eye stood in front giving orders.

   Feb One-Eye was a proper historical figure. Feb One-Eye had made countless kills with a blade so razor sharp that it was said the continent would divide in two should he ever drop it carelessly. He became possessed with divine inspiration and vision and fashioned for himself a steel helmet of such impossible quality that every helmet made before or since appeared to be a forgery, a bastardization of his flawless work. He served as guard captain defending and securing the greatest fortress of any dwarven empire and in that service had killed more men than some plagues. Feb would be remembered for his contribution this day, his would not be the kind of trivial mention that Degel or Dumplin would share. Bim, however, without warning injected himself into Feb's story.
 
   She attempted ,just as dwarven scholars would one day attempt, to rationalize why Bim shot Feb One-Eye in the stomach. Perhaps he had simply snapped, perhaps he blamed Feb for what had happened, perhaps he himself had simply given up. For whatever reason Bim leveled his crossbow giving no indication of any dissatisfaction and fired, the bolt was stopped by the indestructible aquamarine armor but Feb was staggered by the blow. The response was lightning quick, the air became momentarily blue and then momentarily red as the adamantine sword flew with unholy speed and left a mark in Bim's armor, like a papercut that stretched from one side of the plate to the other but went almost to his spine. Bim fell over quite dead.
 
   Some part of her was surprised but most of her was still consumed by hopeless apathy. Whatever light inside her had been warding off the darkness of Arrowstockades had burned out and now the cold, inky blackness was all that was left. Obok was not ready to be on his own yet but the moment he could walk unassisted he would be ready to join the cloud of generally unattended children that wandered the fortress. A fortress child had no real need for parents, any lessons they needed could be taught by a prison sentence or hospital visit and the dangers they faced were so dire that parents could not conceivably help them. There was food ,drink, sleeping space, and medical care freely available and the parents were required to do very little.  The only difference between an orphan, a child with two parents was that the latter two would occasionally follow their parents to work and then die horribly when whatever killed their parents turned on them. If anything it was unfortunate that he would still have his father to look to for guidance. She'd accepted that losing was inevitable and that the fortress would eventually win and delaying it any longer had become tedious work. When Obok could walk on his own Dumplin would find the heaviest suit of armor she could, do some pseudo poetic thing with her quiver, walk into the river, and finally be done.

[Thormgrim]

I was expecting her to come back to a tantrum spiral in the fortress

[Broseph Stalin]

   
Degel stood statue still over Bim and did not explain what the actual hell was all that about when Feb asked. He stood very still with his face very rigid, pain evident in his glassy eyes. He held his position for a moment seemingly frozen in time as dwarves continued to walk passed him.

“Okon.” Degel finally said. “We should find Okon.”

“He's dead.” Dumplin replied.

“Then we'll find him all the same.” Degel replied tightly. “If he's fallen then the records should say how. A dwarf deserves as much.”

Dumplin said nothing. It meant very little to risk a life she planned to throw away.

In terms of language systems Dwarven is an entirely alphabetic. Letters form words which hold meaning and form sentences which communicate ideas. If Dwarven were a pictographic language, and thereby expressed ideas in images rather than words, their pictogram for “Valor” may well be Degel the ragged militia dwarf declining peaceful rest to seek out his lost comrade for proper burial. The Onslaught of Smoke had ravaged Arrowstockades, crushed it's military, killed it's commander, scarred the land, and cut the baboons from nine to three. Exhausted, beaten, and low on ammunition the group was weaker than in it's early days when Inod and Degel stood alone. Degel pushed forward undeterred. The long death march that had been this day would soon be over one way or another and Okon's fate would not remain unknown while he lived. If this hypothetical pictographic dwarven language had a word for “out of place” it may well be an image of Dumplin.

   Dumplin walked with less fire. She joined Degel only in physical form and was well aware that if they recovered his body it only meant that the engravers would have to go to work immediately rather than wait six days until the overseer declared him missing and therefore dead. If his body was at all recoverable then it would be recovered regardless, the mass hauling would begin shortly and broken bodies would be cataloged in vile detail. They would be thrown into the corpse pile and the Bookkeeper with his frightening precision would describe their condition and number. There was no special reason it had to be them to do the nasty business or to make a special job of it before the alert was deactivated. Dumplin had no special desire to find Okon's broken corpse or say words over it before it was thrown in a stone coffin and forgotten. 

