7th Sandstone 1053, Etur "Iltaran" Kibokun, Acting Overseer and PresserYou know, I’m sure when my illustrious predecessors decided to build this outside fortification, it seemed like an easy solution. A safe place to put the cows and alpacas and whatever other four legged furry beasts immigrants seem obsessed with. A supply of (shudder) water and lumber. Unfortunately the genius in question seems to have forgotten that it’s a bloody nightmare to build walls on the slopes of a volcano. Seems every time I turn around we find another way in and I have to send the Masons off to tinker with something.
Just to make my life even more interesting, our food and drink stocks were starting to dwindle. I soon discovered why. Despite our two biggest farms being devoted to Whip vines and Longland grass, we didn’t have a single quern to grind them into flour. I ordered three and set up a plump helmet farm just in case. You can never have too many plump helmets. We could use some better farmers too, but I’m not going to mention that in front of Alpha and Foundation.
We had the annual Elven caravan pull in. I carefully watched as they made their way along the mountain side. And without a care in the world, they hopped casually down onto the bridge. For several minutes I considered sending the militia to smash in those damn tree hugger’s skulls. It wasn’t fair. I’d spent months plugging Osram-cursed holes in our defences and they’d just strolled on by! They didn’t even realize why I was bashing my head against the wall!
But no, the elves weren’t the enemy this time. The enemy was the mountain. It was the mountain with it slopes and ramps that was fighting me. It was the mountain that refused to be shaped to the plan. It was the mountain laughing at me (actually that one may have been Telrunya now I think of it). But I wasn’t going to let it beat me. The Masons roofed over the bridge, sealing it from the outside. When the elves left, it was through the main entrance.
I was still laughing with glee when one of our fisherdwarves wandered out through what looked like a crack in the floor. There was a lot of screaming after that. Eventually I got the miners to cut away the slopes directly under the bridge. No, I don’t understand why that helped either, but it didn’t matter. Finally I’d secured the fortress.
Oh, Anaris traded some gems to the elves for an assortment of booze to keep us going while I was shouting abuse at the masons. And someone named Datan Rakustsarek went a little funny in the head and emerged having made a wooden earring. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but look at what she managed to fit on it!
Because of the growth in Redstaff’s population, we had an election for a mayor. Or so I’m told, because no one invited me there. Apparently I was too busy screaming at the masons. Ingish Solozmosus won, allegedly because she’s good at ‘calming people down‘ (I have other suspicions). Her Honour started by demanding better quarters as well as her own office and dining room. Evidently having been elected, she’s now too good to slum with the hoi polloi. She’s also bombarding me with demands to make crossbow bolts and not export crowns.
The big excitement though was that it looks like Indirik was right about the elves being scouts for the goblins. Soon after the elves left, one of our masons, Likot, ran into a goblin snatcher. She got scratched with a dagger, but luckily it wasn’t serious. In short succession we found four more of them. One stepped into a cage trap, while the other three managed to flee.
Afterwards I took Commander Vucar and tried to interrogate our prisoner. We didn’t get much out of him. He just flung curses at us and swore that his comrades were going to avenge him. From the ranting we worked out he’s part of a horde called Gozru Sesnum “The Hell of Tribes” and that they’re led by Estrur Xeduburar and Ngerxung Kukogar. Once it was clear he wasn’t going to tell us anything more I promised the Commander she could slice him up for practice once we set up an arena.
So far we’d been lucky, but I had a hospital set up for when that ran out. At the time it seemed like a good idea to put it roughly midway between our food storage, the gatehouse and the ponds. Some of the others pointed out this was right next to the dining hall. With hindsight, I saw their point, hearing the screams of some poor soap maker who’s been stuck full of arrows isn’t something you want while you’re eating. But what’s done is done so I reminded them that I was the Overseer and they weren’t.
It was only later that I remembered I’m not actually the Overseer of Redstaff. Had I known about the whingeing mayors and the ravening goblin hordes and the labyrinth bedrooms and the OSRAM DAMNED HOLES IN THE WALLS, I would’ve taken my chance with the draft. Still, most of those problems have been solved now. I can sit back and enjoy myself. Maybe build a few hives and a press, so we can enjoy a nice barrel of bumblebee mead.
We should have a new group of migrants arriving soon. It’s a nice day, so I think I’ll watch them from the gatehouse.
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Iltaran inspected the gigantic war dog that stood sentry in the gatehouse of Redstaff as they waited for the new arrivals. The dog had nearly become the first martyr of the fortress after attacking a goblin snatcher. A long scar made its way along the length of the body and there was a slight limp, but otherwise the mutt had escaped permanent harm.
‘Overseer?’ One of the other spectators called out.. ‘They’re coming.’ There seemed to be eight dwarves in the latest group, all adults. Starting from near the thick woods, they passed by the trio of perpetually frozen polls. Then bizarrely, continued going east, bypassing the obsidian ramp completely and heading around the side of the mountain. Watching in disbelief five levels up, the acting Overseer fought down the churning feeling in his stomach. There was nothing wrong with the defences! There couldn’t be!
When the first of the new immigrants came puffing along the side of the mountain spur towards the gatehouse entrance, it was a relief
‘Greetings friends, welcome to Angnomal!’ He declared expansively, then paused. ‘So, why didn’t you use the ramp?’
‘Ramp?’ Both sides looked at one another in utter incomprehension. The sinking feeling was back.
‘The obsidian ramp.’ Iltaran gestured to it. ‘Over there.’
‘That thing?’ The first migrant looked even more confused now. ‘You’d need wings to make it up that.’
Feeling light headed, the Overseer very slowly walked over to the edge and looked down. Looked down at the Obsidian Ramp that his predecessors had planned would to be the great entrance to Redstaff. He felt the inexplicable need to giggle. The ramp didn’t work. It was nothing but a heap of obsidian blocks leaning against the hill. He’d been so busy trying to plug leaks he’d never bothered to check.
Everything would be fine, he reassured himself. So the centrepiece of the entire gatehouse project was compromised. A project he’d spent the last eight months trying to finish. All he needed to do was get through this meeting. Then he could find a nice deserted mining tunnel and beg Osram to forgive him for whatever he did to deserve this. Yes, just put the developing catastrophe to one side for now.
‘So.’ The acting Overseer swallowed, straining to keep his voice under control. ‘What do you do for a living?’
The question hadn’t really been directed at any of the migrants in particular. Anything to change the topic would do. As fate would have it, the one who answered was an older woman with grey flecks in her hair. ‘I’m an accomplished presser.’ She declared proudly.
Iltaran screamed.
