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Author Topic: Museum III, adventure succession game (DF 0.47.05)  (Read 473217 times)

tonnot98

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I'll definitely take another turn. As fun as she was, it was feeling like there was little left to do with Fidale, so I sent her to the abyss.
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Not sure if dying of old age is an honor or a shame for weaponmasters. On the one hand, it means they never got the opportunity to die in glorious battle. On the other hand, it means nothing could beat them in glorious battle.
Meow.

Paaaad

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4 Moonstone, 754

Starting at Championvault (chosen for proximity) with a maxed out dwarf, thanks to DF Hack. Got some steel gear starting out, but not full at all. Left immediately, but I must say that I noticed the site is heavily forested still, at least to the south. Respect for nature? Just didn't need all that wood? Who knows. Well, Eric Blank I suppose, but you get the idea.

Walked to Duskhome first. Map shows it's a long, thin site, with the long axis running N-S. The bottom half of the site appears to have gone unused, except perhaps as a well-cleaned battlefield. Only saw three bolts down that way. Ïngiz Granitevision, a peasant, is standing at the gate. According to him, the ruling group is called "The Council of Guarding". A three z-level tall tunnel leads up to a raising drawbridge over a pit of Iron Spikes, with a goblin lasher just kind of chilling in it. Exploring just inside the entrance, the mayor, Lolor Whimaxes, walks by. Looking through the general bedroom area, I find the CMD, Mistêm Romancedtour. Not particularly impressed with these bedrooms by the way, these by the entrance (to the west) all seem to be 1x1 off an unsmoothed hallway, although the bedroom floors are smoothed. At least they all have a door. The Dungeon Master also introduced himself looking at my announcements, Eral Handlecrew.

I've found two rooms so far just covered in engravings, but otherwise empty, one with a bed in the entrance, the other missing one of it's two doors. Another bedroom seems to have been converted for use as the entrance to a large office or private dining hall. A second hall of bedrooms seems less finished, with a table and chair placed in one niche, and another two merged and expanded to house a Jewelers shop. To be fair, the far end does have fire clay walls instead of stone. There are three others in  the middle of the south side that are also unfinished, with no apparent reason. A small work area with masonry and carpentry work shops is to the south. A small farming area with nestboxes and plots is on the other side of the entrance corridor, connected by a small tunnel under the entrance hall. A staircase next to the well leads down to the cavern lake from which the bucket pulls, 2z deep at that point. The connecting tunnel also contains a staircase down to what appear to be mines, the top layer of which holds a number of Wood Furnaces and Smelters. Apparently this would be a good site for a salt mine- four layers of rock salt!

Spoiler: Large Image (click to show/hide)

Heading North from the drawbridge a ramp brings you down 3z to the Trade Depot, located at a four-way junction. I... Don't think I have the patience to describe the exact layout from here, but all three remaining hallways allow access to all the same rooms. This is where all the nice parts are. There's a large number of nice bedroom suites here, with significant variation in layout, along with a large dining hall overlooked by a smaller one, and what must be a nobles  bedroom above that, with fortifications for windows. A number of the hallways have engravings running down the center, and there's one spot off the large dining hall where the engravings form an uppercase Omega. One of the inhabitants is a Human "Empty One", employed as a beast hunter. As she cannot speak, her name must remain unknown for now.

Spoiler: Large Images (click to show/hide)

This is clearly a wealthy fortress, every door I've seen, apart from the less impressve area by the entrance, has been made from steel. There are a number of highly decorated guild halls and temples, along with some rooms whose purpose is unclear. Large areas are set aside for workshops, primarily in metal working. Most, if not all, rooms are multiple z-levels tall. Oddly, I can't seem to find more than one bin of weapons, and no shields.

Spoiler: Large Images (click to show/hide)

While the fortress has surely produced more than just these, I came across these four artifacts during my exploration.

Spoiler: Large Images (click to show/hide)

6 Moonstone, 754

Gor, “The Pit”, is quite simply a maze. There is just one small structure on the surface, whose door I found locked, housing a descending staircase. The main section of the labyrinth, 7-8z underground, reminds me of the dungeons you could find under keeps a while back (Are those gone, or do I just have bad luck?). Oddly, there is no evidence of any living quarters whatsoever.

Spoiler: Large Images (click to show/hide)

Near the edges and the cardinal directions are four Adamantine Pedestals, each with an artifact atop it. There is also a room whose floor is covered in Adamantine Wafers.

Spoiler: Large Images (click to show/hide)

In addition to those artifacts placed on display, I also found these just laying around.

Spoiler: Large Images (click to show/hide)

At the end of the maze, near the entry chamber but many doors away, is a downward staircase. Following it down another 39z, with a few small detours, brings you to a corridor leading to another staircase leading further down. Here is where you find the first dwarven corpse, although their livestock lays dead on the surface. Descending the next staircase requires you to pass over two more. At the bottom, a short passage leads to a base-quality Adamantine door, and part of the wall is in fact Raw Adamantine. Here lay another four bodies, two piled together. Beyond the door, a small chamber holds another downward staircase, leading down into a somewhat complex system of stairs in the spire, four more dead dwarves, and an Adamantine Pedestal holding a spear, short sword, battle axe, pick, and mace, all of at least exceptional quality, and the mace being an artifact.

