The Let's Play Archive

Dwarf Fortress - Syrupleaf

by Various

Part 245: Pozzo: Update 10a


Mohawk Satan starts running for the lever but he is half the fort away, hanging up at Syrup U.

Meanwhile the Spawn start tearing into the terrified group of merchants, as Chance II runs out past the bolt workshops to take them on. NiceAaron spots the spawn too and charges into the breach.

Chance II runs to a group of three wounded spawn and cracks one around the side of the head with such force that it flies away, spinning, in to the wall. He then charges up to get to work on the wounded spawn hanging around the end of the Molenarok Wall.

Niceaaron runs directly into the merchant group, and then inexplicably runs back out again without doing anything. He wanders off back into the fort, leaving the Spawn free to chow down on merchant pie unhindered. Which they do.

Chance II is working his way through all the unconscious spawn between Molenarok and the entrance, coming up to where half of the Menacedcrafts group remains standing at the door to the Bonehoard, waiting for something. Seeing Chance II they run straight at him, grizzly mouths wide and teeth bared.

Menacedcrafts himself leads the pack, and both dwarf and undwarf charge forward and meet dead centre of  MACHINE X 

Menacedcrafts jumps at Chance II, knocking him to the ground, as two of his cohort close the gap and join the fray. Chance II grabs one of them by the arm and breaks it, without getting up. he does the same with Menacedcraft, reaching up at the confused beast and breaking its claw.

More Spawn run down the corridor and pile on top of him as the final group of Spawn runn along the edge of the ballista run towards them.

Chance launches himself into a skid down the corridor between the legs of two spawn, grabbing one as he skids past and ripping it right off, then leaps to his feet.

He ducks and dodges his way down to the eastern, entrance-end of the machine, breaking limbs and smashing heads all the way. Menacedcraft leaps at him from behind but he fends her off to one side and breaks her leg as she passes. He then runs forth out the entrance of the bonehoard - straight at the approaching Ozud who is leading his pack into the fort.

Chance begins beating Ozud with his crossbow, as the pack of Spawn close around him.
With their strikes coming thick and fast Chance II dodges his way out infront of the battery. The lower spawn form a circle around him and Ozud, with Menacedcrafts coming menacingly up the side of the group slowly on her mangy broken leg.

Chance II is dodging and counterstriking when he can, but Ozud and then Menacedcrafts enter the fray and quickly tire him out.

Soon after he goes completely unconscious. But they have only successfully hit him once, and he drops out immediately after a dodge, blacking out mid leap and crashing to the feet of the spawn.

The 25 odd spawn.

Chance is ripped to shreds.

While all this was happening, the spawn inside have finished off all but one of the merchants, who they have chased inside towards the main staircase.

One has killed so many merchants that he has gained his own name and title.

Mohawk Satan has made it to the Molenarok Lever, and pulled it, unleashing near thirty various war animals on the single spawn still inside the Bonehoard - Wraithbridged. The animals bellow and bark and hiss and spit and tear the spawn apart.

Wraithbridged finally goes down, but not before taking out several of our war animals and wounding several others. The kill goes to a warmole of the particularly badass name of "Ironside"

The spawn outside, including the wounded Menacedcrafts, are charging back inside.


Burgomaster wrote :-

Chance II you were my favorite dwarf in the fortress.

Pozzo posted:

Chance launches himself into a skid down the corridor between the legs of two spawn, grabbing one as he skids past and ripping it right off, then leaps to his feet.

Screaming Idiot wrote :-

Daeren posted:

It's Gutspawn!


Mecheon wrote :-

Eiba posted:

Personally, when I think of Holistic Detective's current form, I imagine a dwarf. Just a plain old short little dwarf, and without any arms

I can't help but think she's somehow re-assumed dwarven form, along with lack of arms, clad in her armor, scratched and tarnished from years upon years of fighting. Of course, now, she sits upon her obsidian throne, placed upon the very tower she fought and slew Nemo upon, as she slumbers, waiting for the time to be right for her to awaken and take up her bag once more and slay all life. And though she slumbers, she still watches the world as it continues, and mocks it with her Spawn, executors of her will as her body rests from her fight with Nemo

Of course, there is the question of how exactly she will wield her bag, to slay all life. But, we must remember, the Spawn's altars to her have lava pouring fourth from the stumps that were once her arms. An artistic decision, a way to channel "power" in the creation of their obsidian cores, tainted with adamantium flowing from the ruins of Headshoots itself, or a reflection of the truth?

 Cause Holistic having lava claws would be pretty rocking. All Lich King comparisons at the end of WC3 TFT are intentional 

Bobbin Threadbare wrote :-

Bob. Once more unto the Breach,
Dear friends, once more;
Or close the Wall up with our Dwarvish dead:
In Peace, there's nothing so becomes a dwarf,
As modest stillness, and humility:
But when the blast of War blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the Mammoth:
Stiffen the sinews, commune up the blood,
Disguise fair Nature with hard-favor'd Rage:
Then lend the Eye a terrible aspect:
Let it pry through the portage of the Head,
Like the Brass Glacieraser: let the Brow o'rewhelm it,
As fearfully, as doth a galled Rock
O'er-hang and jutty his confounded Base,
Swell'd with the wild and wasteful Ocean.
Now set the Teeth, and stretch the Nostril wide,
Hold hard the Breath, and bend up every Spirit
To his full height. On, on, you Noblish Dwarvish,
Whose blood is fet from Fathers of War-proof:
Fathers, that like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from Morn till Even fought,
And sheath'd their Swords, for lack of argument.
Dishonor not your Mothers: now attest,
That those whom you call'd Fathers, did beget you.
Be Copy now to dwarves of grosser blood,
And teach them how to War. And you good Yeomen,
Whose Limbs were made in Headshoots; show us here
The mettle of your Pasture: let us swear,
That you are worth your breeding: which I doubt not:
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not Noble luster in your eyes.
I see you stand like Grey-hounds in the slips,
Straying upon the Start. The Game's afoot:
Follow your Spirit; and upon this Charge,
Cry, God for Sankis, Syrupleaf, and Saint Chance!

Tosanu wrote :-

We few, we happy few, we band of beardies;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my dwarf; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in Tallaboard now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their axes cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Bobbo's day.

cucka wrote :-

I took something I read and liked and gave it a bit of a twist. Not much, but i figured why not participate a little. bonus to first person who knows the work mine is based on.

"On The Death Of Syrupleaf"

That public dwarves hire hammerers
is nothing new.
That Syrupleaf must accept death,
injustice, and eventual failure
has been known for years.

Be angry at the spawn for coming
if these things anger you.
Watch the level pulled
and not work, they are all
bound to the lever,
these nobles,
those champions.
This fortress,

Observe their fey mood,
Observe them making a mug.
The nobles serve lies,
The passionate dwarf plays his part:
The cold passion for truth
hunts in no pack.

You are not Nemo, you know
To lampoon the crude designs of elders.
You are far from Holistic's feet
And even farther from it's demonic possession.

Let boys want to be swords,
and nobles struggle for power,
and women perhaps for fake beards,
and the Hammerer to serve a leader,
and the Moles to be set to slaughter...

Yours is not theirs.