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File: 1351732380913.jpg-(129 KB, 894x894, The Hamlet of Tyranny.jpg)
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Gather 'round, fellow neckbeards and listen. Tonight is the very eve' that one of our most hallowed dwarven tales was first told. And it is this eve' that we honor those who sacrificed all to forever defeat an ancient evil and to bring glory to our clan. Tonight we share the tale of The Hamlet of Tyranny!

The Hamlet was founded by seven of our finest, ne'er will this be put to question. It lay at the base of a mountain of which today only remains a hill. Ha-HA! Dwarven engineering saw to that! Aha... ah, but, I am getting ahead of myself, lads.

The Hamlet grew from just a palmful of our people to a sprawling community in just a few seasons. This alone would have remained a mystery in itself forevermore had The Hamlet not fallen to ruin. Surely ye know why. Is it not a common tactic for the greenskins or those filthy elves to attack a fledgling band of dwarfs while they are busy toiling the land without rest or shelter? Aye. So why then did only the most desperate or bravest of their number shy into the shadow of th' mountain? Because they knew what our clan did not - the land was a prison for a deadly evil that plotted in its depths. And his name was Ashmalice, a fire demon lord.
T'was not the founder's knowing that the very mountain they carved their settlement into were the seat of his evil empire. Nay. If anything it were Armok Himself who guided their picks, each swing bringing them closer to the beast of the pits below who had took the lives of so many of our number, including one of our ancient kings of lore. His evil 'ad lasted for untold millenia and his flames consumed all he gazed upon. No stories tell why it were that he and his brood decended into the glowing pits, but I can tell you this true: it were not by the will of any being that he did but 'is own.

And thus did those living in The Hamlet wander through their lives with little care. They drank and fought and danced and built a grand dwarven fortress with luxurious finishing and magnificent dining halls. But a dwarf is only as hardened as the battles he fights in, and thus did their defenses grow soft. And sure as the beard on m' face they paid for their hubris. Were a miner who broke the seal between the world above and the world below. Whatever 'is name was is lost to us. The demons that surged forth saw to that. The grimm carvings from this time tell that it took only about an hour for half of the mountain to be wiped out by the unholy 'orde before the main gate was sealed. A dwarven heart is stalwart and courageous, true, but when faced with such loss and overwhelming odds even the mightiest of heroes would seal themselves in their homes and pray to Armok for mercy.
But even if they had, Armok would not listen, for He 'ad His own design. A grand chain of events that only Armok could weave was about to be set in motion and the catalyst was the death of one of the founding seven, the glassmaker, Doken. Her violent end by the claws of the foul creatures sent her 'usband, Stuvok, another of the seven, into a blind rage so great that none of his clan could withstand him. He lashed out at friend and foe alike, slashing through his brothers in arms just as easilly as the gnashing monsters about him. Only when he found himself sealed in his smithy with his exit barred by his terrified clansmen did his temper subside and leave him broken with grief.

T'was a dark time that settled over The Hamlet, lads. The demons had set up camp outside the mountain and basked in the fumes of fear and death that wafted from it. The few survivors within could not rally themselves from their stupor. Ashmalice would 'ave total victory. And every dwarf who commit suicide in the long months that the seige endured would tip the scale ever closer to this fate. One of the few dwarfs who still retained a shred of his sanity was another of the founding seven, Sil, a master engraver. It were from his very carvings that the whole of the legend of The Hamlet might be told today, for none of their clan survived the seige. Oh, but Armok, they did not go quietly!
It takes a lot to break a dwarf, lads. You can beat him and torture him and burn off his beard and he will still rise to the challenge e'ry time. But even at the very edge of oblivion that dwarf can still find his will to press on. And that's what ol' Stuvok did. See, in his time of mourning he prayed to Armok for a reason to go on. And one night 'e found it. The spirit of his lovely Doken appeared to him and placed a vision in his mind that instantly consumed 'is every thought. For days he scrambled about his smithy with the spirits of the dead guiding his calloused hands through the forging of an instrument of Armok's will and his ultimate redemption: an artifact blade he named The Endless Death of Tears, for from that day forward he had no tears left to weep only a burning sense for justice.

T'were a blade fit for a king. From the moment it were unveiled, within that very day infact, Stuvok's firey passion rekindled those in the hearts of his clan and they resolved to not quietly disappear into the mists of history but to write their epitaph in the blood of their enemies! The survivors equiped themselves with what tools they had and set about to rebuild their home into a battleground. Levers were erected, traps were laid, all examples of dwarven ingenuity were implemented, no expense spared. And when the moment were right, haha, the grand hall doors were unbarred and the demons invited inside. And they came with a smile.
Our brave archers fired into the oncoming tide of hate but they were just sacrificial lambs to lul the enemy into a false sense of victory. When the bulk of the beasts had breached the fortress proper a masterfully placed lever that had yet to have been pulled was yanked into place with a vengeance. And the entire mountain came crashing down through the opulent dining hall crushing nearly half the horde! Aha-Haa!

