Welcome back Comdwarves! Let us strike the earth and be merry once again after a short mental break(down) due to illness and onset of Diabloitis.
When we last left our intrepid and stalwart, drunk, dwarves they were attacked by penmonkeys that stole half of their socks (and we stole their innocence) and now we face something much, much worse. Migrants. Oy vey. Let’s get this over with.
A horrible sight.
Mmkay, not bad. Could be worse. Only four migrants arrives (our lack of trade is our saviour this day). Let’s introduce each other, shall we?
(also: yay, fixed Stonesene!)
I was going to update regularly.
Then I got sick.
Then I recovered.
Then Diablo 3 was released.
Now I don’t update regularly.
Being dwarves, they decided to be make it cumbersome.
Oh, hey, didn’t see you there. What am I talking about? Oh, just about our drunken and merry band of seven dwarves who, after careful and constructive round-table discussions, came to the brilliant conclusion that parking all their life-important supplies on the slopes of a volcano was their most brilliant idea ever, even better than magma-toast (stir five goblins in magma-pot, add yeast).
So barring any magma-baths this early on; we’ll set our foundation.
Being not that much smarter than your common household kobold I give the dwarves designations to strike the mountain… on the other side of the mountain. I’ll let a picture from the 3D Visualizer Stonesense speak for itself.
Here we are. You and me. In this moment. Time to beard the fuck on.
That’s right kids; time for some Dwarf Fortress fun and Fun (you’ll come to dread that distinction)!
Short summary of the game: Dwarf Fortress is a ASCII based game with two modes taking place in persistent user-generated, simulated, worlds. Adventure Mode, in where you control a single adventurer and Fortress Mode in where you create and maintain a settlement starting with seven (un)lucky dwarves. These nuggets of text will focus on the Fortress Mode and we will, together, try and make our settlement thrive, prosper and not end up in maniacal manslaughter (happens more often than you think).
Perhaps a recurring thinga-majig.
Friday, eve of Saturday, and after a jolly Irish time in a Irish pub drinking irssafh…isari…irsah…irsh… Irish cider; no wait – it was Swedish cider, and I’ve managed to find my way home. Admittedly the fact that the taxi stopped right at my doorstep might make that accomplishment less of a… accomplishment, per say, but no matter! Hom, slightly tipsy and talkative. That’s the only thing important. Currenclty. Perhaps.
Really? You are in Ireland, and you’re drinking cider? Really? Really really?
It’s not my fault okay! I just can’t stomach beer, regardless of brand. It’s a preexisting condition! Don’t jtudge me!
“It’s curtains for you, Dr. Horrible. Lacy, gently wafting curtains.”
If there is something I dread whenever I pick up the pen-monkey and shake its obnoxious simian face over the equally obnoxious blank page it’s when I reach the atrociously difficult, mind boggling middle part. If you’ve ever read/written a book, hell; even a pamphlet for dyslexics, I think you know what I mean. Perhaps. It’s the in-between part. The distance between A and B. The train derailment between stops. The anesthetic after the shaving of the under-regions and before the surgery (for those two extra inches SHUTUPIT’SACONDITION!).
I’m not proficient with metaphors. Continue reading