Penguingo wrote :-
Excerpt from the records of Kifino Copopamethi, High Elven Bookkeeper
We are of Earea Sheitae. The Zephyr of Pondering.
What is there to ponder?
The weak. That we may learn our strength.
The cowardly. That we may learn our courage.
The strange. That we may learn our limits.
The dwarves. Because they are so terribly odd.
We will in time know all, but must yet continue the march of learning. The least of intelligence, the narrowest viewpoint may prove vital in great understandings, and so it is with this in mind that I have engaged this study of the members of the sinkhole of Gemclod who did not accomplish great things.
I will not touch on mysteries of significance, such as how long the twice-howled defiance of the never-referenced caged ettin rang through swamp mists.
Nor can I explain the intricacies of dwarven erotic art, which deals only with group scenes of shame, guilt and dirt and clusters around areas for food consumption.
My aim is on those who lurked below the parapet and offered themselves as grist for those that ruled but may have yet left their mark on events. Those who choked their last in seething venom, whose tainted blood in turn infected great killers or hobbled great crafters. Those who wheeled into the brunt of great danger for insignificant reasons.
Those who did not take their destiny into their own hands but were, in effect, dwarfed by others.
(someone volunteer their dwarf for me to write necrologue shit about because I'm sick of my one by now and you might be too!)
Excerpt from the records of Kifino Copopamethi, High Elven Bookkeeper
Obmeiste. Healer. Saviour.
Weakling.
Forcing torn flesh together to compel riven dwarves to fight again. Dragging half-corpses on tables to enforce control of their damage. Occasional sockmaking and bricklaying.
A skulker behind bodies of others. None of the fierceness of the war-grizzlies. None of the speed of the war-cheetahs. Rather the patience of kobolds, though scouts report even this wore thin in the end.
Obmeiste on arrival, Slate 17th, 264
Obmeiste on... departure, Granite 1st, 273
This dwarf joined ranks with sett Gemclod under command of Vox Nihili on the day of Slate 17th, 264 , and pandered disgustingly immediately with bed baths and other foulness.
From here, scouts report a theme of repairing damaged dwarves in the newest dwarven fashion. Bodies are invaded and wounds removed by outside intervention, not by inner strength and bed rest as has been since time began. To her shame, Obmeiste displayed much skill in avoiding battle by ensuring others could take her place. Such was her cowardice of battle that she at times risked her demise to ensure the supply of surrogate warriors. Other times it was her skinny frame that enabled her to slip away from combat. Sometimes she displayed the vomiting illness which excuses this behaviour. Most times she did not.
The weakness of this dwarf that we must learn from is simple. It is of the creature that does not battle to secure station for itself, but panders to others to gain favourable treatment. It is why we venerate the cheetah, not the ant. The grizzly, not the
not the panda.
The creature that works with others not to display its own strength but to enable the spread of its corrupting values.
Obmeiste's god - she's only a casual worshipper, although given that she doesn't have anyone other than passing acquaintances...
The creature that when shield meets sword will not bite the face of her attacker but will meekly give in.
Obmeiste redeems herself with the manner of her death. From the manner her body was found, it is clear she battled against the doom of Gemclod with wrestling skill. Perhaps she gained this from restraining injured dwarves as their flesh was invaded with the needle and strands. Perhaps she simply learned from watching the dwarves who fell before her. She was not choked before the combat could begin and she was not swatted aside like a snowflake. She met her fate head on.
And so she died, facing that what she despised. A true death.
please don't be insulted, weakling Obmeiste! You just don't appeal to the cultural mores of a militant society who will make anyone their elder so long as they're strong!
Excerpt from the records of Futace Oninoradec, High Elven Hagiographer
Twice-legendary Astus. Shaper. Excavator.
Fanatic.
Flenser of living rock and boulder-hewer without cease. Vanguard of dwarfdom; the spear-tip splitting the skull of the world. Apparent maker of half-decent chains.
A dwarf of unique focus and dedication, even held against the standards of that myopic race. A grim determination to carve out the heart of the swamp and install the bearded forges. Wiry of body. Tough of spirit. Torn between the worship of two gods.
His untiring devotion to the hacking of stone was unquestionable.
His status as paragon of delvers was accrued with swiftness. He would erode the granite mountain before winter could pass twice. He would rend diamonds from dross before the jeweller could take up tools. He would dig through anything.
He would dig through anything.
Pulled from two directions by the whispers of his deities, Astus long ago resolved to blaze the middle trail. A steadfast refusal to heed the call of water and the call of oblivion would see him bull through all the world could place in his way.
Consequences were ignored. So long as there was rock to cleave and whispers to quiet, consequences could be ignored.
But water is cunning. Where it cannot cut through the obsidian crag, it flows around. Where it is dammed, there it abides. And the underground spring arises unexpected, if there is weakness.
The doomed evacuation of Gemclod’s herd was tipped by Astus.
adus posted:
“'We're getting there. I can feel the damp in these stones.'
'You're right. Go let Markus know, I'll finish up.'
'Sounds like a plan. Good luck, Astus'”
Alone beneath the sunless seas, close to Mishos’ seat, there is little wonder in the goddess of subtle persuasion compelling the paragon of mining to ply his craft further than would be wise.
Mishos was sated. Mondul was not. His sister was persuaded to spare the stricken miner, that Mondul might exercise his hunger.
Bene Elim posted:
You were a true miracle. You were in a narrow corridor with the flood coming down on top of you.
You floated up through three z-levels of cave lake and swam to shore before going to get some food. I'm kinda scared of your dwarf now.
The legend was broken. To his credit, he did not succumb to the dwarven condition immediately.
His clothes remained unrent and his sorrow remained within, so long as there was burrowing to be done. Nothing would quell Mondul’s whispering, however.
When Gemclod’s Doom arose, Astus was at the forefront.
Unwilling to simply cave in to his despair, he met the horror from the depths head on. He was first to fall, but not the last.
In his death he found triumph. He eluded Mondul’s grasp, dying for the sake of others rather than for the selfish, solitary reasons that would feed the Grey One.
Twice-legendary Astus. For his devotion, and his defiance.
Different elf this time! Different style, too. Less focus on weird language, more on ~storytime~. I've also tried to actually play to the in-game character a bit more. Sorry Boing, but I can't do your dwarf because she a) already has a well-established character, b) there's a shitload of children to deal with, and c) she's already had some limelight!