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 You awaken from a terrible… not a dream or a nightmare, but a terrible lack of one. Like your consciousness had been plucked from a dark infinite emptiness and thrust back into your body. Your lazy fingers grasp your luscious white beard, and you fight to remember… Just… who are you? Where are you? Your immediate surroundings don’t help much. You’re in a tent, stuffed under an unnaturally warm blanket (a gift from my mother, so I’ll always be warm) it’s very dark (but I'm used to it) and every time you try to move from underneath the blanket, terrible cold bites at you. This is a terrible bind you’ve found yourself in, and you fumble to find your backpack. You are certain you have some rations in there, and the backpack doesn’t disappoint. Along with plenty of dried meat, and a pair of hard liquor bottles you also find some other things your backpack. 1. Choose wisely A. Your Grandfathers’ Crossbow The Mechanical Marksman, a map (it’ll show me where I’m going!), a spyglass and a red flask (a magical brew?) B. Your Grandmothers’ Shield A Mother’s Care, a large tome (what mysteries or answers may lay within?), a grappling hook and the skull of a crow (for when you’re cornered.) C. The Axe Gatecrasher (forged by my sister so I’ll return safely), a journal (this will definitely answer my questions!), two sets of manacles and a blue crystal (it will warn me when Bluecaps are near). D. The Cask Hearth-Away-From-Home (So I will never lack lager), a sealed scroll-case, a large set of knives, and a compass with three needles (they point to the gates.) E. Your Late Brother’s Helmet Steel Defiance (didn’t save my brother but it keeps me company) it seems to be snoring rather loudly. Underneath it you can see a sealed letter (I’m supposed to deliver this), some tools, a climbing kit and an iron wand (it should still have a few charges.) F. Rats, it’s white rats all the way down and through onto the floor. You were lucky that your rations were covered in steel wool, everything else has been eaten. (I guess those grapes were sour anyway) Strangely, they don't seem to be hostile to you or affected by the cold. You finish packing away your food, and start experimenting with using the blanket as a cape. It… works. The cold becomes bearable and although it doesn't keep you as warm as when you lay under it, it makes all the difference. Thank you mother. Finally feeling up to the task, you decide to take a look outside the tent.  It’s snow, all the way to the top and panic starts to set in. Did you get snowed in? How far up is it? You start digging into the snow with your bare hands and you find that the task is best executed without your mind at task. Your body seems to know what it’s doing so you are free to once again wonder… 2. Who am I? Come up with a good name. Choose wisely, there is much power in a name. Oh, and what is your gender? A. Male dwarf. B. Female dwarf. C. I’m buried under who knows how much snow, who knows where, there are other more urgent things to worry about. You break through to the surface, with blue numb fingers. With a final heave you sprawl out on top of the snow and quickly shove your fingers into the folds of your warm, warm cape. Your fingers burn from the returning sensation, but all you can do is laugh in relief as a wave of memories washes over you. Lord knows how many years ago it was, all you remember is being just a wee little shieldbiter travelling between… not towns only monsters thrive on the surface but vaults? Yes! I come from a vault! … with your father. He was doing some business with some other people, you didn’t really care about that. On the way to ... the Fume Hole, or that’s what my dad called it. “They may not know how to work metal but they know how to get you drunk!” he used to say. He taught me how to camp out in the wilderness, I was so scared the first morning when I woke up and I couldn’t see out. On the way back he trusted me enough to pack up the tent while he secured the wagon. A tear runs down your cheek as you finish packing up your tent, it’s as if you’ve gotten your father back… And just as quickly what joy the memory brought came, it vanishes. In your heart you know you have lost him but you don’t remember him dying. 3. Maybe… A. … If you take a few moments, eat a second breakfast, more will return to you. One should look within before one looks outside. B. … You should focus on finishing your journey. What may come will come. C. … You should focus on trying to return. With your memory what it is, this might be the safest option. D. … There is a nearby vault or other type of settlement. With luck this might be the easiest option.
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Oct 3, 2016 20:35
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| # ? Apr 25, 2024 17:22 |
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1,2) F: I am a Ratrosexual Dwarf 3) A.Eat more rat to recalls the memory of your father and rats. Nyaa fucked around with this message at 20:56 on Oct 3, 2016 |
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Oct 3, 2016 20:51
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Voting Triple B, and we're Mjoll Autumnhand
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Oct 3, 2016 21:21
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1. F. All is rats. This beard? Also rats. 2. B. Volga Cragmantle 3. A. Have a little palaver with our twitchy-nosed campmates over a finger or two of well-aged battlebread.
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Oct 3, 2016 21:31
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FCB We are a sentient colony of rats struggling for acceptance in a cruel world! And we have a mission. e: our name is chorus of chittering squeaks Ralith fucked around with this message at 22:00 on Oct 3, 2016 |
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Oct 3, 2016 21:49
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CCB
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Oct 3, 2016 21:56
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Ralith posted:FCB We are a sentient colony of rats struggling for acceptance in a cruel world!  Only 90s kids will get this Also, Dokter Per, this style reminds me of Banner Saga. Any relation?
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Oct 3, 2016 22:57
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Loel posted:
I've heard good things about the Banner Saga, but I don't know much about it besides the music being absolutely baller.
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Oct 3, 2016 23:44
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FBA RATS RAT FOOD RAT HELP RAT FOR THE RAT GOD.
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Oct 3, 2016 23:59
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All aboard the ratwagon. FBA
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Oct 4, 2016 02:28
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It seems safe to say at this point that our adventures will be amongst the company of rats, we do however have an exact split between: B Lady dwarf (and potential rat queen?) / C I don't have time for these labels as well as regarding our next steps. A second feast and discovering what the rats might know / B moving onwards (perhaps the rats will know the way?) Please eliminate this tiebreaker for me. But for now, I will rest. I'll see you tomorrow, different rat day, different rat time.
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Oct 4, 2016 03:22
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1: F 2: C 3: C
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Oct 4, 2016 04:03
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ECB
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Oct 4, 2016 05:24
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C to my gender choice
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Oct 4, 2016 12:55
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voting has closed with an FCB victory Update coming, probably later today.