Spoiler: Large Images (click to show/hide)

Descending yet further, this system of stairs seems to hold most of the fortress’s population, a full twenty corpses. In all, no fewer than 28 dwarves lost their lives here, and many of their corpses have had limbs severed, in at least one case even a tongue removed. Why? The bottom of the final stair case reveals the answer: the spire has been breached. While I encountered no Demons within the maze itself, the lowermost reaches of the fortress contain significant amounts of goblin blood, although no corpses of this type can be found, and one was found on the surface when I returned to take screenshots. Given it had a name, I can only assume it was responsible for at least some of the dead dwarves (By type it's a "Grey Specter").

Spoiler: Large Images (click to show/hide)

Further exploration of the surface before calling it good reveals a second demon, this one with a pick stuck in one wing (This one was quite difficult to kill- had to revive myself two or three times. Also, Tonnot, you killed a demon with an iron pick stuck in it's wing recently- same one?), and then a third, Kunongedor, all of different kinds. A fourth, Lushòbgedor, is another Ash Demon. After finishing revealing the surface, I call it good.

Spoiler: Large Images (click to show/hide)

The following Dwarves lost their lives at Gor: Aban Konosdatan, Dodók Kolrul, Tulon Shadmalakrul, Mistêm Dastotgasol, Ilral Kemsorudil, Udib Godentat, Ònul Keskalsosad, Nomal Sterusiden, Sibrek Ducimshin, Deler Sefolastesh, Udil Tosidbavast, Bëmbul Endokmasos, Sigun Zuglartost, Ducim Domasikal, Nish Kûbuknolêth, Ineth Rigòthizeg, “Grenda” Nugrethingish, Kel Arbanolon, Ushat Melbilshis, Cerol Sobìrkilrud, Moldath Lärimdoren, Dumat Zulbannefek, Bëmbul Borlonfikod, Rîsen Atzulasob, Erush Likotgébar, Stukos Abanrít, Ònul Idensemor, Kadol Regvutok, and Zefon Kâkdalkeskal.
« Last Edit: May 22, 2022, 02:03:11 pm by Paaaad »
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Unity! Duty! Destiny!

Does the walker chose the path, or the path the walker?

tonnot98

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Ah, seems like The Abyssal Sanctuary is just a redo of Gor, then. It was quite similar, I guess Imic just had to make another when the corruption claimed his fortress so that he could show off his ideas. Also that definitely is the same demon Fidale fought! Thankfully she had quite a few companions to take the beating for her...
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Not sure if dying of old age is an honor or a shame for weaponmasters. On the one hand, it means they never got the opportunity to die in glorious battle. On the other hand, it means nothing could beat them in glorious battle.
Meow.

Quantum Drop

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...Wow. You were really underselling Duskhome and Gor, Imic!
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I am ambushed by humans, and for a change, they do not drop dead immediately. I bash the master with my ladle, and he is propelled away. While in mid-air, he dies of old age.

Imic

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I lost many braincells making those two forts, but I had completely forgotten just how massive Gor really was. That being said, the Abyssal sanctuary is what I wanted Gor to be.

(OOC: Imic, did you make this fortress just to pass a few years? There's literally nothing happening in legends besides things dying of old age!)
Climaxringed was ultimately a mess up on my part, and in the end I didn't do much, if anything, with it besides retire it. I couldn't get rid of it though, since I hadn't organized my save files very well and I saved over my Adventurer's file with Climaxringed. I don't like leaving it there empty and useless though, and it's my responsibility for leaving it there, so I'll probably end up doing... something with it. One day, maybe.

I'm not very good at adventurer mode, as I'm sure could be extrapolated from my brief, bloody adventurer turns, so I've tried to pour everything into my Fortresses in the hopes that they'll provide something interesting for someone else to explore. I was extremely anxious that the two of them wouldn't make good standalone stories, no monsters to kill, no puzzles or complicated traps to overcome, just a maze and an attempted Moria expy without the balrog or the orcs.
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Imic's no longer allowed to vote.
Quote from: smyttysmyth
Well aren't you cheery
Quote cabinet
Regrets every choice he made and makes, including writing this here.

Quantum Drop

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It's coming up to a week without any sign of the save being picked up, and TehSapper hasn't been on since December. Should we skip, or am I being impatient (again :-X)?
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I am ambushed by humans, and for a change, they do not drop dead immediately. I bash the master with my ladle, and he is propelled away. While in mid-air, he dies of old age.

Bralbaard

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No sign of Tehsapper, go ahead and start your turn  :).
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Quantum Drop

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No sign of Tehsapper, go ahead and start your turn  :).
Understood. If it's alright, I'll pick up the save and start my turn properly (i.e.: setting off the one IRL week of gametime) tomorrow, since it's pretty late over here.

EDIT: Got the file. Will post when things go beyond the murderhobo training stage.
« Last Edit: April 12, 2021, 09:41:44 am by Quantum Drop »
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I am ambushed by humans, and for a change, they do not drop dead immediately. I bash the master with my ladle, and he is propelled away. While in mid-air, he dies of old age.

Quantum Drop

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EDIT (Long overdue): This story is quite frankly terrible in terms of writing, sheer munchkinery, and wasted potential on my part. I'd rewrite this mess if I could, but I feel doing so by this time would not be that much of a good idea. While it does have some impact on the Museum's continuity, I leave it up to you as to whether or not you will read it (except part 4. That fortress was beautiful).

