We all bring to order the Council of Crotchety Counts. We convene on this, the 29th evening of Malachite, to discuss matters of direction and obligation within our latest imperial endeavor. As is the tradition passed down from our foredwarves, we will begin this parliament by reiterating the constitution of such meetings:
We, upper echelon of this great dwarven society, must remember that we lead through superiority and example. Remember that all mandates established by this council must acknowledge the sacred virtues of fairness, fraternity, and booze. That we, as the elite, should benefit from all mandates, knowing that our happiness and decadence will trickle down from the nobles, to the hammerdwarves, to the miners, to the miners, to the smiths, and so on until it reaches the lowly milkers and fisherdwarves.
We must remember that, as holders of Armok's most sacred blood, no noble is ever truly wrong, and therefore all council members can veto the proposals of one another. Remember that vetoes can be vetoed, vetoes of vetoes can be vetoed, and only through the great chaos of amendments, compromises, and disputes will one ideal solution emerge.
We must remember that this refined legislation is sacred law, as it passes possession to the Great Armok himself, no matter how many pages of footnotes and alterations it may amass. After the proposal goes through such a process and receives full support, the mandate becomes sacred law. To disagree with this mandate suggests great blasphemy to the God of Blood, and to disagree is to face certain excommunication.
With that in mind, we open this floor to all proposals from any and all nobles. As speaker of this chamber, I nominate myself to commence these proceedings with my own proposal:
A recorded prophecy suggested that a dwarf will be born under three aligned night sapphire. This dwarf will not become a brave warrior, or a master digger, or a wise nobledwarf. This dwarf shall become a crafter, working exclusively in bone in a workshop unlike any other. In this workshop, the crafter will create a bone goblet that will heal all sickness with a sip of ale.
Nobles, this prophecy has almost been lost to our people, but I have found the lost tablets. They are worn and nearly destroyed, but they give some details to the identity of this master crafter. The details are vague, but I believe he is within the party that we have just deployed.
Therefore, I propose we demand a room in this new fortress be devoted to this master crafter's bone goblet workshop. The workshop will be shaped in the bone crafter's sacred symbol, an equilateral triangle. Each side will be eight stones long and will be composed of one, single, uniform stone - preferably white to remind the crafter of his place in society. All walls will also be smoothed and carved. The crafterdwarf will have his own entrance to and from the fortress as well as a personal dormitory immediately above it.
It is through these exact specifications that I believe the great talent will emerge, and create an artifact capable of healing. With this proposal in mind, I open the floor to questions, proposals, and... *sigh*... vetoes.
While it would no doubt be a momentous occasion to fulfill the great prophecy, a prophecy is not something that can be forced. It will happen or not happen in its own time. To try to encourage fulfillment of a prophecy is the surest way to guarantee it not be fulfilled in our lifetimes.
Instead, I think we should strive to achieve more practical and sure ends. Instead of worrying about a single bone goblet for a sip of ale, let us concern ourselves with many kegs of wonderful dwarven beverages. While a sip of ale may cure a single dwarf, a lack of ale will bring down all dwarfkind. Let us build a surplus of ale so large that all dwarfdom would stand jealous. Let all dwarves in our mighty fortress drink to their heart's content, yet still our cellar should expand. Let us establish an industry of brewing ale that is so large, so efficient, and so rigorous that we shall never worry for lack of drink for as long as dwarves shall live in this fort.
A hefty dwarf reveals himself from the shadows of the great council room, ale dripping from his majestic beard. With but a glance from his deep, sullen eyes a hush befalls the room. Ribbons of sunlight barely penetrate the dark obsidian; the silence deafening.
Whispers become roars.
My fellow council members speak but of trinkets. Aye, I drink to my hearts content as any dwarf wishes. My snot-unicorn boned goblet sits upon my mantle as a trophy. But it is not these baubles that make a dwarf great. It is not the booze in one's cellar that makes a dwarf a legend.
No, it is the depth of one's tunnels and the depth of one's mettle which etches our memory into stone. Once a dwarf has conquered the greatest depths on the earth, it is then, only then, when they can soar with the bone eagles.
We should, nay, we must delve into the heart of the mountains. As far as the pick will take us. Carve out the greatest of halls and have the very blood of the earth illuminate it. It must be a LAVA HALL. Only then, when we are dead, and our bones and booze have turned to dust, will our majesty will live on.
Whether Bomrek's illustrious white beard is from age, hardship, or noble birthright, no dwarf knows. His dubious claims to all three are not forgotten by any as he leans forward to speak his mind. The room is an even mix of titters and respectful silence.