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Oct 4, 2016 12:59
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Thankfully the rats hadn’t chewed at the harness for your packed together tent, although you find yourself forced to keep whatever rations remain on your own person. The holes in the bottom of your bag would only scatter them on the coming trek, and you fear the rats might devour what food you have left in an instant, given the chance. Your memory still hasn’t uncovered anything about your (new?) companions. “Alright little buddies, it’s time to get going.” You speak despite yourself, and climb out to the snowy wastes above. “It would be really helpful if any of you could talk back. At least I have someone to talk to.” The rats follow you through the little tunnel, curiously squeaking as they go along. While you survey the white horizons, they merely look up at you as if waiting for something. The smallest rat rests it paws on your belt buckle (I’m up to my crotch in snow, I need threshers) and smells it as you wonder how it doesn’t just sink into the snow like you and disappear. The rats’ little feet for some reason don’t seem to break through the top layer of the snow. “Yeah, I’m worried too little guy, I don’t think I’ll be able to get very far.” You pick up the tiny rat and feel just how light it is, like a baby’s conscience. “It’d be pretty nice if we got to swap places right now. I don’t know how to even get going wherever I’m supposed to be going.” The little rat runs up your arm and tugs on your cape with it’s tiny teeth. You try to get it to stop, especially since it seems to be painful to it (is it the warmth?) but whatever the little guy is trying to tell you, gives you an idea. Maybe you can try to crawl across the surface, on top of the cape/blanket! Certainly it would expose you to the elements, but as is your lower half is turning into popsicles and the speed of which you’re moving will have you camping again within eyesight of where you woke up. You squint, trying to make anything out in the bright white…  A lone tree, some hundred meters away, but it’s a tree! You might be able to get some sense for landmarks to tickle your memory. Even without an axe, you should be able to make use of some of the wood. You’ll make threshers, if you had a knife, you could maybe make shades to see better. Hopefully the rats left enough of the backpack so you can cannibalize some of it for crafting. Do I even know how to build these things? You quickly untie your cape, lay it on the snow, climb on top and start crawling towards the tree. It’s not untill you’ve reached the halfway point, that you notice that the small rat that has been on you the whole time is not as tiny as it was, the rats following you also seem to have grown larger, but fewer? You definitely feel as if there is still the same amount of rats though. You keep on stretching the cape as far as you can with your hands, and then pulling in your knees, on and on and on. By the time you reach the tree, only nine of the rats remain but they all seem to have grown to accommodate for their reduced numbers. And that’s when it happened.  “Hey, you worry too much Chorus. I know you’re a good person, you always do the right thing.” The not-quite-tiny-as-before rat on your shoulder says to you. Of course it can talk, you remember it’s name now, Nixon. “Remember why your mother knit this cape. You had just earned your first buckler..” As Nixon chirps on, the smell of iron and frostwod fills your senses and you feel pulled back to a very confusing time in your life… Puberty. **** After several years of apprenticeship under your mother, you learnt the arts of architecture, healing, ancestral worship and sensitivity. After withstanding the Four Trials of Passing you had finally earned the rank of Beltbuckle of Restoration, the lowest rank within the Restorers, and earned your first buckler. All your friends and family were very excited for you, and truly you did your best to seem excited too. But inside you were absent, behind a buckler of the soul, undergoing some changes. Hairs were growing in strange places, the silky white beard had begun to grow some time prior and certainly wasn’t unusual at all. But similar white hairs were growing in other places, sometimes in thick swatches. Your limbs often felt painful and weird, and seemed to be extending in strange ways. And to top it all off, every time you saw a certain little rat, you felt very funny insid and you could feel your body reacting to it. A torrent of desire, no need, to possess the rat. You couldn’t tell anyone about this! Even within the arts of sensitivity, some things are just wrong. Rats are filth and plaguebearers. Yet you just wanted to hug and kiss it on it’s tiny head! You certainly couldn’t tell your mother, and father was usually travelling (I hadn’t lost him yet.) It was a pain you packed away deep underneath your buckler. You did what you could to keep your little companion, Nixon you had begun calling him, safe and fed. You had even carved him a little house in your wall, that was hidden beneath your bed. After the Buckling ceremony when you returned home, with a wheelbarrow of presents from your friends, Nixon was nowhere to be found. You checked his little house, and much to your dismay somehow Nixon had broken through to the other side of the wall. Had he left you? Deserted you? The wall seemed to separate from a hallway, so you leapt out the door, shooting past your parents who seemed very puzzled, but you were a beltbuckle now. Nixon was nowhere to be seen, it was late in the day so there were hardly any other dwarves around. Cold sweat starts running down your back, you shut your eyes tight and fight back tears. And you pray to your ancestors. “Why do I feel this way? Am I an Aberration? Are rats truly such vile creatures? Am I not supposed to have Nixon? Please send me a sign.” There is complete silence, then the sound of a cat jumping on something. You run towards the sound, tears now freeflowing down your cheek and as you turn the corner you see a saucer eyed brown cat carrying Nixon in it’s mouth. “Bad kitty! Bad!” You scream at it, and it starts running, still carrying your tiny little rat baby in it’s mouth. You just run, your lungs are burning, your mouth tastes like iron but you don’t stop. You keep that brown tail in sight at all times, all the way to the large stone vault doors. There’s a small crack in it, and it is all the cat needs to get through. You scream, and the vault guards try to calm you down. “Hey calm down kid, your cat’s going to be fine. It’ll come back once it gets a taste of winter. “It’s not fine!” You scream back, “he’s never been outside before!” The guard puts a hand on your shoulder. “No opening the vault after closing hours, I’m sorry kid.” You crumble underneath his words and swallow hard. “I understand.” You sob, wait a moment for the guard to look away and then you snatch his axe and throw it at the opening mechanism, severing a rope and dropping a large load to open the doors. You’re running for the door before the guards even have a chance to react. You wade into the snow, head first, and you try to swim through it. The two guards just bicker between themselves over who should have to go after you, while you keep threshing, finally seeing something like it might be paw prints. Your hands, face and even your toes are burning from the frost and the snow, you don’t even feel when you grab the cat and more by accident than skill, snatch him out of the snow. He coughs out Nixon, who fall limps into the snow, and scampers off back towards the Vault. Icicles form on your beard, and sharp ice keeps you from being able to open your eyes, you just scoop up tiny Nixon and pray with everything your heart has in it to save your little angel. He coughs “thank you Chorus.” And then you passed out. By some strange act of fate or luck, you collapsed on top of a traveller from a nearby Vault, saving him from certain death. You never got into trouble over what usually would be considered a capital crime but instead earned a reputation of having the Gift of Sight. *** “... and that’s why we need to get to Bronzeville. There have been ominous happenings there. They need someone with the Gift.” Nixon finishes and, you do believe he is smiling. While Nixon was helping your memory, you climbed to the top of the tree, hoping to gain some sort of better perspective. A storm has picked up, and you have no such luck. Without much more to do, you decide to wait to see if the weather changes. The rats don’t seem to be afraid of heights at all, as the other eight have all followed you up, each sitting on it’s separate branch. Like an Elders’ Circle.  “Chorus, you should not be too quick to trust, as do you truly remember these things or do you merely want to? The mind is a treacherous creature, and it may lead you astray.” The rat now speaking, seems both wise and sly. (Her name is Bailey) “I can promise you that all of these rats will try to tell you a different tale, tales that seem real to you and will tickle the absence of memories. We are rats, in the end we are all but self serving vermin. But I know my place, and the way of the world.” Something in her words scratches at the back of your mind. “What do you mean by the way of the world?” You mean to ask out loud, but the words come silent from your lips as your gut clenches. *** You had taken your very first steps into adulthood, and had been granted your own hovel. During the day, you studied the law, and in the evenings you would stay up at Brimley’s Hooch-Hole with your classmates. After a few pints, you and your rival Saevar Silverspoon could almost be depended upon to go head to head in a battle of words, throwing mocking poems back and forth. One particular evening however, the hooch was stronger so the language as well became stronger and you became the one to step over the very thin line of ancestral respect. Saevar sits without sitting Sparing his sore bum Father, father so ill fitting Fills his son with cum. The poem was not met with the typical laughter, but a stunned, sobering silence. And before you knew it Saevar had resorted to violence. His fists were heavy and brought you down quick, you had never been a violent person. You resolved your issues with words, but this time you had no choice. No one was going to help you, you broke the social contract. This was your punishment. You had to stay in bed for a whole week just to recover from your wounds and no charges were ever brought up against him. The following weeks were difficult, the rivalry had turned sour and unlike you Saevar actually did have friends, not just acquaintances. You stopped going to the Hooch-hole, in class you were often tripped. You began hearing false rumours that cut at your honour, not just around class but at the grocers as well. A month after the incident your father was removed from his station as caravan leader. The name had been tarnished, friday night dinners became tense affairs, and week by week your father got worse and worse at hiding his budding drinking problem. Three months after the incident, your father was found dead outside the vault. The official story was that he had drunk his wits away and ended his own life. You blamed yourself. Months passed, and honestly, you just needed a drink to desensitize yourself. Going to the Hooch-Hole, you did your best to give Saevar as wide a berth as you could, but he still seemed to have a bone to pick with you. Taunts about your thin ratty beard, stupidity and “if someone with your history should really be in here.” He danced on the line while you sat silent, fists clenched and ale going flat. When it became apparent that he wasn’t getting through to you, he leaned in close and delivered a devastating whisper. “Wasn’t hard getting my dad to get your dad fired, must’ve had a weak beard like his kid.” You smashed your goblet on his stupid infuriating face, climbed on top of him, postured to strike when hands pulled you off Saevar and onto the table. No one had heard his words, there was no proof or testimony to benefit you, as if no crime had been committed. You were thrown out into the halls where Saevar and his friends followed. They didn’t let you get up, no one interfered (is my name so worthless?), they just took turns kicking you until you couldn’t move anymore. You spent another week bedridden, clasping your father’s first buckler close to your chest. It hadn’t been you who murdered him with your careless words, it had been your rival with a surgical strike straight to the heart of your family. You could barely keep up with studies at this point, any further interruption could cost you your whole academic career. It was truly a desperate time, you had to end this. A plan began to form, if your opponent knew how to play the rules better and was stronger, you would have to surprise him, with superior force. Something you personally were seriously lacking in. During the day, you grit your teeth and keep on with your studies, but at night you work at your revenge in secret. First, you secured a rat from the Roads Below and spent hours and nights getting it to just stop biting you. Somehow you succeeded, even surprising yourself and soon after you began training it to do little task. Then little tasks in different rooms. Moving things, replacing things. Twice it manages to run away, both times you catch it again and continue your training. Eventually it stops even trying to get away from you. You finally know you are ready, and with ultimate filial tenderness you stroke your father’s first buckler and give it to… possibly your first friend. A friend deserves a name, Bailey. Once you reported a family heirloom stolen, the whole campus was put under lockdown. Your name may not mean anything anymore, but the crime is not against a worthless muckraker (is that what I am?), but a dwarven ancestor. Bailey performed her mission perfectly, and you watched as guards went into Saevar’s private chambers only to return a few minutes later holding onto your father’s buckler and with Saevar in chains. All he said was “you’ve grown accustomed to the ways of the world” before being dragged away. Later you learned that not only had Saevar been kicked out of Law school, but his connection to magic was irrevocably severed (he might abuse the power of the law, heh) before being exiled to the wastes forever more. With his banishment you also gained a reputation, for your rivalry was common knowledge and you had been considered to have been utterly defeated before you pulled the ultimate turnabout. Sure the rumours all circled around how you deviously taunted him into breaking the law, but the words were no longer laced with disgust but fear and awe. (I learned that perception is everything. Even to the law.) You became known for your talent in the ways of the Law and Wordcraft. *** “The Strong-in-the-Heads and Dustbeards are having disagreements in the reclaimed vault of Sir Tain’s Rest, the local government has requested you to mediate what might turn to bloodshed.” Bailey says, once you return to the present. You only nod, pondering if revenge ever grants a sweeter treat than a hollow thrill. This will be a way longer update than I had anticipated, I will hopefully manage to get to a big choice before the weekend.
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Oct 4, 2016 22:37
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 this got good really faste: Ask Bailey: If you are self serving, what do you expect to gain by sowing distrust? Ralith fucked around with this message at 23:10 on Oct 4, 2016 |
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Oct 4, 2016 22:58
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Ralith posted:Ask Bailey: If you are self serving, what do you expect to gain by sowing distrust? You do believe she smiles. "Oh. It is a question I should have expected from you, dear Chorus. I want to survive. Where will I be if you make a fatal mistake? I'll only be able to eat 'till your body turns cold and solid, then what? My fate is in your hands. Not only your life rests on your judgement."
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Oct 4, 2016 23:16
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Oh, this is wonderful. Loving the dwarf politics and rat friends.
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Oct 5, 2016 05:27
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I was a bit leery of the choice to get rats at first, but seems it turned out great.
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Oct 5, 2016 15:41
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Bailey, that goes both ways, you better hope I can stay fed, little friend.
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Oct 5, 2016 18:35
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Outrail posted:Bailey, that goes both ways, you better hope I can stay fed, little friend. "I assure you, friend. You have more than enough to get us to Sir Tain's Rest."
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Oct 5, 2016 23:23
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 “That’s cool. Very heroic.” The most timid rat says (I... remember them, but not their name.) “Let’s be honest, we all want to be superstars and hot shots. But guess what? The people that do the real work, the ones that make the real difference. You don’t hear about them in the songs or the poems. I’m talking about the day-in, day-outers, the grinders. Come on dwarf, you know who.” You purse your lips, and smile with prides. “I do. What is your name, friend?” “Ratford, works as well as any other.” He scampers over to you, “look my name’s not what’s important. It’s your work, a lot relies on you and there ain’t going to be no other chump getting it done.” *** You got the position of vault vermin handler some years ago. It’s not a big honor in most dwarven eyes, but to you it is! You’ve been fascinated by rats your whole life. They share many of the same traits as dwarves, they enjoy dark places, have a sense of community and you do believe you’ve even seen signs of ancestral feuds. Certainly your best friend Saevar (worked in sanitation and sure smelled like it) was surprised by your interest, with you coming from the clergy, but was supportive. It was him that got you in the door with his boss, and from there you got to see the overseer. It was simple really, your study of rats had given you some insight into their societal structures, needs and desires. In some ways you felt