Let us, for a moment, envision that the end of this tale ends with the end of the glory that is Wheelrags. And let us further envision, that from this failure, we could see, in a new light, the experiences of the dwarves that struggled there. This new angle will be shed on by Urdim Botosdin "Tilerip", leading a small expedition team of dwarves from a neighboring dwarfish kingdom. Upon hearing that the entire neighboring fortress had been utterly depopulated due to a horrifically failed venture, he is send by his league to both discover what came to pass, and more importantly, return the legendary crafts of Wheelrags to their proper dwarfy home.
Urdim, of course, knows that the surface of his world is a zombie filled wasteland capable of ravaging his precious beard into bloddy tuffs. So he gathers the best group he can for the cause; four veterans of the great zombie wars of 299.
Tales of Wheelrags had reached even his corner of the DF equivalent of Hell. The great wars with less than great names, and cups paved with spikes of considerable menace.
And so the group left that day, vowing to harvest the fruits of other's labor.
Francis has alerted the horde.
The group proves to be more than a match for every single thing it comes across. The lack of tanks proves fortunate.
They arrive in a small human settlement, isolated from the world in a oasis of neutrality in a sea of malevolence. The tales that the mayor tell them are many, but of interest are the tales of Wheelrags. The mayor, being a man concerned with his own survival rather than glory, glossed over the details of glorious victories only to linger on the subject of demonic incursion.
"Home sweet home."
They quickly search out the place, landing at first into a maze of incredibly understated unimportance. There, they find the first signs of Bad News. They had already found remains of goblin and dog, but dwarfish bones are unmissable, thanks to their subtle, yet menacing spikes of dwarf bone covering them.
"Do you smell something... burning?"
On his path, happily bashing down doors, Urdim came upon a stone sword of masterful quality. It quickly proved itself to be of use, still, in the seemingly deserted halls.
Headshot.
And did I mention that I've seen bones from every sentient (and about half of the insentient) race in just the first floor? I mean, what the hell did you guys do to the caravans? Your trade depot didn't look obviously trapped. Did you just let them soak up invasions? That's not very nice. >:I
Speaking of not very nice...
Ow! Hey, I was using that!
Fortunately, the four companions stab, bash, and hug the spirit to death. In the process of loosing his eye, now Urdim is greeting the prospect of traveling with a lessened enthusiasm, marked by his laspes into unconsciousness.
Despite this, the search for artifacts and inscriptions continue. The latter quest is seemingly in utter vain, but the former turns up fruits.
Some puzzles just are not worth solving. At least not without heavy gloves.
Truly, knowledge is the greatest treasure of all! At least, that's what the maker of this crown though when he shit this brick of text. That and random misplaced ettins.
Whoa, maybe this was not a door that should have been bashed lightly. I mean, bashed strongly, but in a light manner. As in, a carefree, tho- oh fuck it. The real question is why someone would use a door instead of a floodgate to block a misappropriated mass of water. A mass, that I may remind the reader, is capable of submerging the entire fortress in around a single month's time. Fortunately for Urdim, that is someone else's problem. Or at least, it was until he broke down the door.
Oh well.
Finally, engravings!
Most of which are either boring history lessons (Urist McDwarf killed Bob Globin in 302 in the Dining Room with a Crossbow), self-congratulation masturbatory pictures of engravings of engravings, or random nonsense (Cows, Titans, Cows, Crescents, Cows, Roots, and bolts).
But there are a few gems in the mountain, so to speak. Note the titles!
A sly cheapshot at the Dwarven army?
Or just the works of a strange fetishist, with a reference to his inspiration?
A piece involving the desperation to remain short and the fight to maintain one's identity.
A work about the futility of pre-mortem depression.
Quite a lot of images of this particular dwarf in action. Probably dead now, though. Fun times.
I also noticed the theme naming of the dwarves. Not only does it look silly, but when you see legendary works carved by 'Planter' McDwarf, it's really telling of how badly things fell.
Probably the most inappropriately dirty name for a work, ever.
How would like this to be how people will forever remember you are, after you die, forgotten and unloved, a burned husk of a dwarf in your former home and present tomb?
Ominous title... especially considering the lack of engravings regarding anything the demons ever did.
Sick of history lessons, Urdim flees down a random stairway inside a noble's bedroom.
And he finds himself in the most shitty cemetery ever. Poor dead dwarves.
Heading back up, Urdim strides, and then wades, and then swims past the accomplishments of his reckless vandalism in an attempt to reach the source of the demonic invasion.
Well, there goes that route.
And so, Urdim leaves Wheelrags with the knowlage of events that passed, and more importantly, the masterwork crafts of the fine craftsdwarf, 'Craftsman'. On the way back, he meets some shady characters.
BEST NOT TAKE CHANCES
Unfortunately, the pain of the missing eye, in addition to a fresh wound from a crossbow bolt, causes Urdim to pass out. But he rests easy with the knowledge his expert, demonslaying companions will protect him even as he lays on the ground in shock.
Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
Oh shi-
TAAAAANK
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