When we speak of plans and mandates, a distinction must be made between long and short-term. Cellars can be dug, goblets can be crafted, and ale can be brewed on week one, without conflict. Greater tasks, however, take time, and choices must be made, lest we plan for many and finish none before the wilderness takes us.
That is what weighs most heavily on my mind; the walls of our fortress will be stained with Dwarven blood before age takes any of us. This is the fate of every mountainhome. With that understanding I mandate the construction of a self-sufficient cloister, surrounded by a moat of lava, and cut off from the rest of fortress by drawbridges. In the center will be a mausoleum tower whose tip reaches to the heavens, and whose foundation lies as deep as granite. Upon the top level we shall place seven marble tombs; one for each of the original seven settlers. The lower levels will contain space for other fallen dwarves. Two will be chosen to live within the cloister, a male and a female, to tend to the dead and ensure the survival of our people after any catastrophe.
This project should take precedence over any other of equal size. We should not wait to prepare for death; it will not wait for us.
Vormok stands up and yells loudly throughout the room.
Enough! Do you people know nothing of what it means to be a dwarf? Beer and Trinkets, Halls and Preservation, these are the things of weak Dwarves who know nothing of how the world works.
It does not matter how long people know our names, or who in history shall hear the tales of our mountainhome. The only thing that matters is our devotion to the everlasting chaos that the God of Blood demands!
Armok wants bloodshed and rampant destruction!
"Armok, looking upon this decadence in disgust, will reform the world."
So it is written, so it shall be!
We need to bring forth chaos, not make fancy things for people to see or drink!
I should have my turn completed in a couple of days. I'm trying something new regarding the format of my turn, so bear with me. I hope it will be worth it.
A servant bursts into the council chamber, clutching tightly a rolled parchment.
"My lords, we have word from the expedition! This arrived minutes ago."
He passes the document to the nearest nobledwarf.
** FOR THE EYES OF THE COUNCIL ONLY **
INITIAL REPORT
EXPEDITION HAS ARRIVED AT RASHERAL SITE. INITIAL STONEDELVING HAS CONFIRMED EARLIER REPORTS - VAST RESERVES OF COPPER, SILVER AND GOLD-BEARING ORES ARE PRESENT, WITH MORE AND VARIED ORES EXPECTED IN THE DEEPEST DEPTHS.
THE BLOOD OF THE EARTH RISES FROM BELOW, BLESSING US WITH STONEFIRE FOR OUR FURNACES. PRAISE ARMOK!
MUCH OF THE LAND IS A BLASTED WASTE, AND THAT WHICH IS NOT, SUPPORTS ONLY GRASSES. AS SUCH, WE MUST RELY ON OUR GENEROUS STOCKS OF TOWER CAPS FROM THE MOUNTAINHOME UNTIL TRADE FOR WOOD IS ESTABLISHED.
OUR WOE IS INFINITE! THE MEATS WE INTENDED TO EAT ON OUR EARLY MONTHS HERE WERE NOT PROPERLY PRESERVED AND HAVE PERISHED. WE MUST FORAGE FOR SURFACE FRUITS, LIKE THE DESPISED ELVES OF THE SYLVAN GLADE. PRAY FOR US.
I HAVE INCLUDED A SKETCH OF THE SITE. MORE CORRESPONDENCE WILL FOLLOW.
The Stranger packs his long pipe full of blood grass and sets it alight. An amber glow embraces his face as he pulls a drag from the intricate bone vessel.
I have known Rodernokim for far longer than I wish. Lest you doubt his skills, he's founded some of our most successful outposts. But he requires guidance! Let us quit this bickering and begin drafting plans for our hall. Councillor Bomrek speaks truth within his madness. Let us come to terms with the fact that we must bury ourselves within the very rock, alive with the blood of the earth.
With a rap of his knuckles, a young-ling appears through the haze that now surrounds the Stranger, weighted down with scroll upon scroll of designs and arcane formulae.
My assistant has drawn up some initial designs, I pray you look them over with great haste.
My name is Thane Rodernokim, second of the name Thane. I am seventy-six years old, and I was born in a very dark age. I still remeber it, the chaos, as I'm sure many dwarves do, but fifty-one years ago, the dwarves of Urist Sobor rose above the despair and madness and carved for themselves a home in the mountains. Our king, Led Tangakudil, is very much the reason I am here today. But that is another story. Suffice to say, I am here at his command alone.
So this shall be my document, an honest recounting of events from the perspective of a reluctant leader.