akin to them, but certainly that came from an academic interest in the subject. You were absolutely certain that you could establish an understanding with the rats, to leave the crops alone and in return some concessions would be made. Food leftovers from homes could be donated to the furry little creatures as an incentive, perhaps some bad batches of hooch or mead. The crops could also benefit from this arrangement, by asking the rats to use the crops as their personal toilets. It is far above dwarven dignity to do one’s duty so close to food others might consume, so more of the nutrients would return back to the crops and should return increased agricultural output. The hard part would be to get the overseer, and then the two largest clans to accept a truce or an agreement with the rats. You would have to prove it, perhaps with a model to test the theory. Getting together with Saevar and his boss, Hilda Filthbeard (her beard was always clean, it was the language) you found a small offshoot colony in the lower levels, under the Palmspear clan. Initial probing was met with disinterest at best or as Hilda put it “they think you’ve shat your loving brain out.” A minor setback. As part of your research, you had established very basic means of communication with a rat-clan you had lovingly named the Cheese-snatchers. You had an agreement with them to guard your private quarters while you were away, catch insects and leave your food alone. In return they got cheese daily, and on sundays (I’d only seen the sun on that trip with my father) you shared with them red wine and fine cheeses. Somehow fate decided to intervene and you had a break in during one of those late meetings at the sanitation department. When you got home the would-be burglar lay dead on the floor, his face eaten off. The corpse wasn’t identified until the day after, when a missing person’s report was filed. No small feat in a closed community. You were clear of any charges, as this could certainly be considered protecting your home, but there were concerns about the safety of your neighbours and health reasons. Backed into a corner, with your work you did what you could to keep it going. You sent the Cheesesnatchers down to the Palmspears. The rats had grown large and strong, with expensive appetites, within a week Berglind Palmspear herself was beating down your front door, singing a very different tune. There’s not much to say about the work, you did it, worked long hours over more than a year, solved some age old rat-feuds. Taught the Palmspears to see the inherent dwarveness in their new friends, as you kept them in the loop every step of the way. Explaining the plan as necessary. Come harvest time, the Palmspear’s reported a two tenth increase from the pre-rat-feces crops. You felt six feet tall as you walked into the overseer’s office and presented her with the data, she couldn’t argue with it. Berglind’s bragging in the Elder’s Circle had also lowered the resistance of the largest clans and soon you took on the most rewarding task of your life. Finding a new, increased balance, enrichening your whole society. Ofcourse you made sure that your coffers be filled, you are a dwarf after all. Your increased wealth also established the Autumnhand clan as the third most significant clan in the vault, though it’s not something you’re interested in. You leave the Elder’s circle stuff to your mother, you know...  You got enough of that at work. *** “We’ve been going for a week, we should get to the Winterhalls. Their rat situation is out of control, so you got a lot of work ahead of you.” Ratford finishes and scrambles back to his branch. “I’m done, hear these other suckers out.”  A very excitable rat runs up to you, and rests it paws on you and then chases it’s tail for a few seconds. You find her (Jester) behaviour very calming. If this little creature can find time to goof off, how bad can things be? “Remember, laughing?” She squeaks. “Remember who had the nicest laugh?” You can’t help but smiling. “Yeah, Hilda did.” “Remember falling in love?” You don’t. Not at all, but you can’t help but laugh. *** Bjorn’s Boozehall, the only place in the vault where one could meet up with others and just drink! Of course you were there, every night since you became a beltbuckle of wordplay. That’s the life of an entertainer for you, you’d made it all the way to ironguard when Hilda first walked in through the door. Your routine was the same most nights, you’d recount the tale of Jarnhildr Shieldsplitter and her struggles in the wild, with some new twists every night and then proceeded into ribbing the usual suspects. “Berglind, love the chin, are you old enough to be here? Harald’s drinking everyone, must’ve found some treasure on the Road Below.” But that night, you were distracted, a pretty young thing with a braided beard and the purest laughter. It was absolutely intoxicating. Your break was coming up, and Jester sat patiently in the rafters waiting for his cue to entertain. Not now, you had to get more of that nectar. You gave Jester a sign and began recounting the living history of overseer Saevar, who had developed a habit of smoking light crystals, gotten figuratively in bed with unsavory types and eventually caught in bed with a bluecap and thus exiled. You really put it on thick, way too thick and the usual suspects are dead silent. Somehow you give a stillbirth after stillbirth of jokes, but for some inexplicable reason, the lass with the braided beard keeps laughing. Halfway through the story you realize that you’ve gone too far, and just hope that it becomes funny to the rest of the audience. The Griffon effect as you say in the trade. It doesn’t happen, and you stumble off the stage, shaking. You think to yourself what am I doing? (I’m again asking myself that question.) Securing the ground for the largest ovation Jester’s ever gotten, and she hadn’t even done anything yet. You hadn’t bombed this hard since you were a beltbuckle. How were you going to go back out there and speak!? Drunk of course, you’re a dwarf. You put on a small glamer, in hopes that people won’t recognize you out in the Boozehall, and make way straight for the bar. Bjorn was working, as always (he never puts his name on anything he isn’t 100% behind. All of his kids are bastards.) Bjorn slams a mug full of mead, almost as heavy as his brows, in front of you. “This better improve whatever performance that was.” “If I had a silver every time I-” “I’m serious Chorus. You don’t want me to be relieved when there’s a rat on my stage.” You swallow hard, before taking a sip of the drink. It’s reinforced, so you know Bjorn is serious about this. Normally you would make light of the situation, find an upside, but there’s no pleasing the guy at this point unless you fabricate some chuckles when you get back on stage. You try to finish your drink without drawing any further attention to yourself. It’s about as successful as your jokes, as the dwarf in question that’s brought you off your game has not only recognized you but rapidly approaches with an empty mug in her hand. “You were so funny! Oh my gramps! I love your jokes.” She puts her mug on the bar and motions for another drink, and one for you as well. “Well, that’s why I do it, I love to make people laugh.” You smile and are very thankful that your glamer should at least hide this mixture of exhilaration and shame. Getting more drunk would have the same effect most likely, or at least should help, so you suddenly become much more thirsty. “I’m Hilda,” she puts a hand on your shoulder. “I’ve never been here before, are people usually this sour? They only really seemed to like when they were making fun of them.” You really wish she would just go away at this point, so you can disappear into your glass. “These yokes? They’re more cats than dwarves. Just look at them, sitting there, sipping their drinks while they watch a rat run in circles. Whatever beards they had are just for show now.” She laughs again and grabs you to steady herself. “Wow, it’s like there’s no turning you off. You’re funny!” She boops you on the nose. For a moment you believe her eyes even sparkle. You really have to get out of here. “I better go prepare my set then, so I won’t disappoint.” Your smile is no longer recognizable as humanoid, the mirror tells you. You bolt with the two drinks backstage, put them down on a table, step into the bathroom, close the door and smack yourself around until you feel remotely in touch again. It helps, you down your two large drinks like water and give Jester the sign that you are ready to get back on again. You don’t remember a single word you said on stage, all you know is that this time you absolutely kill. Once your shift ends you have a couple of drinks with Jester backstage, you talk a great deal. Mostly about you bombing, the girl (that’s really all she was) and how Jester manages to keep those savages occupied. “I’m cute.” She answers, settling that. When Bjorn finally kicks you out, Hilda is waiting outside, her nose and cheeks red, most likely from the alcohol. (Of course, oh no, oh no.) She seems like a pleasant enough lass, and you don’t have it in you to poo poo on a fan, but you are very drunk and you really need to pee and you’ve done this far too often to get slapped with an indecent exposure charge. So you take the path of least resistance, Hilda follows you home and when you run in to get to your bathroom you leave the door open and she invites herself in. When you get off the can, she has lounged herself on your sofa, her chainmail resting on the floor. You can really see just how hairy her bosom is. Like a light fur. “Listen, you seem like a really nice uh… young lady but I have work tomorrow and I really don’t feel like doing this.” You do your best not to see anymore than you have seen. “But Chorus,” you can hear her eyes fill with tears. “Don’t you remember falling in love?” “Listen lady, I don’t even remember my set.” *** “Not my proudest moment in hindsight.” You say and fight smiling. Jester lifts her shoulders. “If that’s your worst, you can’t be that bad.”  “What’s wrong with being bad?” The largest rat speaks (Biter.) He breaks a small piece off his branch, examines it for a while and then throws it away. “Are you going to tell me that given the choice, you would not be a bad rear end motherfucker?” “That is a rather simplistic view of being bad.” You ponder. “Is it any simpler than thinking civilization benefits anyone but those on the top? Tell me Chorus, from what clan does the overseer come from?” It hardly seems worthy of replying. It’s always the richest dwarves on top, and they just keep getting richer on the backs of chumps. Am I a chump? *** Two years ago, you and your father were scoping a job. You’d both signed on as caravan guards at ol’ Berglind’s hoochwagon. Ever since your dad took you on a job as a little shieldbiter, the two of you have worked closely together. The Autumnhand isn’t a wealthy clan, and if there’s anything you’ve ever learned from him is that a poor dwarf never got rich from working hard. You got rich from working smart, and that caravan gig was definitely not an egghead job. It was merely a way to get between places without raising suspicions. This particular time, you had your eye on the home of an old brewer, old enough to work from home but not too old to stay outside the realm of politics. Some solid info you’d gotten from a travelling gleeman a couple of weeks ago. The window of time you had to prep were but two day, when the next Elder Circle was held, and then you’d have to lay low and not get caught for another two days when the caravan left. “Cool heads, kid.” Your father would say. Your main task was to just find a safe place to stash whatever you got, while your father had the very enjoyable task of seducing the brewers staff and pumping (dad would move his hips) them for info, keys or a way in. As the short amount of time dragged on, you became increasingly frustrated by your very dull yet difficult task. The vault seemed to have more guards than cockroaches. You hadn’t seen your father either, and no matter how little progress he may have made, he would really chew your rear end out for not having found a stash-place. You didn’t go stay at the inn the first night, instead you scoured the halls for any place that might work. At some point, you passed out deep in the lower levels. You woke up to a sharp pain on your feet, it took you a few moments just to manage to move your body. Sharp pain and soft fur wherever you moved, when you finally manage to awaken your senses all you can see is dark, fat, rats chomping on you. Several toes have been bitten off and you bleed from most places on your body. You scream and fight, scream some more and start biting back. You’re locked in a mortal battle with these vermin for maybe an hour? You don’t know, but no one comes to help you. Soaked in blood, sitting in a pile of rat corpses across from what you believe to have been the rat boss, you hear a voice from somewhere out in the halls.. “Finally some quiet! The sanitation better clean this mess up, I am going to flip if this place is going to stink up from corpses too.” In that moment, you held not just whatever dwarf that was in ultimate contempt but all dwarvenkind. Those rats may have almost killed you, but they had at least had each other. You try to stand up, but find that you have gotten too weak. Looking at the rat across from you, with not a scratch on it, you reach your hand out. “Truce?” The rat nods and scampers closer, it seems to be sizing you up. If you were in it’s position, you wouldn’t hesitate to slit your throat while you had the chance. The rat didn’t move however, it just seemed to smile and asked “how much do you want to live?” You strained to try to get back to your feet, unsuccessfully. All you could do was scream in frustation. The shouts from outside started up again “For gently caress’s sake! Just let the rats eat you, you bastard.” The rat just laughed at you. “You killed my family, dwarf. I’ve been wronged, the way I see it I have every right to use your face as my personal toilet till you choke on my turds. By the looks of it, you wouldn’t be able to do a single thing to stop me either. So let’s try this again, how much do you want to live?” “What the gently caress do you want? What are you waiting for?” The rat runs towards you, staying just out of reach from your hands. “I had a pretty good thing going before you came here and killed everyone I know. What do you think?” “Revenge?” You spit out blood. “You don’t seem very torn up about this whole thing though.” “You owe me, dwarf. Do you honour your debts?” “Sure. Yes.” The rat scampers closer, clearly agitated. “Don’t taunt me, dwarf.” You dive for the rat and snatch it in your hand, shouting a very satisfied “got you!” You move to smush it on the ground, but when your hand connects, the rat has squeezed itself from your grip, up your arm and into your beard. The rat is much stronger than you’d given it any credit to be. It starts chewing on your lower lip and no matter how much you fight, you just can’t get it off you. It just laughs more and more until your body completely gives up. This rat has bested you in every way. “Please,” you weep, “just let me live and I’ll do anything you want, just stop.” “If I save you, you will owe me your life as well. Are we in agreement?” “Yes!” The rat smiles and pats you on the cheek. “Good dwarf.” It scampers off into a dark corner and returns, dragging a vial with a green bubbling liquid. “Drink this.” You do as it commands, the potion tastes like bile and more pain wracks your body. You writhe on the floor for a few moments and then the pain stops, all of it. You feel for your toes, though some are still missing, it feels as if what wounds you had have closed. The rat had earned your respect, so you took your promise to it as seriously as one made upon the name of an ancestor. A day after you and your father pulled off your heist, your father was caught with a ring you were certain you had stashed in the rathole. The moment you saw the ring, you knew your first debt to the rat had been paid. To the best of your knowledge your father still works back breaking labour in the depths of that vault. *** “We’re going back, Chorus. You get to get your father and as much gold as you can carry, but I want the vault. I want to sit in the overseer’s seat and watch those dwarfs grovel. You do that for me, and we’re even. No more debt.” You feel a strange tingling sensation in your boot. “I can easily tell right now if you are lying or not, Biter. I can just take off this boot and search for lost toes.” Biter just smiles. “In this weather, you’ll be lucky to have any toes remaining.” We are about half way through this rat-tacular spectacular. Feel free to keep on asking the rats questions.
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Oct 6, 2016 01:07
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That's a hell of a memory lane. And then I remember we voted for memory lane. Great job. 
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Oct 6, 2016 02:27
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 This is really pretty great. I am inordinately pleased to have contributed to this outcome. I wonder what our full name is, and what the story behind it is? If we are indeed a dwarf, my complete suggestion would be pretty weird.These stories don't quite line up into a consistent life, though they might yet. I wonder how old we are. Doktor Per posted:“We’re going back, Chorus. You get to get your father and as much gold as you can carry, but I want the vault. I want to sit in the overseer’s seat and watch those dwarfs grovel. You do that for me, and we’re even. No more debt.” I wonder if anyone's going to have insight on what happened to our memories. Ralith fucked around with this message at 08:19 on Oct 6, 2016 |
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Oct 6, 2016 08:12
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Sometimes some hairy poo poo goes down, and you've got to distribute your shattered psyche to a gestalt ratmass for safekeeping. Just one of those things, you know?
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Oct 6, 2016 13:03
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Wait, I thought our father was dead. wtf is going on?
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Oct 7, 2016 20:16
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Outrail posted:Wait, I thought our father was dead. wtf is going on?
