Goden Metalfind chewed on his quill. No migrants. All year and no migrants. Visions of total disgrace consumed him. What must they think back home – a fledgling fort consumed by frivolity and leisure, forswearing the dwarven virtues of industry and avarice. He trembled at the thought. If only they could see how much we have accomplished!
“Brom-rokka rokka-brom dum biddle brakalak. Boom-rokka blam-rokka. DOOM-rokka brakalak!”
Just outside his meagre quarters some bard or another was pretending to play a thogdek, whatever that was. Goden sighed and ran his finger down the ledger. He had purchased even more musical instruments this year, against his better judgement and what do they do? Wave their arms in the air making nonsense sounds – and with a fine ulab that had cost him the better part of a thousand Urists gathering dust in the corner.
It was probably the dancers’ fault. Things really hadn’t been the same since they showed up and Goden had the sinking feeling that this annual report was the last chance to turn things around.
“Brom-rokka rokka-brom, BROM-rokka rokka-brom. BROM-rokka rokka-DOOM!”
Goden sighed and pushed the monthly reports around his little desk. There had to be a way to spin this. A way to …
Oh!
He swept the first and last months up and began poring over them. Yes, that would work! An elegant set of bookends to the narrative. Garner sympathy, yes. But also fascinate and entertain. This – this could work!
As the bards started up again, Goden began to write.
It is with a heavy hand that I recount the tragic events that befell us in our second year, dwarf reader. If sheer dwarven vigor and massive veins of ore could prevent such a sad tale, if fountains of ale and heaping piles of gemstuffs could forestall fate’s unforgiving gaze, if pure hearted dwarves sated on the finest purring maggot intestine souffle were sufficient unto the task of wrenching back the cruel clock-blades of history … but no. They cannot, could not, were not.
Listen now and hear my tale.
As the year began, mighty Unib Conjureknives and her faithful hunting dog braved the wilds of the great upstairs. Last year she had slain many fowl beasts (and quite a number of wombats, fiercer than they look) – but now she set her sights on larger game. A mighty herd of yak had come, and one by one they fell to her skilled marksmanship and her hound’s mighty jaws. Before too long, she had spent the last of her brimming quiver and returned to our cozy caves.
So it was only after replenishing her quiver, and having a little snack, and a quick nap, and a barrel of fine dwarven wine that she realised the horrible truth! Sigun, her loyal hound had leapt to attack the rest of the herd in her absence. Though no more yak would die that day, brave Sigun Claspecru sent many of their number to reel about leaving wide tracks of vomit through the wilderness. And then they trampled him to death.
He will be remembered forever. Immortalised in enduring stone like all who die here. Not that anyone else has died here, because it it really quite safe!
We have begun construction of a massive enclosed veranda, where those who trifle in the softer industries can practice their trade without fear of rain, away from the fell shadows of trees and the chittering vermin. Did I mention we have cats?
Nearby local attractions include – not being near any dirty goblins, being really far away from the nearest human villaige, and elves? I don’t even know what those are! (kidding, some of my best friends are elves!)
To the south our closest neighbor is the famed dwarven tower of Oilfrill, one of the greatest sources of knowledge in our civilisation, and an ongoing active site of research into … oh, I don’t know, but I’m sure it will be great! And definitely not dangerous!
If there is one thing that Brasslances is known for it is our copious reserves of proper dwarven libations. Our wine cellar is never dry and perhaps for that reason our rudimentary tavern (where all citizens are free to cavort in their leisure time!) has begun to attract many visitors from across the land.
This summer past, we accepted two troupes of dancers to our midst, who in the manner of their kind arrived having never discovered the secrets of clothes or of shame. The first – the Banded Wisps they called themselves – brought some curious reading material. Or at least curiously bound!
In fact, enlightening reading material like this can be found scattered on the floor all over our tavern for all to read! Culture is just something that has always come easily to us at Brasslances, I suppose.
The second troupe – The Tin Urns – also had qualities that set them apart. For one, they had a dwarven member! And … um.
Suffice to say, we have friends and temporary residents from all the many corners of this realm.
And of every job description imaginable!
In the fall we met with the dwarven merchant from our beloved homeland The Sorceress Mirrors. We found little that we could use among their wares, as we produce pretty much anything a working dwarf might need in extraordinary quantities. In honor of our guests we traded for a few of their more expensive musical instruments. No need to waste their trip. A few barrels of our finest cuisine sufficed to make it more than worth their while.
But don’t for a minute think that we haven’t hoarded our fair share of dwarven treasures, were we to have any real reason to trade them. Even just in our second year we have produced TWO artifact quality dwarven goods!
This one was even made by a Bard. Truly the land of opportunity!
And this one was made to commemorate the making of … the first one!
I guess you can say we’re a tight-knit bunch of visionaries!
“Brom-rokka rokka-brom dum biddle brakalak. Boom-rokka blam-rokka. DOOM-rokka brakalak!”
Goden sighed. What was this rubbish? He began to slowly rub the last line from his record.
“Brom-rokka rokka-brom, BROM-rokka rokka-brom. BROM-rokka rokka-DOOM!”
Goden picked up the pages he had written. Somehow he had to put in the bit about the dead baby alpaca. That would tug at the old heart-sinew. As for the rest? Well, the prose is passable at best, and yet…
It occured to Goden that it was suddenly quiet.
He was halfway to the door, when it slammed open. The dwarf in the doorway could barely speak.
“Th-the dancer! the – oh”
“This had better be good,” grumbled Goden as he pushed past the stunned farmer and into the silent tavern.
It was.