My father, Thane Gethmeng, once told me that a dwarf is not judged by his words, but by his deeds. If that is the case, then I must be judged a fool. I had the perfect plan - to carry only the raw materials needed to start the colony, not even tools, and build what we needed on-site. It was a good idea, and ultimately it worked perfectly, except I paid so much attention to that plan, that I forgot to double-check the most important part of surviving in a new colony: the food. When we arrived at Rasheral, Alathsil noticed that all our barrels of meat had been poorly sealed - what was in those barrels could only be described as meat sludge.
Thankfully, our plump helmets had been properly stowed.
We quickly went about constructing a wood burner for charcoal, a furnace to smelt the ore we brought, and a forge to make tools. Within a week we had our miners picks and an axe for lumber.
Having our priorities forcibly shifted to food production above all else, we quickly dug a passage into the stone, then down into the clay below to create farms. It was an arduous process, taking weeks. The tension grew as the already meagre food supply dwindled. Foraging the surface gave us precious time to continue digging.
Eventually, we carved out farms in the clay and began growing our first crop of plump helmets.
With the threat of starvation gone, we began to think about industry. First, carpentry, of which I knew enough to count as the outpost's specialist, then masonry for furniture. Metal working would have to wait. Brewing, cooking, butchery and farm workshops were constructed.
We also built a craftsdwarves workshop and a trade depot, and set about crafting many trinkets from stone and bone, to trade with the mountainhome for food and other essentials when the trading caravans come.
With the basics of a fortress completed, more audacious plans were put into motion. In years to come, industry is expected to rely on the abundant lava in the mountain to fuel smelting and smithing operations. It was my goal to see the groundwork for this laid down during my term as leader. So, we set about tapping the very top of the volcano and sending a fountain of lava into a chamber many yards below. To my great surprise, it happened without so much as a singed eyebrow. I thank the spirit of my father for the fraction of his vast knowledge that he passed on to me.
Trade was established with the mountainhome. We traded our trinkets away for much meat and a breeding pair of buffalo, and gave the traders an impressive profit, hopefully encouraging other traders to come here.
Meanwhile, other projects continued. Space for a fine dining hall, apartments for the common dwarves, and a luxurious apartment for myself, with room for the nobles who will follow.
To my astonishment, much has been accomplished with no tragedy to speak of. This concerns me. A lack of kobold thieves during trading season may indicate a complete absence of the old enemy. And if there are no kobolds, perhaps there are no goblins either. This is the most terrifying possibility imaginable, for if there are no enemies without, then perhaps the enemy will come from within, or from below. Who can say? For now, my time is done. I pass the leadership of the fortress to another. He or she will no doubt have to wrestle with challenges unknown. I wish him or her the best of luck. Praise Armok!
I'll be away from computer from tomorrow on and I'm not sure when I come back. So ether you have to wait at least to next week for me to play or Andrew can play if he has more time.
In the interests of keeping this thing from completely derailing, I say if Andrew or Jack124 step up within the next 24 hours they can go next, otherwise it's available for whoever wants it. Next week, we'll see if Apsup is up for it, but if not we'll just go with whoever is ready.
In the interests of keeping this thing from completely derailing, I say if Andrew or Jack124 step up within the next 24 hours they can go next, otherwise it's available for whoever wants it. Next week, we'll see if Apsup is up for it, but if not we'll just go with whoever is ready.
There shouldn't be anything preventing me for playing next week so I'll take my turn after Andrew.
Comments
We, upper echelon of this great dwarven society, must remember that we lead through superiority and example. Remember that all mandates established by this council must acknowledge the sacred virtues of fairness, fraternity, and booze. That we, as the elite, should benefit from all mandates, knowing that our happiness and decadence will trickle down from the nobles, to the hammerdwarves, to the miners, to the miners, to the smiths, and so on until it reaches the lowly milkers and fisherdwarves.
We must remember that, as holders of Armok's most sacred blood, no noble is ever truly wrong, and therefore all council members can veto the proposals of one another. Remember that vetoes can be vetoed, vetoes of vetoes can be vetoed, and only through the great chaos of amendments, compromises, and disputes will one ideal solution emerge.
We must remember that this refined legislation is sacred law, as it passes possession to the Great Armok himself, no matter how many pages of footnotes and alterations it may amass. After the proposal goes through such a process and receives full support, the mandate becomes sacred law. To disagree with this mandate suggests great blasphemy to the God of Blood, and to disagree is to face certain excommunication.
With that in mind, we open this floor to all proposals from any and all nobles. As speaker of this chamber, I nominate myself to commence these proceedings with my own proposal:
A recorded prophecy suggested that a dwarf will be born under three aligned night sapphire. This dwarf will not become a brave warrior, or a master digger, or a wise nobledwarf. This dwarf shall become a crafter, working exclusively in bone in a workshop unlike any other. In this workshop, the crafter will create a bone goblet that will heal all sickness with a sip of ale.
