The Let's Play Archive

Dwarf Fortress - Syrupleaf

by Various

Part 118: Globofglob: Update 11

30th Slate, 146, Mid-Spring

It seems Captain of the Royal Guard, Perfect Potato, has recovered from her injuries. Armok be praised.

Also, I have designated an area for my new rooms:

They are sized as to encompass all adamantine deposits on that floor.

Alright, I can do this. Surgery can't be too hard right? Those guys in the Mountainhomes could do it, and so can I! Can't be too different from operating a ballista, anyway.

Alright so, as I've said before, Perfect Potato needs surgery. But I'll be damned if she's getting the same stuff I've gotten. Hell, I'm not even gonna bother Silento with this! If he can do it, I can do it too! I've borrowed his portable mini-adamantium smelter thingy and set it up in the fields. Now the only thing I have to do is drag Perfect Potato down here!


"What the fuck do ya mean my goddamn bed has been reaquisitioned!?" Perfect Potato yelled.

"Well, you see, Overseer Globofglob has decided this bed does not meet certain standards of construction, and therefore must be demolished."

"Where the fuck am I supposed to sleep then!?"

"Overseer Globofglob has designated an area in a more remote part of the fortress to serve as a hospital, so that they may rest in peace, far from the constant noise of the main fortress." said Val Helmethead.

"There's no fuckin' way I'm givin up me damn bed just because globu-" Perfect Potato had no time to finish her sentence, as Val grabbed her by the ankle and began dragging her across the fort.

"Where the fuck do you think your-"


"Who the fuck are ya-" This time, Potato was silenced by the stairs. Though this display is amusing, I probably should have sent someone less...volatile to deal with her.

Whatever, they'll make it down to the makeshift lab, eventually. Now, I just have to make sure everything's ready.

"Relax, Perfect Potato. This operation is entirely safe. I was taught by Silento himself." Not really.

"Are you sure you should be doin' this? Shouldn't Silento be doin' something this precise?"

"Nonsense. It is a simple procedure, a child could do it. Besides, Silento has more pressing concerns now. Here, you might want to drink this."

He actually does. He hasn't even talked to me during the past few days. Whenever I tried to get his attention, he just said something about parasols.

"What is it?"

"It's ale. It'll dull the pain." With a pinch of gnomeblight I bought from the elves.

She downs it, and begins spouting some random gibbrish, no doubt as I once did. It does sound like she's screaming and choking a bit, but I shouldn't be worried. Even if she does die, she'll be back to life in a few minutes.

Anyway, it's time to begin.


The three damaged areas are her upper body, specifically her ribs. Her upper spine has also been damaged, and her right lung is just a bleeding mass of flesh.

Judging from the position of the wounds, she was probably injured from a hammer blow during a sparring match. It broke her ribs, and the broken bones lodged in her right lung and spine. a trivial injury to fix, in the mountainhomes. However, in border settlements like this, where medical care consists of "Lay down until you feel better", it is far more deadly.

The lung is a bit to damaged to salvage, so I toss it. Removing the bone shards from the spine is another matter. I don't know much about the spine, other than when dwarves are injured there, they can't move as well. So I'll be a bit more careful with this.

Unfortunately, several large holes were left between her vertaebra after removal of the shards. I tried to jam them closed, but it was too hard. So I just dripped some molten adamantium in there. You would think dripping molten metal onto someone's spine would kill them, but apparently it doesn't! She's still breathing!

Anyway, with the spine fixed, I moved onto the lung. I don't want to put too much adamantium in, you realize, just the base minimum. So I planned ahead, and got some Spawn guts from Chance II's room! I managed to grab something that looked sort of like a withered lung, but with luck and adamantium it will work just as well on Perfect Potato.

Also of note: Several strange constructs found in and around his room. Spawn bodies' body parts, and various mechanisms. Should keep an eye on him. Study is alright, but caution must be had at all times when dealing with the spawn.

I smear molten adamantium around the openings to the lung, sort of like a glue. Hopefully it'll work.

As for the ribs, we had some spare brass bars in the stocks. I've always wanted to be a blacksmith, so I took one of the forges and messed around in it. A few hours later, I came out with a pair of brass ribs! Sure, they're sort of lumpy and ill formed, but they're way better than bone!

Removing her old ribs was the hard part, but my hammer fixed that. I held her face down over a bin, so none of the shards would get lodged in her other organs. I attached the ribs in the same way I did the lung, then I stiched her up. I wonder if she'll wake up.

3rd felsite, 146, Mid-Spring

She lives, and she's back to normal! Fully healed! Everything seems to be working, she reported no pain, and she's sparring again!

I'm a surgeon!

Kithrixx wrote :-

Globofglob posted:

I'm a surgeon!

Couldn't resist. Methinks I should stick to less painting, though...

DarkHorse wrote :-


From the research journal of DarkHorse Kônudil, Armorer Apprentice Prosthetic Designer

Can finally begin actual design work. Slightly different from armor plates and mail work, but surprising similarities.

