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No. 1290
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I come to you with a tale, friends
A tale of dwarf fortress.
The mountain sparkled with rare gems
The halls were carved of aluminum
(We filled our mouths with cinnamon)
Word of our rare riches reached widely
Migrants from the mountainhome mingled
And soon the great engravings of our walls
Made home to 45 souls.
Yet of iron, weapon-metal, we were poor
And our wapentake could muster merely poor things:
Copper hammers, leather armor
No fit armament for fighting-men.
We traded what we had for what was brought us
Yet still we were rich in beauty, poor in strength
And the tale of our treasure gave goblins pause.
45 dwarves had we, when the green-skins, death-dealers, came.
New migrants came in the heat of battle, yet only half of them reached our doors
Their blood spilt, joining the rivers of our own
A crimson moat that beat about our shores.
When the goblins finally withdrew from their first attack, we had but 17 dwarves:
16 migrants
And a single soul who'd been amongst our first 7
A founder, who had made his friends, and lost them there upon those battle-fields
His once-companions carrion-feed, crows' dinner.
I looked at his thoughts and preferences screen and it said he does not really care about anything anymore. Dwarf Fortress has PTSD coded into it.
He came into a strange mood shortly thereafter.
He withdrew from society and sat in his room for a season.
At the end of the season he trudged slowly up the stairs and took a leather workshop
Wherein he made his artifact:
A simple vest, plain and unadorned.
He named it "Boredmatch the Silent Monastery":
A name evocative of the silence which now filled these halls,
Our dwarvenhome where once he and his friends had walked,
Now hollowed to a handful of strangers.
My heart wept for him.
The next caravan from the mountainhome brought cold respite: iron weapons by the score, for which we traded trinkets, mugs and crafts made rich by the mountain's sparkling blood. When the goblins returned, we would be ready.
They did return.
Our sole survivor, our battle-scarred elder, his mind worn down by crushing loss, took arms and strode to meet them
and the goblins retreated before him
without exchanging blows, they left
Craven cowards, retreating beyond the edge of the map.
When they came a third time they brought crossbows.
Once again our depressed hero ventured forth, but they shot him. He fell as he walked, and lay where he'd fallen, beneath a tree, beside a pond.
The goblins left him and advanced upon the fortress.
Again and again the dwarves attempted to reach him, to bring him back inside, to nurse him to health:
He was their hero, he held their respect.
Yet each dwarf who dared met fate by goblin-bolt.
He died where he lay, he lays still where he'd fallen, beneath a tree, beside a pond.
Perhaps in some great eternal mountain-home he digs and carves alongside the many friends he lost...
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