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Oct 7, 2016 21:45
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As much as this palavar has dragged on, far beyond your expectations, you feel as if the day itself has not become any shorter. However your stomach does not follow the same logic, with every rat-tale, you become hungrier and hungrier. Oh, you’ve thought of snacking on your rations, but something tells you that you will eat your fill soon (it won’t cut into my rations any either.) The weather shows no sign of letting up, but somehow the cold seems not to bite as hard as when you were on the surface. (Perhaps there are some magics at work here.) One of the rats has positioned itself on a branch above you. (Morris, as sharp as he is insufferable.) He speaks in a high pitched nasal voice. “Funny how it is, the more you remember the emptier you feel, eh? I wonder, will you be sharp enough to pass verdict at the end of this circle?” “What verdict?” You ask simply. “The verdict of truth of course. You will have to make a very important choice. Some would say that up until now, you haven’t been showing the best of judgement, very reckless don’t you think?” Inside you know answering him is pointless. “You really get off looking down on people.” “It’s the life we lead, buddy. To sift through testimonies, find the truth in a sea of lies and then pass judgement. We don’t serve no dwarf nor master, we only serve the Law.” *** People have differing views of the law, some would say they are more akin to guidelines, some that they are there so dwarves think before they act and yet others believe the law is holy writ. The law however only has a singular view, those that follow it are innocent and those who break it are guilty, it is the task of adjudicators such as yourself to act as its agents in passing judgement. It is by no means an easy profession, for an adjudicator must be skilled in not only in the art of the Law, but the art of sensitivity and capacity to wield the ancestral wisdom to see the spaces between the words and their spirits. For it is true, the spirit of laws are just as real as the spirits of the ancestors who linger within any true dwarven vault. It must have been decades ago when you had your first criminal adjudication, you had handled some feuds before which were honestly a lot simpler, as usually you only had to commune with the spirit of Upholding-Contracts when things got tough. Crime however is messy, problematic. It turns communities in on themselves unless swift judgement is passed, so healing can begin. A false conviction will almost certainly cause what healing will happen to go wrong, and in especially bad cases, will cause it to fester. There is also the matter of one’s reputation, these cases are the only ones that are considered real. A bad call in your first criminal matter, could certainly cause you to gain a name as “the witless rookie.” A career might never recover. You however were not worried, you had honed your wisdom like a warrior sharpens his axe. The prosecution presented a very vivid opening statement. The accused, a student of alchomancy named Bjorn, had hefty charges laid against him. The theft of an ancestral heirloom from a fellow alchomancy student named Saevar. The prosecution stated that Bjorn had over several months tormented Saever ever since the latter slighted Bjorn’s lineage during a drunken Battle-of-the-Rhymes. Several times Saevar had been beaten by Bjorn and the prosecution stated repeatedly that during this adjucation, they would prove that the physical beatings had not been enough. That Bjorn with clear intentions desired to break his rival (as is tradition) so much that the word and spirit of the law left his heart. The defence in comparison was lackluster, it acknowledged that certainly Saevar’s ancestral beardcomb was found on Bjorn. However it presented that the comb could easily have been hidden on his person, Bjorn by all metrics was the dominant dwarf in his rivalry. Logically he had nothing to gain and everything to lose. The one part you did admire was the defences subtly devaluing of the beardcomb without slighting Saevar’s ancestors. An accused should never stand with a talentless wielder of the law. Witness testimonies came next. The guard who discovered the comb was up first. She didn’t mince words and gave a very concise detail of events as they had unfolded, you however felt that there were certain details missing. When it came to cross-examinations, the guard’s lack of inquisitiveness or ability to truly see came to the forefront. By all accounts she was a good guard and member of the bureaucracy, she just wasn’t a good detective. Even as she stood beneath you, sweating, the prosecution maintained absolute stoicism. Second was their mentor, Berglind, a heavy shield of alchomancy. She lauded both students as being very gifted in the arts of brewing, albeit she believed that their rivalry had turned sour and acted as a distraction but not as a focus as dwarven rivalries are supposed to be. Neither one had shown much progress in the last few months, although she believed Saevar’s absence spent in the hands of healers would make it difficult to truly apply himself. She could not testify regarding any physical altercations between the two, although during cross examination she did say that she had seen signs of scuffles. Bjorn sported a fresh split lip and bruised knuckles, last time Saevar began a bout of absence. The third testimony was the one that was most puzzling. It came from the defendant. Bjorn was very vocal about his rival, and testified that he had certainly gone hard after him in the last months, wishing only to break him. “Although he might not respect my ancestors, I respect his.” The young dwarf shook and the Law touched your heart. His testimony was true. Pressed and cross examined, he was certain that Saevar somehow stashed the comb on his person. Certainly, the two dwarfs had not gotten close to one for two days prior to the incident, so he must’ve had an accomplice. The young dwarf was absolutely certain. When you looked within for the touch of the Law it remained absent. The remaining testimonies only rehashed information you already had, and none of them answering the humongous question of how the comb wound up in Bjorn’s personal possessions. The spirit of Adjudical Law was very clear, there must always be evidence to support claims beyond a reasonable doubt. There was no reasonable way to doubt the case the prosecution put forward. Certainly you knew that Bjorn truly did respect the dwarven ancestors, but given the nature of their rivalry could he not believe that Saevar’s ancestral heirlooms be better respected in other hands? The dwarf refused profusely any guilt, but who didn’t? It was a difficult verdict to reach, but in the end you found Bjorn guilty of ancestral abscondment. The punishment would be de-beardment, so his shame and undwarven behavior would be known to all. It would end the bitter rivalry in a large loss for Bjorn, but he would live. He would not have to face exile or lose his mind on the Road Below. You just hoped it was the right call. *** “Made the wrong call back then. Eventually Saevar became overseer, criminals took hold in society and the Law became weaker and weaker. Your name didn’t suffer, as Saevar seemed to hold some gratitude towards, but when all is said and done a bad call way back when, killed the Law in your ancestral home. You heard the Law, but you didn’t listen.” Morris shakes his head. “It is not too late to become a just dwarf again. A half-a-days travel more that-a-way will take us to Fort Scalestorm. Tell the Justicars of your shame. Save your home!”  The furriest rat of the bunch digs into its fur and digs out a small blank envelop. You can see the shape of a card within it. (What are you up to Dove?) She sniffs it. “Judgement, you certainly are here because of your sense of judgement. Morris is right there, but you know. Sometimes when the stakes are high, doing the unwise thing is what pays the bills.” “What story do you have for me, Dove?” “You don’t want to know what is in this here?” Your stomach growls, you really want to get this Circle over with. Although you are the only dwarf present, you still feel the need to uphold the ethics of an Elder's Circle. Only alcohol is allowed for consumption, and the thought of drinking hard liquor makes your empty stomach turn. This seems to be some dwarven instinct, though you certainly feel shards of memories humming in acknowledgement. Jester’s account of you being an entertainer, you had been hungry that night. Same feeling overcame you. In the shard where you were a law student, in Bailey’s tale, you remember eating cold stonemeal just to fill your guts before drinking, alone at home. Your mind hurts, the puzzle pieces don’t fit and the more you think about it the worse it gets. The impossibilities of your past overcome you with existential dread and you force harsh firewater down your gullet. You feel sick. “I’m sorry Chorus, was it something I said?” Dove seems worried. You feel as if you might vomit at any moment. “No, Dove. Please just tell your story.” “I was hoping for a more natural sort of segue, but maybe I overdid it with the props.” *** A very short while ago, you found yourself down on your luck in Sandstone. The caravan master had at some point during the six day