Spoiler: Notable impacts (click to show/hide)

This journal is bound in metal and studded with nodules of a glassy substance. It lacks any title, beyond the trio of names etched into the cover: Irthu Bladebroken, Athama Stalkhandled, and Ragnar Ironjaw.

8th Moonstone
My name is Irthu Bladebroken, and I am writing this journal that I may recollect my travels – and (should what I fear come to pass) that proof of my efforts may be retained.

I suppose that I should start from the beginning.

I am - was - what some would call a servant, of sorts – one from a long line. My family became such centuries ago, following the fall of the Walled Dye; in exchange for safety from the ravening undead armies and the carrion-feeding Goblin hordes, we bound our service to that of a minor noble bloodline in the Realm of Silver. In every generation since then, the eldest child of our bloodline has served in the guard of our patron family, accompanying their representative on their travels to the Realm’s courts and standing in the path of any harm that may come to them.

That was my brother’s honour. He was my elder, by a matter of minutes; he had trained in the use of arms and armour of all kinds for as long as I can remember, while I was to be apprenticed to a weaponsmith serving the family. We set out together – I was there to see him take up his arms and armour, watching with pride from an alcove as my brother became one of Lord Shezpafensast’s personal guard.

It was the last time I would see him for several years. By the time my apprenticeship was complete, I had all but laid aside any chance of seeing him in the flesh again, contenting myself with the forging of arms for the scions of the court I was now honour-bound to serve – though my work was little recognised, it was something I could take pride in.

You can imagine my surprise when Lord Shezpafensast himself entered my forge and requested that I walk with him.

The young master spoke with me as we went through the halls – this was no simple courtesy call, or request for some hand-crafted item. He had gained one of the blades my master and I had worked upon previously, and believed that a trade deal could be struck with one of his fellow Lords concerning the export of these weapons. Yet this Lord was a suspicious, even paranoid one, made wary by intrigue and civil war, and desired proof that the offered weapons were as well-crafted as my Lord claimed. I was offered the chance to travel with him, and demonstrate my skill at forging such a weapon before this Lord’s court to provide irrefutable proof of the armament’s quality.

I accepted, of course. One does not simply refuse a Lord or Lady of noble blood, lest you desire significant and potentially fatal troubles in the near future. Even without that, my brother still served in his position – I would’ve been a fool to pass up an opportunity to see him again.

We set off a few days after.

We were ambushed along the way.

A splinter group of the notorious Swordgleamed criminal syndicates, paid off by some creature that wished to see the young master dead before he reached his destination – perhaps some rival among the nobility, or some creature from further afield still. I did not try to fight beside my brother and his comrades - my talents lie in weaponsmithing, not in battle - yet it was in this fight that I first tasted combat.

One of the bandits slipped past the guard, and opened the throats of three of our traders before I seized a sword from our trade goods. Thrust it through his side as he murdered another of us. It didn’t kill him, and I still bear the scars upon my chest, but it wounded him enough for his cry to draw the guards’ attention; they finished him off in short order.

Two long weeks of travel later, we had reached our destination, albeit scathed. Seven of us were dead, two wounded badly from wild animals or infected wounds – including Lord Shezpafensast.
Looking back, we were safer with the bandits trying to tear us apart. No doubt my Lord would disagree, but at least they would have the honour to stab us in the front.

It was on that first night in court that he died.

Murdered in the hospital with all bar two of his retinue. Murdered with my brother, who had stood guard over his bed that night. Murdered with my own sword, or so I learned when I was hauled in chains before the gathered nobles and law-givers of the fortress. That traitor – one my brother had fought beside – spoke for hours before the court, claiming that I had slain his comrades as they lay asleep, betrayed my oaths, murdered my Lord and my own brother out of some misguided desire for glory –

Lies, all of it!

Enough of these recollections.

From this day forth, I may no longer call myself a citizen of the Realm of Silver; within two weeks, I am to leave its borders or be struck down where I stand as a traitor and murderer. Both my master’s clan and my bloodline have publicly and formally disowned me, that their names will not be associated with this treachery.

…Yet as I was led from the court in disgrace, one of the guards slipped a tiny piece of vellum into my hands as he pulled upon my shackled wrists. My master’s house were not so blinded by the traitor’s lies as the rest of the nobility; they have given me an ultimatum, an offer of redemption to which I must cling.

I am to find an artefact, and bring it to the museum of Boltspumpkin, located far beyond the Tundra of Heroes. They are to be submitted in the name of the Shezpafensasts; a ‘gift’ from their private trophy rooms. In exchange for this, they offer me redemption. A new name, a clean slate, and a position within the house’s servants.

With me come a pair of mercenary hunters, one human and one elven, hired from this stinking hovel of a tavern. Neither has inquired as to why I travel – the promise of gold and glory (along with much of the coin I had left) was enough for them – beyond stating they will need to ‘make some preparations’ before we leave.

We set out come morning light.


13th Moonstone

We reached the Museum today – though I was… reluctant to come here empty-handed, with nothing but the clothes and pack on my back, Athama persuaded me otherwise.

‘This place is a library as much as a museum,’ I believe his words were, ‘if the location of your little prize is anywhere, it’ll be found here.’

