Bonepillar Year 1: The Autumn of Trade"Can you feel that?" asked Zuglar, holding a candle to the soles of his feet.
"I... don't know," said Eshtan. "It's faint. Or I could be imagining it. But... I
think I can. Like, the tiniest sensation of heat? Or maybe more like an itch?"
Zuglar wrote this down in the daily journal she was keeping. How she managed to keep a doctors journal in addition to all the bookkeeping, Eshtan had no idea. Until the last few months, being attended by someone pulling double shifts as a doctor and bookkeeper, he'd had no idea how much paperwork even the smallest imaginable fortress could generate.
"That's good. It means there are still nerve connections there. There's hope for you yet, Eshtan!"
"Good, good. By the way, uh... Tekkud Eritham and Erith Ottanudil... they died, right?"
"Yes. When we first arrived. Although Tekkud... got up again. But he was deanimated for good a few weeks back."
(OOC: Not sure how: I can't even find his body. Nonetheless, his corpse is in the deceased list)
"Right. So. Um... The fact that I've seen both of them wandering the halls recently..."
"Don't fret, you're quite sane. We've all seen them."
"Oh."
"We think it's because we haven't properly memorialised them. We've got some slabs queued up to be made, but nobodies had time, least of all Zulban. He's been far too busy building your trade depot. Oh, I forgot to tell you: it's been a complete success! The trader's arrived yesterday when you were asleep. Got in without any fuss."
"They did? It
worked! Haha! Oh Zuglar, that's truly wonderful!"
"Aye, it did work. No outpost liason, though. Odd, that. And... well, there was a problem with the actual trading, so..."
"Oh no..."
Yesterday...
"Listen to me, this isn't about making a profit! We're just trying to survive here!" Zulban shouted.
"And we're just trying to make a profit," said the merchant matter-of-factly. "I'm sure you can see our dillema."
"But we
need that equipment." Zulban said angrily. "We've got an injured dwarf in need of cloth, no anvil, barely any food... look, I swear I'm trying to be reasonable. We're not asking for much, we don't want to rip you off, and we
can pay you back next year. Besides, we built this entire depot to save your lives! Shouldn't that count for some credit?"
"Son, if I gave credit to every fortress that told me they'd saved my life, I'd be broke. Now if you're not going to offer me some decent trade goods, them I'm taking mine and leaving."
"You..." Zulban spluttered incoherently for a few moments. "I just told you, literally the
only thing we have of
any value right now is wine!"
"So trade us some of that."
Zulban's face went from spitting rage to a tranquil calm in an instant as he passed some mental threshold. "Trade you our tiny stockpile of booze?"
"Right."
"One moment while I confer with my colleagues."
Zulban walked stiffly back to the main fortress where Morul was waiting for him.
"Well?" asked the woodcutter with a nasty grin. "How did 'being reasonable' work out for yah?"
"Morul, that idea of yours? Is that still on the table."
"Yup."
"Do it."
The merchants were surprised to see a short, unkempt dwarf approaching them from the tunnel. Their bodyguards, two heavily armed swordsdwarfs and a macedwarf, tensed. The dumb merchants might think it was a good idea to tease these trapped dwarves, but the mercenaries knew desperation when they saw it. This fortress was reeking of it, and they were glad for their bronze weapons and leather armour.
"Hey lads! We came up with better idea!" shouted the scruffy dwarf.
"And what's that, friend? What happened to the other one?"
"Don't you worry about him! You're dealing wit'
me now!" He was grinning widely. The mercenaries inhaled and hovered their hands over their weapons. Something was about to happen.
"See this doorbridge here? In about... oh, say 10 seconds, it's gonna close. And then the other one'll open. And *then* those monsters out there from the dark jungle'll come and eat you all. I recommend running. Leave your shit. You'll run faster. Cheers!"
"What?! Are you threatenin-" the merchant spluttered, but was interrupted by the quicker thinking mercenaries making a run at the door. Morul waved cheerfully as the drawbridge shut in their face.
A few seconds later, there was a second thump as the outer bridge lowered. Morul started counting to 10, and had reached 4 by the time he heard the pattering of fleeing feet. He returned to the main hall, dusting his hands theatrically.
"And
that's how you get a good trade deal, ladies and gentlemen," he said smugly.
"He
set the undead on them!" Eshtan shouted, jerking into a sitting position.
"Now, to be fair, they were going to have to leave that way anyway. He just made sure they left their equipment. We
need that equipment."
"But even so, that's..."
"He warned them before he opened the doors. They had as much chance of making it, with or without their goods. That cloth I used to clean your wound earlier? We only got that because of what Morul did. Don't worry, I'm sure they made it out perfectly okay."