journey, swapped out your belongings with a load of potatoes. You hadn’t realized this swindle until you were about to buy chips at the Card-Shark. By the time you reached the vault-doors, he was gone on the way to who knows where! Three grand in platinum coins, a magical set of dice, a rare bottle of 18 year old Steelbrew and worst of all, your motherfucking Crystal Skull. You had won that fair and square off Brimley Shieldeater, sliest son of a bitch this side of the Gates. That caravan driving skull stealing bastard had half an hour on you, with goats. You had about twenty kilos of potatoes. Drinking wasn’t even an option, so you crumbled into an empty alley, punched your fists raw on the walls and gathered your wits. You’d seen worse odds, certainly. You had nothing in your hand when you went up against Brimley, and he finally put the skull on the table. But you bluffed, you bet your life against the skull. Brimley joked that your life wasn’t worth one of it’s teeth, and you replied by handing him a bounty on your head. Three times the value of the skull. Brimley would have to go all in, his home, his life. Of course he folded. By the time he realized that bounty was about as legitimate as pig-iron coins, you were on your way to Sandstone. The gambling capital of Fronos. You probably had two days to gather supplies and disappear before Brimley’s men came after you. The problems with vaults. Always only one way out (no sane dwarf would tempt the Roads Below.) Selling your potatoes only netted you about twelve coins, and your hopes of eating today were utterly dashed. You just put whatever you had into chips at the card shark and got in at the baby’s table. Playing against them is always frustrating, they don’t know when to go all in, and just use it willy nilly as powermoves. It takes a lot of the elegance out of the game. You do your least favorite thing, you toil at the baby’s tables all through the night. Cleaning them up. Come morning, you finally have enough to eat and play with the big boys. You get yourself something to eat at a little noodle-shop, where you chow down enough noodles to tie down every single one of those caravan goats. Feeling extra angry, you demolish a garbage can on the way back to the Card-Shark. The big boy table was strange that evening. There were two… foreigners, both had gray rocklike skin but they were as different as two people could be. One was the size of two dwarves easily, and as muscular as three, the other one was as petite as a cat with long flowy hair and pointy ears. As alien as they seemed in Fronos however, they seemed at home at the table. You definitely felt as if you were sitting down at their table. But that’s the way you’ve always liked it. The foreigners don’t gently caress around, all around you there are big losses from your dwarven brethren. Only you can be said to be doing more than hanging in there. The foreigners are extremely good, and as the game drags on and dwarves drop out you discover that they are magical. The large one takes out a brown stuffed papery cylinder and lights it with a flame from his finger, as if the usage of magic is as natural as breathing. You shudder as you ponder how alien their minds may be. You are used to playing with dwarves, these creatures just seem used to playing. How do you surprise an alien? The last dwarf that isn’t you drops out, slams his drink angrily on the table and spits at the foreigners. “I guess you stonefolk are all magic.” Maybe that’s the thing. If they are all magic, they might think everyone else is also, somehow magic? gently caress. You start sweating, and it feels like a small spider is climbing into your hair. A wave of unwellness swims over you. Maybe that spider is magic an evil creature burrowing into your mind, letting them see from my eyes. The dealer throws you your cards. They might be in my brain right now, but I can’t afford to back down now. “All in.” You say, sweat soaking your beard. If these are some weird witches, you’ll rob them of their enjoyment, much like the baby’s tables did to you the previous night. It seems to work, the two of them seem both to be annoyed. Their bemused calm exterior, poof. Haha, gently caress them. It dawns on you that everything you own is riding on you blindly annoying some assholes, and you immediately feel like beating yourself up. You don’t, because then you don’t even have the possibility to be bluffing that maybe you are magic too and they don’t know how yet. You are not magic. No affinity for that poo poo. They bite, and the tension rises. Judgement day. The large one is the first to show its cards, three sevens and a couple of thirteens. Full house. The small one has four aces. It’s not looking good for you. You can barely stand to look as you turn over the first card. The King of Winter People in the crowd begin questioning how much a dwarf can sweat. The King of Shields Maybe you can get a larger full house than the large one. Maybe cats can chase dogs, pigs fly and perhaps, if you’re lucky, your father can unlose you in a game of cards. The King of Sorrows You are starting to feel this is a lot like that Yulepresent when you were told you were getting a puppy, and then you got one. In a box with no airholes. The King of Law Oh no. It’s just like that. You fight the need to soil yourself, with whatever garbage you got at that noodle shop. The King of Beers What? What? You won? The two foreigner clap you on the shoulder and laugh, congratulating you on your victory. They don’t want to murder you? This… this is a first. The two of them, Baldur and Sunna (you kept mixing up which is which) seem very nice. (Strangely so even) but you drink with them, and talk. You listen to their stories, of a world where winter is not lord and gambling is a way of life. The people are free from hard work to pursue their passions. They talk of an airship, some sort of construct that floats in the air, that houses the world’s grandest gambling den. You in turn tell them of your troubles, prettying yourself up a fair bit, and much to your surprise they offer you assistance. The large one calls for a large bowl and the houses cheapest red wine. They fill the bowl, add some strange herbs and ask you questions about the the dwarf who wronged you. You answer to the best of your abilities and watch in astonishment as a picture forms in the strange brew. “Drink this, and you will find him.” The little one says. The large one cuts into it’s hand and dribbles some blood into it, chanting strange alien words. “Drink, and you will get closer to him.” You know this con. Get a guy drunk, steal his money, toss him out in the cold. And the brazen aliens are even up front about it! You tell your hand to spill the mixture on to the floo- *glug glug glug glug glug* Your mind twirls and everything goes black. *** “Sunna and Baldur left me with this envelop, for you to read after you get your skull and stuff back from that thief. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s something about invitations to airships or something in there. But I don’t honestly know what’s in here.” Dove shows the back of the envelop, and the intact golden seal. You feel empty and throw up. Only two rats have yet to speak. I have a rather busy weekend ahead so no promises of actually getting to a choice during it. Doktor Per fucked around with this message at 01:57 on Oct 8, 2016 |
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Oct 8, 2016 01:27
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 Our dwarf need to improve his magic-drinking skill.
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Oct 8, 2016 01:48
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Doktor Per posted:You do believe she smiles. "Oh. It is a question I should have expected from you, dear Chorus. I want to survive. Where will I be if you make a fatal mistake? I'll only be able to eat 'till your body turns cold and solid, then what? My fate is in your hands. Not only your life rests on your judgement."
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Oct 8, 2016 02:04
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Ralith posted:An odd response. You fear that misplaced trust in this circle would be a fatal mistake for me, and thus for all of you who depend on me. Yet you who depend on me are this circle in its entirety. Who would lead me astray, only to doom themselves? Or perhaps, who here is not so dependent as they might seem? The whole circle erupts into a shouting fest, screams of "they lie! They lie!" fill the air. Bailey ponders your question before answering. "We all depend on you equally, as doom is looming over all of us. Not all who enter the circle may leave it." "A rat that leads, is a rat that lives." Biter adds. "You need us!" Morris shrieks at you, "without us, what do you have? A dwarf without a past!" "These are some high stakes, chief." Dove squeaks, caressing the envelop. "Do you really want to trust a bunch of rats that ate everything they got their paws on? I kept a thing safe. Look!"
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Oct 8, 2016 02:26
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Ahah. That illuminates things.Doktor Per posted:"These are some high stakes, chief." Dove squeaks, caressing the envelop. "Do you really want to trust a bunch of rats that ate everything they got their paws on? I kept a thing safe. Look!" 