Blunt as his manner was, he spoke the truth: the staff and residents of the Museum had quite the number of tales to tell. They spoke of fortresses controlled by obscure cults and mysterious intelligences, halls stuffed with priceless crafts and guarded by the mad souls of their former creators; of artefacts long believed lost by even the most determined adventurers; of a mad king entombed far to the north with the secrets of life and death – yet two tales among them singularly captured the attention of us all.

To the north and south, they claim, perched at the very edges of the world and guarded by foreboding mountains, two fortresses exist. Black, terrible places, guarded by the infernal creatures of Hell itself that several-score travellers had spoken of – yet in their abyssal tunnels, Adamantine is said to lie ready for the touch of an adventurer’s pick.

I know very little of that material beyond folk-tales and my master’s journals; she always believed it  to be a mere rumour, or simply some kind of steel alloy that the Dwarves had forged in their ancient fortresses, yet here stand several well-travelled adventurers and Goblins, all of whom swear upon their lives that the metal of the Divines does indeed exist, and can be found beneath those benighted places. A metal sharp enough to sever limbs at mere sight, light as featherwood yet hard as the stone of the mountains – yet one claimed to be accursed by all who have seen and mined it.

…I must admit, I am sorely tempted to seek these places and return with such a craft.

Yet with the second story that they told us, I may not need to I will need to find a second, perhaps of a less dangerous nature. To the north, where the mad Monkey King lies entombed – they claim that a Necromancer’s slab lies there, carved of the finest bronze and guarded only by dark tales and superstition. It is an artefact more than worth retrieving; though must find another to fulfil my agreement with my master’s clan, this may at least expiate some of my supposed ‘guilt’.

(large red stain; the scribbled note below appears to be from the next morning).

Note: Before we left, the Museum staff shared a small quantity of wine with the three of us – far stronger than the stuff common in the south, hence the stain above. My throat was still burning several minutes later, when one of the present staff pulled me aside and suggested that we head to the Goblin-occupied pits in the north-east before seeking the slab. Can’t say I’m all that enthusiastic about the idea of doing that.



15th Moonstone

“You were far from home, Elf.” Ragnar rumbled, looking across the fire at his elven comrade. Athama had been on edge all day, sharp-tongued when spoken to and permanently gripping his sword in a white-knuckled grip. “Far from your kind. What brought you so far from the north-lands?”

Athama’s thin, pallid face tightened sharply at that, eyes narrowing to slits. His fingers tightened on the handle of his sword for a moment before relaxing, and a tense breath hissed between his teeth before he finally spoke.

“My ‘kind’ decided they would rather go extinct than violate their precious little taboos.” The pale skin of his knuckles flushed, then went stark white as he strangled the cloth-wrapped handle of his sword. Firelight danced across the iron of the blade, reflecting off the now-melting frost that had settled on the sword. “I disagreed. They ‘invited’ me to leave.”

Ragnar let out something between  a growl and a rasping laugh in reply.

“Arrogant fools to the very last.” He scoffed, eyes narrowing to slits beneath his helmet. The massive man shook his head, one thickly-muscled hand sweeping the rag in his hand across the metal of his axe.

“Aye, and those responsible for that,” Athama scowled as he raised a thin finger, pointing to the distant, looming ziggurat of Monkeycurse. “And all his damned spawn. Just another reason to stand apart from them.”

Irthu looked up from his journal at the venom in his elven comrade’s tone, raising an eyebrow in open surprise and curiosity. Athama seemed to pick up on his unspoken question, meeting his gaze with a glare and a further hiss of breath.

“They try to fight the Undead with wooden swords, then lament how they die in droves. They send a mad ape to a Museum filled with mass-murdering creatures they so revere, then sing of the madness and cruelty of adventurers.” He arose sharply, eyes flashing beneath his copper helm and a look of horrible fury upon his scarred face. “They put their ‘harmony with nature’ above our very species’ survival and try to –”

He cut himself off, voice choking into a wordless snarl of frustration as he span upon his heel and let fly with his sword. As Athama promptly began venting his rage on the nearby trees, cursing furiously in the elven tongue, Irthu silently turned back to his diary, trying to ignore the noises of intense rage and Ragnar’s raspy laughter.

OOC: Amusingly, Elves (even when starting from Elven civs) can be set to have maximum dislike for nature. I apologise for the relative lack of substance so far; most of the past two days have been training in-game, with the real bits beginning next post.

Also, before I go any further, I’m going to have to ask for a bit of clarification: does that ‘Death is the end’ rule apply if your main adventurer purposefully dies (i.e.: by a player-controlled companion slashing their throat in tactics mode), then is immediately rezzed as an intelligent undead by said companion? Main reason I’m asking is so that I don’t cut my turn short on accident.

« Last Edit: March 27, 2022, 04:28:51 pm by Quantum Drop »
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I am ambushed by humans, and for a change, they do not drop dead immediately. I bash the master with my ladle, and he is propelled away. While in mid-air, he dies of old age.

tonnot98

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I think Nom and his companion killed each other and then revived each other as sentient dead already, so I think you're good in that regard.
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Not sure if dying of old age is an honor or a shame for weaponmasters. On the one hand, it means they never got the opportunity to die in glorious battle. On the other hand, it means nothing could beat them in glorious battle.
Meow.

