Cash of the Titans
The bearded ants of Laboredanus have been continuing to forge their village into a proper county for a year or so, including the completion of a gigantic obsidian paved road, not one but TWO triumphal arches, and a brand new SUPERMOAT, which successfully prevents any invasion that doesn't attack the main road from occurring.
The nobility has settled in completely. They all have their complete housing requirements taken care of (except for the Dungeon Master, who seems to be short a mausoleum, and we'll figure what to do about that eventually). The demands of this countess seem to be forgivable (she likes copper and floodgates, two things we have plenty of), and thus she is not deserving of an untimely death (yet).
The village clerk seems to be doing a lot of business selling socks and cloaks in his private store.
A dwarven caravan arrived, and en route to the trading post, a goblin ambush attacked. All looked fairly straightforward until a MOTHERFUCKING TITAN NAMED CEROL appeared out of nowhere and murdered everyone present, dwarves and goblins alike. The villagers ran to the security of their fortress, and the soldiers prepared for what could easily have been their last battle.
Cerol circled the fortress, looking for a weak spot. He murdered the dogs chained up at the entrances, but made his fatal error in stepping into my Foyer of Doom. He was smashed to atoms in one of the hundreds of stone fall traps my dwarves had built.
The dwarves scrambled and grabbed the loot that the merchants dropped. Luckily for me, I had ordered nothing but jewels and precious metals. SCORE.
In celebration, a fish cleaner retired to the craftsdwarf's hut and produced a Platinum Toy Boat, "The Gilded Ropes of Depression".
UPDATE ON THE PHILOSOPHER/DUNGEON MASTER FARCE:
The two seem to be doing alright. The Philosopher doesn't seem to like sleeping with the Dungeon Master, and spends his nights collapsed on whatever spare piece of floor he can find. This might have something to do with the fact that the Dungeon Master wears five cloaks, eight pairs of socks, and nothing else. I hope his beard is of a reasonable length to hide his shame.
The nobility has settled in completely. They all have their complete housing requirements taken care of (except for the Dungeon Master, who seems to be short a mausoleum, and we'll figure what to do about that eventually). The demands of this countess seem to be forgivable (she likes copper and floodgates, two things we have plenty of), and thus she is not deserving of an untimely death (yet).
The village clerk seems to be doing a lot of business selling socks and cloaks in his private store.
A dwarven caravan arrived, and en route to the trading post, a goblin ambush attacked. All looked fairly straightforward until a MOTHERFUCKING TITAN NAMED CEROL appeared out of nowhere and murdered everyone present, dwarves and goblins alike. The villagers ran to the security of their fortress, and the soldiers prepared for what could easily have been their last battle.
Cerol circled the fortress, looking for a weak spot. He murdered the dogs chained up at the entrances, but made his fatal error in stepping into my Foyer of Doom. He was smashed to atoms in one of the hundreds of stone fall traps my dwarves had built.
The dwarves scrambled and grabbed the loot that the merchants dropped. Luckily for me, I had ordered nothing but jewels and precious metals. SCORE.
In celebration, a fish cleaner retired to the craftsdwarf's hut and produced a Platinum Toy Boat, "The Gilded Ropes of Depression".
UPDATE ON THE PHILOSOPHER/DUNGEON MASTER FARCE:
The two seem to be doing alright. The Philosopher doesn't seem to like sleeping with the Dungeon Master, and spends his nights collapsed on whatever spare piece of floor he can find. This might have something to do with the fact that the Dungeon Master wears five cloaks, eight pairs of socks, and nothing else. I hope his beard is of a reasonable length to hide his shame.