   The pointless work went reasonably quickly, navigating the forest wasn't particularly difficult with the undead slaughtered and Dumplin would much rather be in bed. Though there were certainly no more undead Degel's decision that they should split up was still in her eyes completely idiotic. She made an awkward zigzag east and Degel going west.

   To busy herself Dumplin thought of something more meaningful- the manner in which she would end her life. Walking into the river would be fine but stepping into the trash compactor may be quicker and less tedious. She could also finally take a run at Feb One-Eye, Bim seemed to enjoy it and it would be satisfying but there was always the possibility he would hack off her arms and legs and then send her to jail. But perhaps her best bet was--

Dumplin stopped with her crossbow at the ready. She'd detected movement just ahead. She skulked quietly forward and barely stopped the panicked muscle contraction from firing her weapon. There in the clearing Okon and Lolor lied in a bloody pile, Okon had his crossbow leveled at her and Lolor weakly held her sword in a defensive fashion. Around them were over a dozen bodies in various states of decomposition. They had apparently held up in the clearing and only a few of the zombies had broken off the main horde to attack them. They were wracked with horrible injuries and utterly ragged but they were alive.

“Dumplin!” Okon croaked weakly. “Is it over?”

She didn't respond. She was busy convincing herself that even though she was wrong about Okon dying she'd made the right choice with the information she had and that she wasn't a coward for abandoning him. She tried to convince herself that had she brought the baboons on such a mission they would have attracted more undead attention and they would have all died anyway, the only difference is that Dumplin Degel Okon and Lolor would not have lived either. Suddenly Okon turned his weapon in another direction. There was a familiar cry of anger and frustration that inspired Dumplin to run. It was very rare for a dwarf to have a second chance in Arrowstockades and the faintest possibility drove her forward. She pierced through the trees quickly and easily her crossbow perfectly level and fixed to fire.

There between the trees stood Ashmon, quite alive and fighting a lone zombie. He dodged a swipe wearily and threw half a punch groaning with frustration as his fear prevented the blow from connecting. Dumplin fired and the bolt sailed through the air striking the zombie's head with perfect accuracy and passed through the other side. Ashmon looked shocked and gaped at her. She ran forward to meet him. She stopped suddenly.

Ashmon began explaining something or other as she dropped her crossbow and stared blankly.

The towns of Windpromised is not a source of genius. It's exports are cotton and wool textiles with the occasional raw fruits and vegetables mixed in. The work of the city is primarily for individual subsistence. There are ten or twelve men and women who have achieved reasonable wealth and earned for themselves a dining room with a statue or perhaps a home with a single room for sleeping and no unfamiliar faces dwelling within. There is no exorbitant wealth in Windpromised but every dwarf who lives there finds a bed and the  peace of mind that accompanies a full days work. Though dwarven treasure would be snapped up greedily by the King a few pieces of pewter dinnerware or some luxury such as barrel of passable candies would trickle from the capitol to the cities and somewhere before coming to rest in the tiny villages on the outskirts of the Kingdom it would be picked through by Windpromised. On those few and fortunate days there is much rejoicing and every dwarf beams with pride to their elven human and goblin neighbors.

   “Look!” They say, “The shape of this goblet is generally fine and it's flaws can be counted quite easily provided you remove one shoe and make use of the toes of that foot. Surely it is a miracle of Dwarven craftsmanship. And look here again! These candies are more flavorful and pleasant to eat than a potato or even a fruit that is not particularly fresh. ”