Eric Blank

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I did the same with pik and desli, though technically they both were "main" adventurers.
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I make Spellcrafts!
I have no idea where anything is. I have no idea what anything does. This is not merely a madhouse designed by a madman, but a madhouse designed by many madmen, each with an intense hatred for the previous madman's unique flavour of madness.

Quantum Drop

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Sorry for the delay in posting; I would've had this out this morning if it wasn't for a family issue on my end.

28th Moonstone(?)
(Multiple pages are crusted over with cyan and red blood; the following entry is written in a different hand to the others.)

We slaked our thirst for treasure and blood on the goblin pits of Polishedghoul and Jackalriddled. Crude though their craftsmanship is, their arms and armour are some of the few sized for Athama  – Irthu and I are far too large to fit even the largest of their armour.

Truth be told, we needed little from them. Strifefularmour’s shops were more than willing to provide us weapons and a few small pieces of armour. The shields and bucklers taken from the fallen will provide at least some more protection when we move towards that accursed pyramid in the north.


2nd Opal



…I have made a terrible mistake.

In seeking the rumoured slab at this pyramid – Uklasut – I thought I would be able to expiate some of my dark reputation, and find myself at least partly redeemed.
 
I was a fool, and I fear that the realms shall pay for my folly.

Finding the slab was of no great difficulty. It lay at the limits of this accursed place, upon a patch of rain-sodden grass; a mere few steps brought me close enough to grasp its smooth sides. My treacherous eyes strayed from the grass around it, upon which I had tried to fix my gaze, and were dragged towards the infernal words inscribed upon the bronze.

In that moment of reading the slab, something possessed me momentarily. I felt, for a brief second, a freezing cold presence beside me; a feeling of intense frustration; then a sudden, terrible sense of joy, oily and cruel; a rush of power came to me, pulsing outwards as the secrets of life and death were ingrained into my mind. The scent of blood and rot struck me like a hammer-blow, pouring from Athama and Ragnar like a miasma; if I had any doubts before about what was in that ‘wine’ the Museum staff gave us, I have them no longer.

From within the pyramid, the lid of the coffin slid off. A decaying, hairless hand pawed at the air, before seizing the side of the coffin and raising its owner up with a horrid wrenching motion. Skin stretched tightly across visible bones, a blistered, blackened skeletal grin, and the loss of its former coat of hair did nothing to disguise the rising creature’s identity, nor the horror of what I had done.

Raki Umberclan the Bulbous, the Demonic Monkey King, was alive again.

The living corpse turned its face towards us, a grotesque look of satisfaction spreading across its features as the clouds parted overhead –

People say that necromancers and the living dead feel no terror. That is a lie; ‘Terror’ is the only word for the sensation in my heart at the sight of the full moon’s light shining down upon us all.
 
The first spasm seized the risen monkey, and made him into a monstrous thing, hideous and twisted. Every joint, knuckle, angle, and organ within his half-rotten body seemed to shake like a tree caught in a raging flood; his flesh made a furious twist within his body, sending grotesque ripples through the skin. One eye bulged out of the socket as his head began to change, almost falling sideways along the cheek; the other shrank so deep within that a wild crane’s beak ought not to be able to reach it. The spine erupted from his back like the back-borne fin of a fish, flesh tearing and then closing over as the monstrous being’s body continued to mutate; the bones of his fingers cracked and thickened, bursting through the flesh and changing to the shape of wickedly-hooked claws, thick as a man’s arm was broad. His mouth cracked and weirdly distorted, the cheeks peeling back as two vast, hooked tusks forced their way out through bone and flesh alike; the lower jaw snapped at the air, striking the upper a blow great enough to bite a man in half as the nose lengthened and thrashed between the tusks like a Goblin’s whip.

Fully transformed, the Weremammoth reared up, raising its elephantine head to the sky and trumpeting in blind fury. That was the sole reason we escaped: while I stood frozen in fear, Athama and Ragnar seized me by the arms and heaved backwards, pulling me away as the beast began to vent its fury on everything in sight.

…I can hardly say that I didn’t deserve that strike to the jaw that Athama gave me in the aftermath.

Nor can I say that I did not deserve the scimitar to the throat.

What happened after that, I can recall only vaguely. A shout of horror, a frantic scramble – blood, hot and thick, soaking into the soil. My vison went dark; how long for, I cannot tell. Hours, days, weeks – and then, a sudden pull.

I awoke on red-stained soil with the faces of Athama and Ragnar peering down at me – the hand of the latter crackling with necromantic power, and the former… horrified, I believe it would be, at what he had unknowingly caused.

Little more needs to be said. I feel neither anger nor sorrow at what happened there; I cannot begrudge him a moment’s madness at the sight of one of his people’s greatest sins arising again. I would return there and strike that risen monster down in a heartbeat (metaphorically, now), were it not for this strange…
barrier in my mind. Should I think of returning there, I find myself distracted, my attention fully drawn to other places, other memories – unable to focus even upon the map before me as I become lost in thought.

But now, I find myself at a crossroads. Where am I to go?

My master’s clan would never accept a creature of the night into their midst, agreement or no; much of the same may be said for most sane cultures in this world. The Realm of Silver I remain a criminal in. The Goblin pits are no place for any but those vile creatures. The Museum –

…Yes. My goal may yet remain unchanged – an artefact in exchange for shelter.