The remaining ones, though, they were whipped into a frenzy by the bloodshed. Oh, and did they ever show it. They ran strait into the trap-lined hallways, jamming them with their number which only incited the remainder of them. The dwarven defenders held their own and may have withstood the storm had Ashmalice not survived the rockfall and the traps. He and his demonic toad retainers shredded through the survivors. One of his victims was Stuvok, unable to avenge his beloved. And within moments the population of the fortress was reduced to two.
As the demons pushed their way into the final chamber of the fortress they encountered Sil the engraver as he stood on a bridge overlooking the cavernous belly of the fortress and a sizable construction project that was never to be finished. Here the demons saw him shoulder to shoulder with a creature even more fearsom than themselves. The more careless of the demons called him "fool" before they were bisected by him. Our legends, however, call him Daneken.

Ahh, yes. Brave Daneken. He alone had defended the rear entrance of the fort for months leading to the final assault. But he was no mere dwarf. He was a legend. In 'is short but violent lifetime Daneken had led the guard as their captain, defending The Hamlet from the greenskins. They say he once took down a cyclops singlehandedly and had helped wrestle a dragon to death. A dragon, lads! He was nothing to turn your nose at lest you wanted to 'ave it clipped off! But 'ere at the end of all he stood valiant as ever. T'was only fitting that Stuvok chose he to weild The Endless Death of Tears, for in Stalwart Daneken's hands it shed just as much demon blood as had been spilt by dwarf.
As his retainers were hacked to shreds by Daneken, Ashmalice flew out onto the bridge to deal with matters himself. Daneken threw himself at the monsters with the entire collective rage of his people but Ashmalice had laid waste to civilizations, had executed royalty and was not impressed with the antics of a lowly soldier. Daneken was blasted with demonic flames and sent hurtling back across the bridge. Were it Armok's divine will or just circumstance that poor Sil had been in his path. Softening the blow and slowing down his travel with his body, Sil had bought Daneken a few more moments of life at the cost of his own - for Sil the engraver, whom this tale we owe, stumbled backwards off of the bridge.

Oooh, to be Daneken as he rose to his feet as his flesh scorched and his blood boiled only to see Ashmalice looming over him. With but the lightest of touch the battle would be over and the demons would have wiped our clan from history for all time. But, then, lads, I wouldn't be telling the story then would I?
Resolute Daneken slashed off one of Ashmalice's arm-wings in one deft stroke and plunged Endless Death of Tears strait into 'is evil heart. Such was the force of the blow that the seemingly immortal evil was thrown backwards off of the bridge and sent hurtling down into the unending darkness below, spouting curses the entire way. With his clan and his king avenged, Valorous Daneken shakilly held his blade skyward, lurched towards the edge of the bridge step by searing step and tumbled from it, his ravaged body following his enemy into the darkness as his killer's unholy flames finished consuming him. Legendary Daneken, like a candle in th' wind was gone. Aside from the distant confused chatter of the demons who were removed from the battle by a planned ridirection of river water that flooded the arteries of the fortress, the entire battlefield grew silent.

So 'ow do our clan know this story then, eh? If the last of the dwarves of The Hamlet of Tyranny had plumeted into the abyss and the demons abandoned it then who were left to tell the tale? Aha... this here is a DWARVEN TALE, lads! No matter how bitter or crushing the defeat a dwarf will always leave 'is mark.
Do ye remember when Sil fell from the bridge into the chasm? He didn't meet Armok just then, 'e was spared by Him so that he might witness the climax. Far, far below the bridge on a ledge in the chasm lay Sil broken and bleeding but alive and awestruck. Blood poured from his mouth with every choked breath and his hands trembled as he worked his chisel into the stone beside him to memorialize this victory. Though his body was failing by the second, his mind was sharp and his thought focused and pure - a true artisan working on 'is final masterpiece.

And what was it he carved, lads? Moments before he bled to death? Alone on a ledge? The final testament to the dwarves of The Hamlet of Tyranny? A picture of a demon and some dwarves. The demon was in a fetal position. The dwarves were laughing.

And that, my neckbearded battle brothers is the tale we tell every year on this day. Let us sing the names of those who have passed into Armok's domain and let us vow to join them there! Raise your pints, lads, and drink to a death in battle just as glorious! PRAISE ARMOK!
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A fine tale, OP.

I enjoyed reading it, If you screen capped the events as they unfurled, posting those would also be appreciated
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New /tg/ doesn't know its history and old /tg/ no longer cares.
I hate dwarves. How some boring myth and a bad genetic mutation you go to glorious masters of the forge and warrior of valor?
That's bullshit.
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You asked for it. This is now a DWARVES FUCK YEAH thread. Post stories, pics, and reasons dwarves are better then humans, faggot elves, Da Orks, xenos scum, and pretty much every other race ever.
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File: 1351736232408.jpg-(247 KB, 650x650, Tholtig2.jpg)
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Tholtig reporting in.
Glorious tale. It would be a shame to tell it more often, but I syltill want it to happen.
The original version is a recount of a game of Dwarf Fortress back on Halloween 2008. It was archived 2 years later here: http://dfstories.com/the-hamlet-of-tyranny/.
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Dwarves can, like, dig maaaaaaaan.
Can you dig? Fuck no! Play Dwarf Fortress
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Urist, reporting in!
Urist your late as fuck. As punishment, we're going to somehow send you into space in search of Armok. Return dead or dead with Armok's bloody skull. Those are the options.

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