   Dumplin Lakewanders did not travel to Windpromised. She went to Arrowstockades where resplendent beauty and abject horror merged into one bastard entity of endless suffering.
   Oh the wealth and grandeur of Arrowstockades. Where the smell of decomposing flesh hung foul in the heavy air, where pointless trinkets were churned out by the thousand at the cost of life and limb, where the most miserable souls of the earth ,already resigned to death, fought to defend it's unassailable walls, where every child went to bed in fear that the night would bring more bloodshed, where life advanced at a miserable pace, where vast quantities of food and drink sat long months brewed and slapped together from whatever stood most plentiful in the stocks to defend against starvation when the armies of it's many foes beset them.
   Oh Arrowstockades where broken, ragged dwarves mill about like stinking corpse flies preforming their grisly work with psychotic and unyielding drive. Where glorious fabrics formed magnificent rainments that were caked with mud and vomit and stained by the blood of one thousand and some odd dead and wrapped around the grimy living husks that populate the blasted place. Where dwarves worked night and day to no discernible purpose save the creation of unneeded and unwanted wealth to be horded in vast stockpiles. Where the the miners labored timelessly in black, sunless pits to expand the great tomb that housed the sum of the fortress' dwarven dead.
   Oh Arrowstockades where nightmares never cease.  Where each odd day is filled with soul rending terror meted out by things dwarven eyes were never meant to behold. Where each even day is filled with long hours spent in mind warping paranoia and the knowledge that peace simply means you cannot yet see the foe. Where nameless horrors crawl from the depths, ancient titans descend from the skies, and the armies of each race set upon the place from all directions.
   Oh Arrowstockades with it's vicious promises of wealth and glory ensnaring naïve dwarven minds. Where Dukes and Barons and mayors all under the Kings command spin webs of flawless design and leave perfect, beautiful lies in the ear of every merchantman who happens by. Where platinum, gold, and silver, are crafted into objects of terrible beauty and set with crystals forged with the tainted ash of the ever burning corpse ovens. 

If Dumplin was better with names or the fortress hadn't stopped speaking to her she may have realized that Kilrud Coldabyss captain of the Yellow Barrels had quite some time ago been killed by the Fortress Guard after murdering a farmer in a fit of rage. Two dwarves from his squad were missing when the militia did roll call. One had been Lolor Siltlock. The other dwarf was the latest captain who fled into the forest to find his wife. If Dumplin had kept abreast of the goings on in the fortress she would know that the yellow barrels were still called Kilrud Coldabyss' squad because the new captain was a garbagedwarf whose wife was a hardened criminal, an accused vampire, a known Bold-Snuggler and all around mad woman. This poor foolish captain learned that his wife was outside the fortress walls and enlisted the help of a guardsman to run into the forest to find her shrieking to Feb One-Eye that Dumplin had to be rescued from undead hands. Asen Hateumbra, foolish captain of Kilrud Coldabyss' infantry squad had died searching for his wife and was reanimated by the dark power of the Necromancer General.

Oh Arrowstockades where, under the setting sun Dumplin Lakewanders shot her husband in the head.

[TheFlame52]

Well this story sure does live up to its name.

[Dozebôm Lolumzalìs]

Wait, what?  Could you clarify the last two paragraphs, Broseph?  (That includes the short "She shot her husband in the head" one.)

[Broseph Stalin]

Wait, what?  Could you clarify the last two paragraphs, Broseph?  (That includes the short "She shot her husband in the head" one.)

Okon ran into the forest because two dwarves from "Kilrud Coldabyss's squad" were still outside and he recognized that as the squad his wife was in.

Feb said Ashmon ran into the Forest screaming about the undead.

Back when Dumplin was in and out of jail Asen was promoted to militia captain after his squad leader went berserk and killed a farmer. Dumplin never learned the old captains name, it was Kilrud Coldabyss.

The reveal is that Ashmon didn't panic, he heard Dumplin was outside with Okon and went with Asen to find her.

The Zombie that Ashmon was fighting was Asen and Dumplin shot him in the head.