OOC: Raki didn’t actually transform - there was heavy cloud cover on the night, which might have had something to do with not triggering the transformation – but I couldn’t pass up the chance to write a WB transformation and rezz him. And yes, he is a Fell One.


Journal of Athama Stalkhandled, 7th Opal.

I lived. I died. I live again.

I do not know for sure what killed me as I slept that night.

I only know that when I awoke that fateful night, my throat had been torn wide open. Choking on my own blood, pouring gouts of it down my chest – I barely managed to stagger to my feet and gurgle a desperate, garbled cry for help before my knees gave out. Irthu was at my side in moments; I could see the horror in his eyes, and the vague sight of Ragnar, slumped and motionless, lying far from the embers of our campfire.

I would dig the details out of him later – something had attacked us as we slept, tearing open Ragnar’s throat and attempting to drag his body away for its own purposes. It had awoken him as it strayed too close, and he had managed to put it to flight only after it delivered this mortal blow to me.

In that moment, though, he set about saving my life in the only way he could – with such a serious wound, there was no other way.

My resurrection has come at a price. The dark magic which animates my flesh has changed my mind as well. The sensations of battle no longer bring my blood to run in my veins. The anger I held towards the elves of the north has grown cold. The emotions and feelings of my past life have become vague concepts, fogged memories that I can recall only from an outsider’s viewpoint.

Another time, perhaps I would have been outraged at Irthu’s actions. Perhaps I would have despaired at what I have become. Perhaps I would have accepted this as some form of karmic retribution for my actions in the past.

Perhaps I would simply have come to the conclusion I have now.

I must endure. I
will endure.

Yours,

A. Stalkhandled.



12th Opal

Archquakes was renowned for its mugs, even in the distant south of the Realm of Silver – the craftsdwarves of this place were said to be of great skill, and their trade-based links to the nearby settlements were strong ones.

Too strong, it would seem.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The sight of a score of beak dogs, pawing at the dirt-encrusted form of a finely-crafted chalk mug, was warning enough for us. We fell upon them without a word, sending limbs flying and casting an unlucky few into the air to join them. Their fellows did not notice their deaths, busying themselves with their mindless wanderings or occasional attempt to destroy one of the many articles of furniture lying around.

The inside of the fortress was no better: the ballistae overlooking the entrance tunnel were unmanned and coated with cyan smears of blood; the halls were silent beyond our footsteps, and the low growls and snarls of the beasts left to haunt this place. Beyond a dozen or more corpses and a few cave moss-covered statues in the former fortress, there were no signs of the dwarves that once inhabited this place.


Spoiler (click to show/hide)

The main stockpile, at least, provided us with some direction. As we picked our way through the dirt and sand, careful not to step on the scattered mugs and give away our presence, a quartet of trolls seemed to almost materialize from the shadows. Nostrils sniffing the air, flattened noses twitching, the four of them suddenly whipped about to face us with snarls and low bellows of rage; we wasted no time in dispatching them.

As their corpses crashed to the ground, I could not help but notice that their chests were branded – a sigil unfamiliar to me had been burnt into the fur and flesh of their torsos, as if to indicate some kind of rank or allegiance.

Athama claimed to recognise it, from when he had been willing to call himself a member of The Squeezing Fords – there had been some event which resulted in a great migration of goblins from their blighted territories. Many had settled in the forest retreats of the elves, trading their service as soldiers against their former kin in exchange for shelter, and enough of them had borne such marks that a skilled observer could trace them right back to the dark pit from which they had come from.

These beasts almost certainly were sent from The Most Sin and as coincidence would have it, their capital – and the one ultimately responsible for this assault – is only a day or two’s travel southwards.

That, then, will be our next destination.


OOC: Archquakes fell to the forces of The Most Sin on the 23rd Moonstone, 769; my adventurers arrived too late to save the last surviving dwarves of the fortress, who look to have been slain by the trolls deeper within the fortress. The site is infested with dozens of beak dogs and trolls which are (mostly) still around, so I advise any prospective fort mode reclaimers to come loaded for bear.

A moment of silence, if you will.



Okay, moment’s over. Time for payback.

15th Opal

Night had fallen over the dark fortress of Poisonuttered. There were no sentries, no guards – not a single living soul, neither troll, nor beak dog, nor goblin stirred within the towers and trenches.

Emphasis, of course, on living.

If one was to look very closely into the shadows, you might just catch sight of three hunched, dirt and dust-covered figures picking their way through the loamy clay with inordinate care. An even closer look would most likely send the viewer running in blithering panic, considering the deep wounds visible across their throats and the infernal light glowing in each of their eyes.

Athama led the way, dressed in the scavenged armour of a goblin swordsman, sword ready to strike at a moment’s notice and as close to a wary look in his eye as was possible. Irthu and Ragnar flanked him on the left and right, weapons at the ready and the bright copper of their armour smeared with dirt and the brownish crust of dried blood. Their destination lay ahead, jutting upwards from the reddish loam of the soil: a great, blunt tower carved from the darkest stone, windowless and broad, easily dwarfing the smaller towers they had passed through earlier.

The beating heart of the dark fortress lay ahead – and with it, their monstrous ruler.

The three crept through the silent halls of the structure, picking their way past the slumped, slumbering frames of goblins, trolls, and beak dogs alike; every now and then, where the bodies were too thickly pressed together to move without disturbing them, there would be a sudden halt to their movements – a sharp motion of the hand, a swipe of a sword – and then a resumption, the three undead adventurers burrowing their way ever deeper into the black heart of Poisonuttered.