Chance II has commissioned some unusual hinge joints. Long lever arm and of robust construction. Simple work compared to knee joint, completed in short order.

Accidentally grabbed some plans involving driving force. Seems to operate as pump in reverse. Must ask resident expert.
"Ah, come fer askin' 'bout tha pumpin' devices and associakated distributative mechynisms, have ye?"

"Yes. Dwarves push on a pad, and that pad pushes the water and moves it to a new location, right?"

"Of course! That be the v'ry def'nish'n ovva pump, innit? You have yer standard fluids, like water and -"

"What if'n a pump went in reverse, though?"

"REVERSE?! What malarky got that in yer noggin'?! 'Twould completely disrupt the nature of pumpdom! 'Tain't natural, that!"

"I mean, what if water moved the pad, would the pad move the dwarf?"

"Well, ther have been a time when a lev'r has escap'ed the grasp of novice Pump Operators what operate tha pumps, but I dinnae ken what yeed wan' with a spinnin' pad or yer standard out-o-control leverables. It'll all end in bruised noggins an' egos an' gen'ly drippin' noses, I tell ye."


"WAIT! Where yer dashin' off to? You dinnae buy anny of Ol' Screamy's Smokables! What abou' Weskerdwarf's Whiskery Whisky?

Canny fellow, that. Actin' like I tol' him ter chew adamantine, and askin' after REVERSE pumpin', what! Tears, I say."


From the research journal of DarkHorse Kônudil, Armorer Apprentice Prosthetic Designer

Have sufficient info to proceed. Have destroyed previous screw-based designs for compact package based on pusher-pad. Resident expert supplied suggestion w.r.t. working fluid; requires volatile compound to drive pump.

Plan to deliver advanced designs - hope initiative is not resented.

Click here for the full 1057x622 image.

Screaming Idiot wrote :-



'Allo, journal! I ain't wrote in yeh since tha incident with tha plump 'elmet an' tha brain injuries an' tha unspeakabibble weasel-insertion incident (o' which I'll nae speak o' ta anyone, including this journal), but I think I've regained enough o' me cognitive faculties ta make a coherent entry. Also, I be certain I jus' misspelled "cognitive faculties" an' "coherent".

I 'ad weird dreams, aye. Dreams 'bout that bonny lass Icedrake gettin' mauled by moledogs, a disastrous spawn invasion--as opposed ta tha nae-so-disastrous one we totally thwarted, most likely through tha creative usage o' me glorious an' storied pumpin' devices what do tha pumpin'--an' tha slickest mum-bangin' dwarf I ever laid me eyes 'pon.

Fancy shades! Slicked hair! Groomed beard that menaces with spikes o' manly! Aye, were I truly tha sexy lady-type I pretended ta be on tha application ta live 'ere, I'd be all over 'im like stink on mole shite Screamy's Blend cigars! Aye, Silento Bobasomethin'orother--also called tha Whiskeydwarf, a name that I can totally get behind--be one stylin' somebody!

Where was I? I 'ad a point, but I think I got side-tracked. I'll move on, I 'spose.

I'm afeared somethin' terrible. I donnae know why I feel this way, but sometimes I'll just stop what I be doin' at tha moment--whether it be operatin' pumps, trainin' lil' Markie 'ow ta operate pumps, trainin' weasels (or badgers!) ta operate pumps, or throwin' up in Skully's chair--an' run ta tha nearest barrel o' booze ta drown me 'ead an' drink 'til tha fear leaves me. Sometimes it stays with me, an' those times be tha worst 'cuz I donnae sleep like I oughtta.

'Swhy I stay greasy, y'know. Whatever we got 'round 'ere may be able ta whisper, but it won't be able ta catch me! An if it does, well, ain't a beastie alive that can keep 'old o' a burnin' dwarf. I keep me matches ready at all times, aye.

I wonder if anybody else 'as noticed that ol' Chancey's lookin' mighty pale these days? Aye, tha boy's got sacks beneath 'is eyes 'e could smuggle moledogs in, 'e does. I worry 'bout 'im--'e's a good fellar, if a bit too book-smart fer me tastes. If 'e ain't careful, 'e could end up like that git Jazzimus.

'Course, I'm startin' ta wonder if ol' Jazzy ain't tellin' tha truth when 'e 'as 'is lil' episodes. There be times I think I see things too, but tha badgers tell me it could be tha ol' 'ead injuries talkin', an' they never said ta me no wrong before. May also be tha cigars, but I ain't about ta give up on makin' an' givin' 'em away--tha money'll start rollin' in any second, I tell yeh!

Mebbe I oughtta think 'bout movin' on from 'ere. But where would I go? We live in a thrice-damned glacier, ain't nothin' but spawn and mammoths an' sand raiders (why tha 'ell we got sand raiders anyway? Poor blighters must be lost, I 'spose) fer hunnerts an' thousands o' miles.