 

[Broseph Stalin]

What followed was a dream like blur. At some point in the evening the drawbridge closed again leaving Cerol and ,for reasons inexplicable to the rest of the fortress Tath, standing in it's footprint. There were a few spectators watching as the drawbridge fell crushing both of them with such force that nothing remained to reclaim or bury. Stodir's body was likewise not recovered, dredging the river was simply out of the question with the fortress short so many hands. The fire that swallowed Iral burned so hot that anything left of him was indistinguishable from what was left of the forest. Angzak's body was recovered stripped of all valuables and for whatever it was worth the Lanugr Men that killed her were slaughtered and their children were slaughtered, and images made from their bones came to decorate clothing made from their hides. Degel found Inod's body precisely where it fell but stripped of all his possessions and equipment, Degel interred him personally and said a few words. Bim was already in a coffin by the time Degel returned but he said something for that dwarf too. There were several hours of chaos that followed but it was largely beneath her interest.

   Bembul Sheep-Shearer most beloved dwarf in Arrowstockades was dead. It was said that he'd been trapped outside and that the militia had refused to open the gates to rescue him. The dwarves of Arrowstockades were incensed. These dwarves had come to accept constant unrelenting horror but it was all taken with the supposition that dwarves like Bembul Sheep-Shearer who told moderately funny jokes were safe. Here formed the crack. Through this crack slipped complaints from the militia about the horrors they'd witnessed ,the civillians from the friends they'd lost, the garbage dwarves from their lack of proper rooms, and from just about everybody that Gusil the Mayor was a horrible woman. For the first time in years there was rancor, the floodgates finally burst. 

   First there was shouting mostly directed at Gusil and then there was more general uproar with dwarves crying out in shock and grief and then the situation escalated. Some fell into depression, some began to wander obliviously, and some were overcome with rage. It is not known who flipped the first table but before long the dining hall had been torn apart and shortly after that the tables and chairs were used as projectile weapons in the twenty five assaults that followed. When the fun and games were done things got more serious. Dwarves began running through the halls shrieking their grievances viciously attacking people at random. The chaos spread from the dining hall outward and soon enough it reached the hospital where things became truly awful. Doctors dragged wounded rioters to beds and were repaid with assault when they reached their destinations. Some of the doctors themselves joined in and began beating the patients they treated.

   Then came the militarization. Feb One-Eye lead what remained of the militia to the dining hall in full kit and put an end to the worst of the fighting. They failed as almost immediately militia dwarves becan throwing tantrums as well turning the riot into a full scale battle. Wise dwarves locked themselves in their rooms. 

   Dumplin did not have a room to seal herself in so instead she went to the rarely visited Soapmaker's workshop a small room with doors on all four sides and laid on the ground therein. The shop was beneath interest to the rioters so she sat unmolested long enough to sleep. When she woke she found the world was very much as she left it, four doors, sandy earthen walls, and a soapmaker's workshop. This seemed perfectly fine so she did not act. She spent quite a long time not acting until she became hungry and thirsty at which point she ate a tallow cake from her pack and drank some tuber beer from her flask and before long it was time to sleep again. She repeated this process for three days until she ran out of rations and two days more until the hunger pains were unbearable. She had a meal and a drink then filled her pack and her flask and went back to the shop to start again.

   Her way was obstructed by rioters and rather than fight them she walked down the grand staircase and found her way to the caverns. Eventually she came across a mined out vein and chose this as a place to rest. She did not count hours or days simply laid on the ground and stared at the faint streaks of gold left behind by the miners and busied herself with her thoughts. She was still vaguely aware that the world was still moving because every so often she had to resupply but she was now as close to nonexistence as she'd ever been.

   Asen Hateumbra had been prompted by his wife to make the long journey to Arrowstockades where they were both miserable. After she cost them their room he'd become upset with her and she'd responded by never really speaking to him again. When an army of infinite horror marched on the fortress and his wife was still reported to be outside the walls he had ,being a good husband, gone out to find her. Throughout the entire ordeal Dumplin thought of him precisely once and it was how he would fare after she left him alone with their son. At some unclear point Dumplin had become a bad person. She didn't cry, the wound was so deep she could scarcely feel it. There was no pain, just a deep sense of loss. The world seemed somehow incomplete.