There was an odd whispering in the air, Irthu could not help but note, as he dragged a troll’s bloodless body out of a stairwell door. Phantom voices crawled at the edges of his hearing; faint laughter and unintelligible whispers buzzed at the limits of his hearing. They called to mind memories of his old, mortal self, and of the irritation such noises would cause him. A sharp twitch of Athama’s hand called him back to the present, accompanied by a rather sharp, almost admonishing stare. He could feel the elf’s gaze boring into the back of his skull as they went sneaking up the staircase, the eerie whispers growing louder all the time.

The source swiftly became clear as they reached the top of the staircase.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Wreathed in smoky, half-opaque clouds of gas and clad in outsized garments, the three-eyed monster stood stock-still merely a few dozen paces from the stairs; were it not for the lazy, almost invisible blinking of its eyes or the whisper of its shifting tail, it might have been mistaken for a creature asleep upon its feet. For a moment, he could not help but wonder if such monstrous creatures even needed to sleep or dress, before dismissing it as irrelevant as his fingers closed along the bolts in his backpack.

This was a demon and it needed to be destroyed. That was what mattered, now.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Before he could whisper a command or even glance at his allies, something rushed past his head, close enough that he could see the engraving upon the surface of the projectile. A coin, of all things, was what Ragnar had chosen to open their assault with, yet its impact was unmistakable: from the towering beast’s arm there came a sickly cracking sound, the makeshift projectile impacting with enough force to tear the flesh, punching through to shatter the bone beneath.

It wheeled to face its attacker, Ragnar rising from the ash-smeared stone with his axe and shield drawn. He brandished them in open challenge, daring the great mammoth-demon to strike at him and avenge the wound he had dealt it its flesh and pride.
 
The creature needed no further justification – it rushed towards him with a long, braying cry of fury, one inhuman hand seizing up a heavily-decorated copper battle axe as it came. Though it looked tiny in the demon’s massive hand, the handle had been crudely elongated, and the blade broadened by some goblin weaponsmith, rending it nearly as tall as Ragnar himself. If it struck home, the damage would be unpleasant, to state the least.

Athama and Irthu seized their own projectiles – Irthu, an iron bolt, Athama, a silver coin – and hurled them as hard as they could, aiming for the massive, lumbering demon’s chest and leg, respectively. The creature’s knee buckled, and it pitched forwards onto its face as the bolt struck home, bone cracking as the simple projectile punched through the hair and muscle of its calf. The damage seemed to inconvenience it only mildly; in a few seconds, it was back up onto its knees and crawling forwards, bellowing nonsense and lashing its trunk back and forth in open fury.

A massive swing of its axe crashed into Ragnar’s raised shield, driving him back several steps with an involuntary grunt of exertion. It was rearing up for a second strike when Irthu reached them, iron longsword raised to strike at its exposed hand. With its attention focused solely upon his companion, the creature had allowed him to slip beneath its notice.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

There was a moment of resistance as the sword met the thick fur that covered the demon’s massive hand, then the splintering crunch of bone breaking as the slash half-turned into a slap – the thick troll-fur had turned the blade slightly, just enough to prevent the blade from cleaving fully through the bone. A slick, stinking goo sprayed from the wound as its hand spasmed open, the axe crashing to the ground a few feet away. Athama’s blow landed a second later, skimming the edge of its right arm as the beast wheeled away, eyes blazing with fury.

It shook its head from side to side, as though trying to clear its head, before lurching forwards toward Ragnar amidst another burst of noxious gas and nonsensical gibberish. It was met with a trio of strikes. Ragnar delivered a thunderous kick to its descending skull before slamming into the ground and rolling aside as Athama charged in, whirling his entire body into a slash to the against the arm; opposite him, Irthu’s blades bit into the flesh of the beast’s other arm. Chips of bone and gobbets of stinking goo flew in all directions with each blow, the three adventurers now aiming to disable the towering demon’s clumsy, flailing arms and legs.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

As the monstrous creature rushed towards Ragnar, braying in rage, Irthu let fly with his shield. Its razor-sharp teeth met hard iron with a horrendous screeching wail – and then yet another a sickly crunching noise, as vampiric strength overcame demonic flesh. Teeth broke and splintered as it reeled from the shield bash, roaring in fury and simple, blind hatred. Chips of enamel showered his face and pinged off the helmet.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

From there, the fight's end was a foregone conclusion. Its arms and legs made useless, its teeth broken and shattered, and its neck broken by repeated blows, the demon was reduced to trying to roll and shove the deadweight of its body into the attackers. It was helpless as the three of them darted about its broken form, cutting away at the limbs and tearing open new gashes in its thick, hairy hide; about the greatest hazard in the room was the increasingly slick floor, as the demon's freely-flowing goo began to form smears and pools from the force of its struggles.

Several long minutes of fighting later, the massive creature lay sprawled out across the goo-slick floor of its throne room.

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Its garb hung from its maimed body in battered, blood-stiffened shreds, breath wheezing through the remnants of its throat as Athama and Ragnar closed in for the kill. The demon’s arm fell away as the axe tore through the last remaining tendons and veins keeping it attached, followed swiftly by its head.

