How fitting that fell winter brings another siege. I pity the goblin soldiers, masked with chill iron and driven marching in the frigid rain…
These foes hail from The Rounded Devil, a close neighbor and established enemy of our people the Sorcerous Mirrors. No doubt they marched overnight from the nearby fortress Cloudfountains.
Already we met and killed their thieves and childsnatchers. Still they do not wage open battle – they come demanding a prize, in exchange for postponement of our inevitable war.
We are no savages, and in decorum we send mayor Datan out to meet their formal request for parley.
They crave our artifact scepter.
We rankle at the thought of surrendering such a treasure, but can we really divide our attention while Erith Blockademine, one of our Seven Founders, languishes imprisoned in Oilfrill? If we refuse these savages this single prize, what will be the cost to our military might? Perhaps this would doom Erith to necromantic experiments.
We might then see him return to bear arms against us, as a Fist of Night. How painful it would be, how shameful to see him twisted into an ignorant, fragile monster.
No. We will bide our time. Let these leering fools take the scepter and imagine it theirs. We will have it back, and we will charge interest on this loan. It will cost them lives and blood, and now every strike on the anvil rings with renewed purpose. Our forest fills steadily with warsteel.
Foul fowl!! A plague of kea parrots has beset us. Somehow one managed to carry off a steel breastplate?!? I wish I’d witnessed that feat. But for now we redouble our efforts to store goods indoors, and post soldiers outside to swat dead any kea that returns.
Review of the larders reveals we have a truly decadent glut of Dwarven Syrup (due to the “nonsolid ingredient cooking bug”), so I’ve given instructions for its immediate use. It certainly is delicious and valuable, but no one can bear to eat any before it’s cooked into something.
By instructing the cooks only to take single solid ingredients at a time (from the stockpile directly in front of the kitchen), as well as using the warehouse filled with syrup to the south, I’ve managed to coordinate the production of some truly divine fruit preserves. We have hundreds of berries and pears in storage, so let us pass winter eating fruit compote and sugared nuts, along with breads and pastries from our milled flours. I note one of the cooks prepared a dish of syrup-candied leeks… let others enjoy that one.
While I was distracted with the kitchen, a discrete dwarf has provided Artobkul Tun Limar to the paltry goblin siegers. They had the grace to make their exit swiftly, no doubt noticing they were heavily outnumbered by the diligent guard we posted in the courtyard… we will honor parley as long as they do, but let us always be prepared for when they break it.
Now that the goblins are gone, we can finally prepare an expedition to rescue our great Erith Blockademine. The Tin Appearances will rally at once.
Meanwhile, our resident Snang is willing to do anything to get ahead in this world… even milk a reindeer!
The time has come to raid Oilfrill and rescue our Founder. This is the largest military action in our history! Hopefully Giantbane and her infant return together…
Our company of soldiers files solemnly over Monument Hill on the way to their ominous destination. Let us hope Fikod’s brilliant hunting ambush tactics will be applicable. However, in mind of the Autumn incident where Erith and two fellows were captured, they’ve been instructed to forego stealth, in favor of full tactical attack – this is our barefaced declaration of war.
I won’t rest with full comfort until the day we pull that tower down.
Scant days passed before Onget and company return – with promising news! The necromancers of the tower, so cunning and prepared for furtive actions, were not prepared for an all out assault. Dozens of their fragile minions fell beneath our soldiers’ assault, and NINE NECROMANCERS were ultimately slain… what a frightful nest of hornets we’ve trampled.
Our soldiers exhausted and had to return before they could search the tower for our captives. But none of them were injured – the steel did its job!
We rush drink to their lips and food to their hands – some for now, some packed for their urgent return. Before retreat, our soldiers sought every trace of light, every flame in the tower. Every voice they followed to its source. Lives and fires were extinguished one by one til the entire tower lay silent and dark, but in their exhausted state, they dared not risk a thorough search. Do our stolen fellows still live??
March at dawn… free our fellows and RAZE OILFRILL TO THE GROUND.
Our lookout were the first to shout joy. The mocking silhouette in the distance finally pitched over and shattered to earth! Next was the column of lights, torches on the night march back to our home. And finally, our soldiers return to our embrace. We count no casualties, but there is yet a clouded look to their triumphant faces. Erith was not found in the tower. None of our captives were.
I pray they fled during the attack, and yet wander the wilds. We must send a party to search for them, as soon as we can.
For now, our soldiers killed all the foes of Oilfrill at last. Returning, they bore a great many books… this concerns me. Some may be full of dark necromantic secrets. How are we to know which, without reading them? To whom will this task fall? For now, we store them in our tiny budding library, The Copper Homes.
New books:
- Before the Dwarf
- Interpretations of the Dwarves
- The Student’s Settlement
- Beyond the Mountainhome
- Discourse on the Dwarf
- After the Dwarves
- The Study of the Tower
- Concerning the Tower
- A Course on the Tower
- Useful Tower
- Against the Tower
- The Secret of the Tower
- Victory by the Tower
- Oilfrill, My Life
- Oilfrill: The Truth
- The Codex: Principles and Practice
- Master of the Obsession
And it appears the year will end as it began, with weremonster strife…
The grand dance hall I comissioned at elevation 34 has erupted in violence. A visitor by the name of Kogan Nishabras, seemingly aliased (??) as Ceru Amsanoquoh Nicastdaze, morphed into a wolfman at the full moon in the last week of Obsidian. Blood and teeth are strewn about the dance floor, as well as the still body of an innocent dog Olon…
Again we launch into meticulous review of the incident. We ask the witnesses who was wounded in the chaos, and consider exiling anyone infected. Quickly we learn that the corageous pup Olon was the first to identify and confront the threat, and fought bravely through worsening injuries, occupying the beast and alerting others. We will honor this dog with an iron statue. As the terrified dancers turned to brawling, several were wounded:
- Human Maceman – Emmun Rathegarad.
- KILLED Elf Poet – Ola Naquifaroresa.
- Goblin fallen hunter – Olin Duthnurdishmab.
A slab is comissioned for poor Ola, and I hope one of her fellow poets will write her a suitable lament. Emmun has our congratulations and consolation – as the moon wanes, he is welcome to a week in our hospital with room and board, and then his welcome will end. I cannot tell a human how to govern his new were-life, but it will not be lived here.
A strange unliving guest named Olin Guardrampart embodied his name, and helped guard our metaphorical ramparts. I don’t know what evil sorceror forced life back into his corpse, but he has used the dark and unwelcomed gift to help us. His spells of dizzying – and fierce, irony-rich bites – helped to subdue this latest weremonster.
None were comfortable around eerie Olin, even less now that his werewolf-ravaged flesh hangs loose! (Could our hospital even mend his haunted flesh?) Yet as he said before and after the attack, he came only to relax and socialize. This despite the demise of his natural life. Is death so lonely?
In honor of his valor, I am sure I’m obliged to offer him a good conversation. As the statue-smith forms iron to your brave shape, let us share our tales, Olin.