   In the few moments she spent outside the secluded mineral vein the world seemed to be collapsing. There were bursts of violence, and destruction as dwarves rioted in the halls leaving pools of blood and vomit all over interspersed with the odd body part. The guard tried to keep order but as it turned out some problems couldn't be stabbed. She didn't bother with any of it. No dwarf had shown any interest in the crevice she'd taken up residence in so she continued to spend her hours in silence.

   She thought about how broken the fortress was and how she'd come to be so miserable. She thought back to the dwarf she was when she entered Arrowstockades. How alien that dwarf seemed now. The very idea of a dwarf being happy or optimistic was foreign. The idea that the world could be right and good sounded like a work of utter fiction. She couldn't imagine that once upon a time things hadn't been like this, that somewhere beyond these walls the world was good and fair. Her taste for the world was gone, even if there was something else to be had it was beneath seeking. The end was very near.

   Eventually Obok stood up. He was very wobbly and fell over immediately but the progress was apparent and enough was enough. Dumplin bid him goodbye and walked through one of the doors back into the fortress.  One of the benefits of this alone time was that she'd thought of something much better than walking into a river. Dumplin was off to see the overseer.

[TheFlame52]

Reminds me of the tantrum spirals of old. I guess Dumplin is going to be one of the handful of hardened, uncaring dwarves that keep the fortress going until new migrants come. Or death by forgotten beast, one or the other.

[Baffler]

One of the benefits of this alone time was that she'd thought of something much better than walking into a river. Dumplin was off to see the overseer.

Good, I can feel your anger. He (or she) is defenseless. Take your crossbow. Strike him down with all of your hatred and your journey towards the dark side will be complete!

This ought to be good. Inb4 there is no overseer, and hasn't been for some time.

[heydude6]

If it makes you feel any better your story was inducted into the hall of legends today. Congratulations. Also PTW.

[Broseph Stalin]

If it makes you feel any better your story was inducted into the hall of legends today. Congratulations. Also PTW.

I've had an eye on the nomination for a while, super happy that so many people have enjoyed the story.

[Broseph Stalin]

“Move.” The voice was weak and raspy, she hadn't spoken in a very long time and her throat had grown rusty. All the same the viciousness of the command still carried.

“Meeting with the Mayor?” The gold plated dwarf asked relatively unfazed by the pandemonium consuming the fortress.

“No,” She replied. “I want to see the overseer.”

“Not possible.” The dwarf replied.

“Nobody speaks to the overseer.”  He had begun to say when an iron crossbow struck him in the jaw. She missed the polished wood weapon she'd grown used to but this one served it's purpose.

The door was predictably locked but she struck at the hinges with her crossbow and then with a stiff mithril plated kick she knocked it over. A long hallway stretched in front of her paved with gold.

“Mayor.” She said mentally. “Administrators, Baron, Assorted Lords and Ladies” She counted off the doors. When a door swung open behind her she realized she'd missed one.

“Captain of the Guard.”

Feb looked at the unconscious guard and Dumplin walking towards the king's chambers.

“Lakewanders!” He barked. “You're under arrest for assault!”

Her response was a crossbow bolt sailing through the air. Feb retorted by slapping it away like the hand of a petulant child and charging at a dead run. She didn't have time to knock another bolt so instead she prepared to launch a downward stroke with her weapon. Feb One-Eye being who he was slipped out of the way effortlessly and drove a boot into her stomach before driving his shield into her face. Dumplin fell to the ground and desperately rolled scrambling for her feet only to fling herself backward and away from a lunging stab. As she recovered from jumping backwards she leaned forward, snapped up his extended wrist, and brought her weight down on top of him before he could recover from his lunge.
   Feb flipped over into a dominant position grabbed her throat and squeezed tightly. He was a substantially better wrestler than her goblin adversary. There was no instinct left. The decision to grab his helmet was purely logical, as was the decision to yank it off, and so was the choice to whack him with it. The decision to follow that whack up with a dozen more was largely emotional but when the struggle was done Feb was bleeding badly and Dumplin was back on her path. The door to the king's quarters at the end of the hall were not sealed.

“What is the meaning of this!?” The monarch shouted.

“Where is the Overseer?” Dumplin asked.

“You've gone insane, guard! Guards to me—”

A crossbow bolt screamed by the dwarf's head.