"I... I hope you're right. I really do."
(OOC: he really did warn them. Morul was the one who deconstructed the trade depot. There was nothing else I could have done to save them: I don't know why wandered out onto the surface rather than just leaving straight away through the escape tunnel)"Urgh... I suppose it really would be remiss of me to punish him."
"Indeed. But, my friend, I think there's something even more important than what Morul did that that you've missed," said Zuglar seriously.
"Oh Armok, what now?" groaned Eshtan
"You just sat up. Yourself."
Eshtan looked down. As the shock of realisation at what he'd done ran down his body, he realized he could
feel it, all the way down his back. Tears of joy stung his eyes. He looked over at the doctor, who had broken her usual cold, distant expression to offer a small smile of genuine happiness.
"Told you so. You're going to make it."
Eshtan grinned at her. "No. We're
all going to make it."
"Migrants!" shouted Lor from the above-ground bunker. He'd taken to spending his idle time there, watching the outside jungle from tiny peepholes in the rock salt bricks.
"Oh those poor souls," said Logem hopelessly as Zulban ran past him to the levers.
"Where are they? Can they make it in?"
"South-west!" shouted Lor. "They've got a chance! Open the doors!"
"Come on, come on..."
"Troll corpse approaching! It's Duskringed!"
Tathathel "Duskringed" the Troll (or, ex-troll) was one of the most fearsome of the shambling monstrosities. Aside from scars, the corpse was almost perfectly intact: if it wasn't for the milky white, sunken eyes and the jerky, unnatural way it moved, the monster could easily have been mistaken for a living troll.
"Oh no, not that one! Run you bastards! Run!"
"It's too late, they're never going to... whoa! He dodged it! He actually dodged it! He's going to make it! Close the outer door!"
"What about the others?"
"I'm sorry! They're a lost cause! I... oh god, it's just like when we arrived... Get the one in while Duskring is distracted!"
"Okay! Closing!"
"No, wait! Another one slipped by! She's in the tunnel!"
"It's too late! It's already closing!"
"Oh no run! RUN!"
*CRUNCH**silence*
"I... don't think she made it..."
The newcomer, a dwarf by the name of TheCheeseMaker, was greeted with sympathy rather than the enthusiasm a fortress would normally bestow on a Talented Cook. He was, quite naturally, a crying, gibbering mess after having watched his party torn apart by the walking dead.
The others ushered him out of the trade depot, trying not to look at the horrific red liquid that was once a dwarf oozing down the back of the drawbridge. TheCheeseMaker thought it important to let them all know, repeatedly, that the crushed dwarf's name was Besmar Mountainwhims and she was a leatherworker.
Knowing that, of course, only made it worse.
Several weeks later,
Autumn was coming to a close with
Winter quick on it's heels...
TheCheeseMaker had recovered somewhat from the emotional shock, and had taken over cooking duties from
Logem.
Lor had cleaned up the trade depot door, but informed them sadly that the majority of the food had rotted away before they could store it. They rest of the equipment was still good, though, to everyone's relief.
Solon had carved more rock from the boulder, and
Zulban had built slabs to memorialise the dead, though carving them would yet take a few weeks more.
Zuglar had been rehabilitating
Eshtan who, in true dwarven fashion, was nearly able to walk on his own through sheer force of stubborn willpower.
Morul and
Zuglar still hadn't told anyone except Eshtan about their relationship, but that didn't mean nobody knew. Simply seeing their faces go red when they were caught looking at each other was proof enough.
Tiny sparks of happiness were lighting in the darkness of their prison, and the future seemed at least somewhat hopeful.
But fate is a cruel mistress, and she had other idea's for the brave dwarves of Bonepillar...
"Really, Uncle Urist? "Fate had other idea's"? That's the best foreshadowing you could come up with?""Don't you go picking apart my foreshadowin' you little whelp!"
"Well you could at least have given us a hint of how many dwarfs were gonna die. And also when did they name it Bonepillar? You never said.""Two! Two dwarfs are gonna die! There, I just ruined th' entire story for
everyone thanks to you, Cattan! You happy now?! All you ungrateful little dwarf larvae want to sit around and make morbid bets on whose gonna die? Be my guest! My voice is
hoarse, I'm going to go get a drink!"
"Well I
don't think it's ruined. And you didn't answer...""They named it Bonepillar when they decided "Cattansarsehole" was too hard to pronounce!"
Author
Topic: Bonepillar, lair of the undead cave beasts - Succession Fort [40.24] (Read 31948 times)