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Oct 8, 2016 02:35
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 “Chorus I’m sorry for the strain this must put on you.” A lithe rat with immaculate fur squeaks. (Little Angel) “I will do my best to be brief, to grant you what mercy I may.” You nod, as to thank the beautiful creature. The emptiness within you felt like it was developing to such a magnitude that you feared imploding on yourself if you did not eat soon. The thought of sinking your teeth into a living rat made you salivate. *** Life in the vault is one of safety and law, but the surface of the world is a lawless frozen wasteland where only monsters survive. It falls upon the Winter Rangers to keep travel between the vaults safe, as not to isolate any dwarven societies. More so than caravan runners, you and your siblings in arms, your lives are not in the vaults but in between. You, your father, Saevar “Dagger” Numbnuts and Berglind “Bolts” Ironfoot were dispatched to patrol the perimeter of the vault, as so often before. Your second day out, you awoke to the sound of crushing snow above. It took the four of you a few moments to wake up, you quickly got armed, circled around your father and put together a plan regarding how to proceed. You never got to put it into action, as a massive beast burst through the wall off your secret little cabin, bringing an avalanche of snow with her. Berglind and Saevar did not even get a chance to raise their shields before being flattened out underneath the beasts massive bulk. The creature’s blue skin laid bare and completely hairless before you, and on each of its four strong legs massive burrowing claws dug into the ground. “Run Chorus!” Your father screamed at you, his knees bent before shooting straight into the creature’s body, somehow carrying it and charging with it into the snow outside. He didn’t have to tell you twice, you bolted for the door and out the little tunnel. Behind you, you could hear an ongoing battle, the demolition of the cabin and terrifying bestial cries. Outside, a pack of bluecap goat riders lay in wait for you. With lightning reflexes you brought your shield up and blocked a shower of thrown blades as you charged forward. By the time you reached the nearest goatrider, you probably had more knives in yourself and the shield than the goatriders had between them at that point. With a daft swing of your axe, you put the blade nicely through the nearest rider’s chest, leap on top of his goat as he slides off with your axe and the goat takes off. You don’t get a chance to retrieve your axe, get a hold of the goat or much of anything. What you do manage to do, more out of luck than anything else, is tangle your leg in one of the stirrups and land on your shield as the goat drags you away. A stray dagger meant for you in the goat’s rear end ensures that it keeps on running for longer than you manage to stay conscious from the very bumpy ride. You came to, numb yet oddly aching while strange fingers invaded your pockets. You play dead, while waiting for an opportunity to grab your would be graverobber by the wrist. You strike without looking, and you feel a nose give way for your fists. A bluecap stumbles on it’s back and you climb on top of it, beating on it. When it reaches for a blade on it’s belt, you grab it’s wrist once more and shove the blade deep into it’s neck. Soon thereafter it stops fighting back, and you climb off of it and feel strangely tired. *** “You took what little he had, probably stolen from another dwarf, and made camp. I don’t know the details very well, but if bluecaps have domesticated some sort of war beasts, your home may be in very grave danger.” Angel concludes. “How do I know your name?” You ask, fighting the urge to put him in your mouth. “You will remember, when less pressed. Now is not the time to overextend yourself.” You wonder when that time would be, as your mind feels spread all out over the tree and snow. Your intuition however tells you that this will be at most a temporary state, you just must endure it, no matter how close to your breaking point you feel you have gotten. And as much as you dread listening to the last rat, as its empty eyes have been staring through you ever since you got in the tree, at this point you just can’t do anymore.  The Eater climbed down from it’s branch and circled you, the other rats backing away from you in fear. Even Nixon leaps from you and keeps a wide girth to the terrifying unnatural rat. “I will not stab you with the sharp subtle blades of deception as these other rats have. The truth shall be my hammer, as blunt as judgement and as unforgiving as death. You and I are made from the same black cloth, we live in the shadows. We have looked underneath the bucklers on people’s hearts. You are a killer, Chorus. An honourless warrior that rules with fear, unmatched inside or out of any vault. You deal not in words or gold, but fear and blood. During your puberty you cut another dwarves beard as it was larger than yours. The kid never told anyone of your barber advances, you put the fear into him. The darker parts of the vault were your home, and…” The Eater pauses and laughs to itself. “Strap yourself in slugger, there are no asterisks here. It’s just this rat’s testimony of the Chorus of Squeaks life,.” It laughs again. “As I was saying, you made the shadows your home, not just the literal ones of any vault’s nature, but the metaphorical ones as well. Where the guards did not look, you would thrive. More times than you can count, you’ve pulled a person that wronged you into the blindspots of society and taught them fear. Sometimes you’ve even delivered them the final lesson, by a sharpened shield edge to the throat. No need to mourn their loss, you are the apex predator. They should know better than to get in your way. A sheep who goes against wolf is not a hero or a tragedy, it is lunch. “When you wake up in the morning, the first thing your mind goes to is to consume all life within sight. You hardly care for your own life, how can you care for others. Look under your buckler Chorus, deep within your heart. You will find nothing but rats, all the way down. Right here, right now, you are experiencing a weakness of the spirit, some misguided regret or desire for a meaning in this harsh cheap existence. Let go of it all Chorus, just allow yourself to be.” You stare at the Eater with bloodshot eyes, a white maggot wriggles around in the rat’s eye socket. You feel faint from the weight of conflict and hunger. “Get on with it. What are you talking about?” “Live, Chorus. None of us will break the circle for you, not even what rats might tell you they have your best interest at heart. They all know the truth, by now we all must know the truth. Don’t you Chorus?” The Eater cackles madly. “It’s a dwarf eat rat world up here. What is truth, what are memories? What is in a name? Surely you forsook yours many years ago. It’s time for you to choose very wisely, making a bad choice here will bring you nothing but despair and ruin. You must eat the liars, feast upon the circle. Eat them! Finish it quick so we may find the Warhammer Truthslayer and truly become an Avatar of might!” You are starving, surrounded by nine delicious looking rats. You must eat. A. Eat everyone but Nixon. You need to get to the vault of Bronzeville, whatever strange happenings are going on there are a mystery beyond the ken of regular dwarves. B. Eat everyone but Bailey. There is probably some strange magics going on here, perhaps some sort of law under the eyes of the ancestors. You better eat quick, you need a clear head to mediate a feud close to bloodletting. C. Eat everyone but Ratford. You are but a simple dwarf in a very unusual circumstance. Perhaps your meddling in rat politics have hit you with a strange ancestral curse. You’ll have to look into it once you get to Winterhalls. Good thing you are in the rat business. D. Eat everyone but Jester. Last night, you must’ve had some strange brew and you are just hallucinating. You’re maybe not even outside. These rats (except for Jester) are probably just fruits like apples. Just chow down, take it easy. E. Eat everyone but Biter. You’re not looking forward to crunching Eater’s dry skull between your teeth, but there will certainly be less pleasant things between you and father. You can still save him. F. Eat everyone but Morris. Some day your conscience will let down, maybe this is a curse for letting down the law. Restoring the law may restore you. You must get to the Justicars! G. Eat everyone but Dove. Yeah, a bunch of rats tell you some stories after you just got jumped by some magic wielding foreigners and you’re supposed to choose? Pssh, you’ll take the rat with a possible clue to find your crystal skull. H. Eat everyone but Angel. Your father is the fiercest warrior you know, he may still be alive. Most importantly you must get home to warn them of a possible raider attack, and about the monsters! J. Eat everyone but the Eater. You will rule this winter. You will wield Truthslayer and nothing shall contain you. K. Write in… This was a whole lot, and this particular part was much shorter than I thought it would. Wow. Please feel free to keep asking the rats questions, while you still have the time. I will leave the voting itself open till circa Tuesday.
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Oct 9, 2016 00:25
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Aw man after that amazing series of stories (some heartwarming) I don't really want to eat anyone. Any chance I can wrangle them all and tie their cute tails into a single knot to create a rat king of badassery/crazy/cute/delicious lookings? I gather the rats probably wouldn't agree but I guess rat-tie together as many as I can get?
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Oct 9, 2016 01:18
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K. Eat Starvation. Problem solve.
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Oct 9, 2016 16:44
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Puppies are dicks posted:Aw man after that amazing series of stories (some heartwarming) I don't really want to eat anyone. Any chance I can wrangle them all and tie their cute tails into a single knot to create a rat king of badassery/crazy/cute/delicious lookings? I gather the rats probably wouldn't agree but I guess rat-tie together as many as I can get? If you wish to do this, please prioritise the rats you wish to tie together. This will effectively end the Elder's Circle (obviously.) Nyaa posted:K. Eat Starvation. Problem solve. Starvation is still days away. Thankfully you still have enough rations for a single dwarf for [004] days.
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Oct 10, 2016 02:03
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How could we possibly eat out friends? Especially considering they're so small and can hardly sustain us for any length of time. On the other hand we are a large hearty dwarf who could sustain them for a long time. I think we know who the sacrifice is here. K. The rats eat us.
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Oct 10, 2016 02:40
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Hm... ok in that case K. rat-king the following rats in this order of priority: Dove Angel Nixon Ratford Biter Eater Bailey Jester I've got four days of food and only one circle of rat-friends. Of the two I know which one I'm eating first. I liked Dove and Angel the most because they kept an envelope safe/asked nicely. You know how hard it is for a rat not to gnaw on things?
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Oct 10, 2016 19:17
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Wait, why do we have to eat anyone if we have a few days of rations?
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Oct 11, 2016 20:59
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