“Where is the Overseer?” She asked again.

“The hatch!” The king yelled in a high frightened voice pointing to a distant corner. “He's down the hatch!”   

Dumplin walked in the designated direction and noticed a solid gold hatch blending in with the solid gold floor. She opened it and walked down the stairwell it hid. There was no gold here, only bare stone and spiderwebs. This path had not been traversed in some time. She didn't count steps but she followed the strata to where the caverns ought to be and followed it deeper still. Eventually the heat began to build, the rocks were nearly molten in places but she continued walking. Then came the screams. The horrible wails and whispers and threats that seem to came from all directions, she felt a presence more terrible then Cerol, more terrible than the undead army, deadly near her. She walked further. Down and down and down until finally the stone turned black. Not the beautiful shiny black of the dining hall but a lifeless black. This black did not suck hope out of the air and did not speak of evil and ancient secrets. It did nothing and the sight of it inspired nothing in her. As much as stone could be, this stone was dead.
   The legends said six of the seven founders had become nobles in the traditional sense and the seventh had become obsessed with the construction of more and more elaborate projects and constructions, massive military forces, and pointless displays of power. This dwarf was the Overseer of Arrowstockades whose quarters were eventually built in hell simply so it could be said that the most monstrous creature in the underworld was a dwarf.
   Here the walls became smooth again. Soon she came to a door which she pushed open. It's weight was unimaginable but it was balanced perfectly and it opened easily. She stood in a massive hallway that stretched farther than the hallway in the nobles quarters, larger than the breadth of the entire fortress. She could scarcely see the double doors at the end. In these halls dwelled the most terrible dwarf in the world and she'd come to kill him.
         Dumplin looked to the walls and the floor and the roof. It is said that a dwarf can recognize any stone simply because dwarves pride themselves in such knowledge with no special attribute of dwarven blood involved. That does not explain the intimate familiarity with which her mind said “Slade”. The mythical stone was said to comprise hell and along with Semi-Molten Rock and Adamantine be one of the three substances which was truly indestructible to a demon.
   She couldn't fathom how it had been smoothed or engraved or bent to dwarven will and that had obviously been intention. The overseer was ,within Arrowstockades, a god. He most commonly took the form of an unfortunate accidents and senseless violence. His was the domain of pointlessness and his arch foe was the impossible. This hall was the temple of a mortal god and it had been constructed to be worthy of his imagined greatness.
   The massive slade columns stretched to the roof and met with great vaults to form enormous bays of incalculable length. Between these far spaced columns there was a long trench and in this trench there was magma giving the place a menacing red glow. Evenly spaced along the magma trench there were statues of horrible monsters, terrible battles, and nightmarish scenes of the darkest days of the world. She walked until her legs became sore and counted in total eleven great bays of fairly equal spacing whose walls were smooth stone and a twelfth bay which was large enough to hold every other bay inside with ease and was dense with decoration. At the end of the bay stood a single door and behind that door was the being whose twisted hand had shaped Arrowstockades.
   She stepped forward softly and with the impression that she was in a sacred place. There was an impossible amount of knowledge held in the twelfth bay and she considered taking time to  take some of it in before doing her work but ultimately deciding she should kill the overseer first and when that was done spend her leisure time reading until the guard came down to kill her. She tried the door and found it locked and surprised by this obvious fact tried it again. She struck at the hinges as she did the brick door but her crossbow bounced off vibrating horribly and painfully as though giggling at the idea of damaging slade. She fired a bolt which deflected and shot just passed her head bouncing off the ceiling and landing in a pool of magma. She made a mental note to never attempt that again and banged three times on the door to no response. Heat rose up into her face.

“I can wait!” She roared in her fractured voice. “You have to leave eventually!”

Except nobody had walked up or down that staircase in years which meant that was, unless the overseer had some pressing need to regularly enter this ornate but otherwise empty hallway, definitely not true. Eventually though he may be driven to come see the dwarf that brazenly knocked upon his door. She knocked again. Again there was silence.

She sat down in a huff. He would open up eventually. He had to. He did not.