The three adventurers stood victorious over the broken body of the once-mighty demon lord – drenched in reeking goo and stinking of noxious gas, but triumphant and unwounded. All three twitched sharply as a sudden spike of pain burst into their heads, accompanied by a stream of nonsensical words and strange images: a pair of great black towers thrusting up through magma into smog-choked skies, a great fortress in which an even greater vein of glassy ore gleamed, a vast portal of light controlled by two vast hands – and then a name, engraving itself into the minds of all three as surely as a dwarven engraving upon stone.

Egu Craftlenses the Key of Trading.

OOC: I expected that to be a lot harder. Maybe goblin-raised Clowns are less funny/more prone to heckling than those down in the Circus? Going to drag it back to the Museum, maybe butcher it later if I survive my endgame.

17th Opal
Dragging the immense corpse of the black-haired demon from the fortress of Poisonuttered to Boltspumpkin was no easy task. Strong though we were, its sheer size made it an unwieldy burden even in its mutilated state, and it made us quite the conspicuous sight as we passed through the goblin-blighted lands near the mountains. That did not stop us, of course.

Fitting it through the door of the Museum was in itself a difficult task, and I am quite certain that we left at least a few scraps of flesh on the doorframe and wall, but we succeeded in the end. Its corpse currently lies slumped about one of the pedestals in the main hall, bar its head and part of an arm – I cannot help but wonder what the reaction of the staff will be, when they awake to the sight of such a massive beast lying slain upon their doorstep.

As my companions perused the journals and exhibits of the Museum, I recalled what the staff had said to us weeks ago: that in the far west of Orid Xem, hidden amidst the dense mountain-chains, there exists a fortress filled with crafts forged from the Divines’ metal. We can make the journey easily, and should these claims be true… yes, that would be a fitting contribution for the Museum indeed.

Our travels are not yet done.


24th Opal


For days we travelled through the mountains in the far west of the world. Frozen peak after frozen peak, bleak, featureless plateau after bleak, featureless plateau passed by as the howling winds snatched at us, to the point where I began to believe we had been sent upon a wild chase to search for a fort that never was.

We were about to turn back when Athama froze, and suddenly whipped forward into motion, seizing upon one of the crags of this mountain and hauling himself up with a mandrill’s agility. Ragnar and I exchanged a split second’s glance before following, but his lead was already showing – the two of us could barely make out the distant, fuzzy smear of his form, scrambling up the slopes amidst rattling streams of pebbles like a man possessed.

By the time we caught up to him, Athama stood at the top of one of the hills, head cocked to the side. He remained still for several long moments, seemingly ignoring the two of us, then jerked back into life, raising a long finger to point to a distant peak. There was something odd about it, he claimed – something evil. Said he was certain we’d find what we looked for there, with the dark reputation of the supposed fortress.

I will not deny a degree of initial scepticism. We had come this far without a single sign of this fortress’ existence beyond the tales of a half-mad adventurer; continuing on would be folly. But in the end, he convinced me to carry on further – if the tale was true, the artefacts there were not only priceless masterworks, but of the mythical metal known as adamantine. Few things would make a better submission to the Museum than those, would they not?

By the time we reached the peak, I could tell what he had felt: there was an odd sensation in the air, crawling at the edge of my senses, coming from deep below the ground – just like that feeling in Poisonuttered. Only a long, extensive search revealed the source – a broad, downward-sloping ramp of smoothed and hard-packed dirt, mostly covered with powdery flakes of snow. It led into a deep, twisting series of tunnels and bends, the sensation Athama had first felt growing stronger all the time as the dirt gave way to smoothed stone.

They say that nothing can surprise the undead. That might be true, but were I still alive, the sight of what lay beneath this mountain would’ve taken my breath away.

The legends were true.


OOC: I’ve reached The Abyssal Sanctuary and I legit have few words to describe this place at the moment. All I can say is oTL Imic, you really outdid damn near every other fort in the thread so far (in my opinion, at least). Pics and a proper writeup on the fort and its treasures will be coming tomorrow. I leave it to the thread and to Imic as to whether or not I should do anything to the adamantine wafers and ore there with advfort.
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I am ambushed by humans, and for a change, they do not drop dead immediately. I bash the master with my ladle, and he is propelled away. While in mid-air, he dies of old age.

Imic

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I don't personally have a problem with it provided Bralbaard doesn't have a problem with it. I mean... it's not going to do anything else there. Why not take it, and use it? It'll be fine. It's just metal after all. Whatever people say about it, it's probably superstition. It'll be fine. Besides, it'd just be a waste to leave it there. Why waste the sacrifices? The hardship? They must have been made for a reason, after all. It'll be fine.

It'll be fine.
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Imic's no longer allowed to vote.
Quote from: smyttysmyth
Well aren't you cheery
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Regrets every choice he made and makes, including writing this here.

tonnot98

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Make stylish clothing  :P
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Not sure if dying of old age is an honor or a shame for weaponmasters. On the one hand, it means they never got the opportunity to die in glorious battle. On the other hand, it means nothing could beat them in glorious battle.
Meow.

Bralbaard

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RAKI LIVES!

How could I refuse my benefactor the adamantine goods he so desires? Go ahead and take all you want  :P
( Advfort use is allowed I see no reason to complicate the rules further by making any exceptions to that)
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