Well, the Fortress of Torchrivers has . . . seen better days. My attempts to make a beautifully designed yet efficiently functional fortress has taken longer than expected.
After making a long and restless caravan ride from the mountainhomes of Artobal, the seven brave dwarves found themselves in a "sticky" situation. In their attempt to find a site for an outpost in the pastoral fields for food export. Deviating from the established roads, the settlers found themselves in an uncharted land - A thick temperate forest, taken over by evil spirits. Cursed oak trees grew high, stretching ever further despite their withered and dead state. The dwarves were forced to make an encampment in the forest until a pack of zombified wolves blocking their path through. They never moved. After their pack horses starved to death from a lack of living grass to eat, they were stranded.
Despite their predicament, the valiant dwarves created a beautifully carved town in the . Walls were smoothed and the corridors wide enough to allow a horse-drawn cart through. This took a lot of time to do, and two years later they were still living in a communal dinging room and dormitory and stockpiles were made in the wide halls.
Many more migrants came after the establishment of Torchrivers, all of them hoping to live in the peaceful pastoral lands the settlers dreamed of reaching. Many skilled peoples from the food processing and preparation industry arrived, their hopes of their farming lives dashed in this new harsh environment. Many brought pet grazing animals with them, only to be slaughtered for food to avoid their suffering from starvation. Most of the migrants were put into masonry to carve stone blocks and were drafted into a small militia should the undead wildlife pose a threat.
It was not long until they were put into action. Raccoons and Badgers, living or not living, started to harass the food stockpiles made outside the fortress. Though they posed little threat and were dispatched easily, if they were to freely make off with the entire stock of food it would spell disaster for the future. A young militiaman, a cheese maker, threw himself and another Badger into the river, drowning the both of them. A year later, his spirit, his body not yet at peace or his efforts memorialised, started to haunt the rest of the militia whilst going through training regimes.
Though alcohol stocks were adequate for the amount of dwarves living at the fortress for the first year, it was not so for the second. As the amount of inhabitants grew, the small amount of plants for brewing and barrels of wine traded was not adequate. The winter of the second year was strangely cold for this section of the world. The temperature dropped sharply and the river, the only source of fresh water, froze over. Even the various swampy puddles solidified. When the traders arrived, only two barrels of beer and rum were traded for everything the dwarves could muster to give away. In hope, the fortress leaders thought that 48 rationed units of alcohol could support the whole fortress over the rest of winter and could continue on with the projects. It wasn't. The 25 or so inhabitants started to drop from dehydration everywhere, in an incredibly short amount of time. The last to go was the woodworker, sitting in the trade and delegation room, his only company his starved pet Alpaca and the dead bodies around him. He constantly checked the river for the slightest bit of thawing. Just before nodding of to sleep forever though, he saw a light coming from the north . . .
A migrant wave. After the entirety of the fortress had been exterminated from their own laziness. Though none were skilled in proper survival skills like mining and carpentry, two eager farmers pryed the two worn bronze picks from the hands of the previous miners. The spring of 1053 marked a new era in Torchrivers - a new start, a new design and a new take on previous mistakes. Strike the Earth (again)!