Nobles, this prophecy has almost been lost to our people, but I have found the lost tablets. They are worn and nearly destroyed, but they give some details to the identity of this master crafter. The details are vague, but I believe he is within the party that we have just deployed.
Therefore, I propose we demand a room in this new fortress be devoted to this master crafter's bone goblet workshop. The workshop will be shaped in the bone crafter's sacred symbol, an equilateral triangle. Each side will be eight stones long and will be composed of one, single, uniform stone - preferably white to remind the crafter of his place in society. All walls will also be smoothed and carved. The crafterdwarf will have his own entrance to and from the fortress as well as a personal dormitory immediately above it.
It is through these exact specifications that I believe the great talent will emerge, and create an artifact capable of healing. With this proposal in mind, I open the floor to questions, proposals, and... *sigh*... vetoes.
Instead, I think we should strive to achieve more practical and sure ends. Instead of worrying about a single bone goblet for a sip of ale, let us concern ourselves with many kegs of wonderful dwarven beverages. While a sip of ale may cure a single dwarf, a lack of ale will bring down all dwarfkind. Let us build a surplus of ale so large that all dwarfdom would stand jealous. Let all dwarves in our mighty fortress drink to their heart's content, yet still our cellar should expand. Let us establish an industry of brewing ale that is so large, so efficient, and so rigorous that we shall never worry for lack of drink for as long as dwarves shall live in this fort.
Whispers become roars.
My fellow council members speak but of trinkets. Aye, I drink to my hearts content as any dwarf wishes. My snot-unicorn boned goblet sits upon my mantle as a trophy. But it is not these baubles that make a dwarf great. It is not the booze in one's cellar that makes a dwarf a legend.
No, it is the depth of one's tunnels and the depth of one's mettle which etches our memory into stone. Once a dwarf has conquered the greatest depths on the earth, it is then, only then, when they can soar with the bone eagles.
We should, nay, we must delve into the heart of the mountains. As far as the pick will take us. Carve out the greatest of halls and have the very blood of the earth illuminate it. It must be a LAVA HALL. Only then, when we are dead, and our bones and booze have turned to dust, will our majesty will live on.
I suggest that we ignore him and just roll some dwarfs and strike the earth. I wanna play. If Scott doesn't he doesn't have to.
When we speak of plans and mandates, a distinction must be made between long and short-term. Cellars can be dug, goblets can be crafted, and ale can be brewed on week one, without conflict. Greater tasks, however, take time, and choices must be made, lest we plan for many and finish none before the wilderness takes us.
That is what weighs most heavily on my mind; the walls of our fortress will be stained with Dwarven blood before age takes any of us. This is the fate of every mountainhome. With that understanding I mandate the construction of a self-sufficient cloister, surrounded by a moat of lava, and cut off from the rest of fortress by drawbridges. In the center will be a mausoleum tower whose tip reaches to the heavens, and whose foundation lies as deep as granite. Upon the top level we shall place seven marble tombs; one for each of the original seven settlers. The lower levels will contain space for other fallen dwarves. Two will be chosen to live within the cloister, a male and a female, to tend to the dead and ensure the survival of our people after any catastrophe.
This project should take precedence over any other of equal size. We should not wait to prepare for death; it will not wait for us.
Enough! Do you people know nothing of what it means to be a dwarf? Beer and Trinkets, Halls and Preservation, these are the things of weak Dwarves who know nothing of how the world works.
It does not matter how long people know our names, or who in history shall hear the tales of our mountainhome. The only thing that matters is our devotion to the everlasting chaos that the God of Blood demands!
Armok wants bloodshed and rampant destruction!
"Armok, looking upon this decadence in disgust, will reform the world."
So it is written, so it shall be!
We need to bring forth chaos, not make fancy things for people to see or drink!
Don't forget that blood dries.
"My lords, we have word from the expedition! This arrived minutes ago."
He passes the document to the nearest nobledwarf.
** FOR THE EYES OF THE COUNCIL ONLY **
INITIAL REPORT
EXPEDITION HAS ARRIVED AT RASHERAL SITE. INITIAL STONEDELVING HAS CONFIRMED EARLIER REPORTS - VAST RESERVES OF COPPER, SILVER AND GOLD-BEARING ORES ARE PRESENT, WITH MORE AND VARIED ORES EXPECTED IN THE DEEPEST DEPTHS.
THE BLOOD OF THE EARTH RISES FROM BELOW, BLESSING US WITH STONEFIRE FOR OUR FURNACES. PRAISE ARMOK!
MUCH OF THE LAND IS A BLASTED WASTE, AND THAT WHICH IS NOT, SUPPORTS ONLY GRASSES. AS SUCH, WE MUST RELY ON OUR GENEROUS STOCKS OF TOWER CAPS FROM THE MOUNTAINHOME UNTIL TRADE FOR WOOD IS ESTABLISHED.
OUR WOE IS INFINITE! THE MEATS WE INTENDED TO EAT ON OUR EARLY MONTHS HERE WERE NOT PROPERLY PRESERVED AND HAVE PERISHED. WE MUST FORAGE FOR SURFACE FRUITS, LIKE THE DESPISED ELVES OF THE SYLVAN GLADE. PRAY FOR US.
I HAVE INCLUDED A SKETCH OF THE SITE. MORE CORRESPONDENCE WILL FOLLOW.
YOUR SERVANT,
THANE RODERNOKIM,
EXPEDITION LEADER, OUTPOST RASHERAL
The Stranger packs his long pipe full of blood grass and sets it alight. An amber glow embraces his face as he pulls a drag from the intricate bone vessel.
I have known Rodernokim for far longer than I wish. Lest you doubt his skills, he's founded some of our most successful outposts. But he requires guidance! Let us quit this bickering and begin drafting plans for our hall. Councillor Bomrek speaks truth within his madness. Let us come to terms with the fact that we must bury ourselves within the very rock, alive with the blood of the earth.
With a rap of his knuckles, a young-ling appears through the haze that now surrounds the Stranger, weighted down with scroll upon scroll of designs and arcane formulae.
My assistant has drawn up some initial designs, I pray you look them over with great haste.
I'll have the AAR ready tomorrow or the day after.
So this shall be my document, an honest recounting of events from the perspective of a reluctant leader.
My father, Thane Gethmeng, once told me that a dwarf is not judged by his words, but by his deeds. If that is the case, then I must be judged a fool. I had the perfect plan - to carry only the raw materials needed to start the colony, not even tools, and build what we needed on-site. It was a good idea, and ultimately it worked perfectly, except I paid so much attention to that plan, that I forgot to double-check the most important part of surviving in a new colony: the food. When we arrived at Rasheral, Alathsil noticed that all our barrels of meat had been poorly sealed - what was in those barrels could only be described as meat sludge.
Thankfully, our plump helmets had been properly stowed.
We quickly went about constructing a wood burner for charcoal, a furnace to smelt the ore we brought, and a forge to make tools. Within a week we had our miners picks and an axe for lumber.
Having our priorities forcibly shifted to food production above all else, we quickly dug a passage into the stone, then down into the clay below to create farms. It was an arduous process, taking weeks. The tension grew as the already meagre food supply dwindled. Foraging the surface gave us precious time to continue digging.
Eventually, we carved out farms in the clay and began growing our first crop of plump helmets.
With the threat of starvation gone, we began to think about industry. First, carpentry, of which I knew enough to count as the outpost's specialist, then masonry for furniture. Metal working would have to wait. Brewing, cooking, butchery and farm workshops were constructed.
We also built a craftsdwarves workshop and a trade depot, and set about crafting many trinkets from stone and bone, to trade with the mountainhome for food and other essentials when the trading caravans come.
With the basics of a fortress completed, more audacious plans were put into motion. In years to come, industry is expected to rely on the abundant lava in the mountain to fuel smelting and smithing operations. It was my goal to see the groundwork for this laid down during my term as leader. So, we set about tapping the very top of the volcano and sending a fountain of lava into a chamber many yards below. To my great surprise, it happened without so much as a singed eyebrow. I thank the spirit of my father for the fraction of his vast knowledge that he passed on to me.
Trade was established with the mountainhome. We traded our trinkets away for much meat and a breeding pair of buffalo, and gave the traders an impressive profit, hopefully encouraging other traders to come here.
Meanwhile, other projects continued. Space for a fine dining hall, apartments for the common dwarves, and a luxurious apartment for myself, with room for the nobles who will follow.
To my astonishment, much has been accomplished with no tragedy to speak of. This concerns me. A lack of kobold thieves during trading season may indicate a complete absence of the old enemy. And if there are no kobolds, perhaps there are no goblins either. This is the most terrifying possibility imaginable, for if there are no enemies without, then perhaps the enemy will come from within, or from below. Who can say? For now, my time is done. I pass the leadership of the fortress to another. He or she will no doubt have to wrestle with challenges unknown. I wish him or her the best of luck. Praise Armok!