Early in the Dwarven Year 250, a fort was created. Though it's name has been long forgotten, it's story has not. As with many such endeavors of the time, it was a decision fueled mostly by ale. All it took back then was a few dwarves with most of their limbs intact, a few barrels of alcohol, and a lightweight bureaucrat, and your Embark would be funded. In many ways, it was a far more effective system than the one used nowadays. At any rate, it seemed a good idea at the time, and so the charter was signed and the fort began construction. For a few years, all was well. Construction was slow but steady, living conditions were by no means luxurious but absolutely livable, and at the end of the day everyone was guaranteed a plate of mushrooms and a few gallons of ale. And then someone had to go and ruin it all by dying. In hindsight, they probably weren't planning on it, but nonetheless it would've been a lot more polite of them to go and die somewhere outside. After the initial shock of the quite frankly massive faux pas, the fortress administration realised they'd have to get rid of the body somehow. For once in their lives, the engineers decided they were going to prepare for the future. They would create a body-disposal system capable of not just disposing *this* body, but of disposing any future bodies they may come into ownership of. This would be their magnum opus. A display of dwarven superiority, living proof that the great minds of dwarfkind could overcome any and all challenges placed before them. An engineering marvel that would be celebrated for generations to come. They would construct... a pit. The original blueprints called for a bottomless pit, but unfortunately - after much self-congratulating and patting on the back and celebratory drinking - the foreman of the miners informed them that a bottomless pit would bring them vastly over budget. Not to be deterred, the engineers returned to the drawing board. What about an endless pit? A self-looping pit? A horizontal pit? In a display of true dwarven diplomacy (and absolutely not the foreman threatening to shove his pick in unspeakable places), they settled on a two-meter pit. But it would the width of a room! Perhaps even a small hall! And so the miners got to work. After many back-breaking days of sitting around, and a few hours of mild excavation, the pit was completed. It was a joyous day indeed when the corpse was finally removed from the dining hall. ----- Eventually, things started to return to normal. A few people saw the corpse-pit as rewarding antisocial behaviour, a few more decided to die now they were sure they wouldn't be punished, but these were mere blips in the grand scheme of things. The corpse pit eventually began to smell worse than the surrounding air, but - after much brainstorming - the engineers managed to solve the problem. They would install a door! There was far less congratulation on that breakthrough. After that, though, all was well. Too well, in fact. You see, it's dwarven nature to exist around problems. Whether the dwarves are causing the problems for others, or the victim of problems, it doesn't matter. What matters is that in times of prosperity, dwarves begin to go stir-crazy. Projects are sabotaged, valuables are stolen, wars are declared. The fortress started harassing a nearby elf village to blow off steam, and for a while it worked. While things still had an unfortunate habit of being "lost", things were mostly under control. The fortress was even invited to The Most Noble Triennial Meeting of the Lower Fortresses! Of course, they would need to nominate a representative, but that was no issue. After a week-long drinking contest, their chairwoman was decided, and work began on her Most Noble Chambers. Unbeknownst to her, a plot was brewing. The miner's guild, barred from the weekly elf harassment campaign, were incredibly fed up and had decided to cause some problems of their own. Their plan was depressingly simple-minded, but nonetheless seemed incredibly effective. ----- Months passed. Construction of the Most Noble Chambers had been, as usual, slow but steady. At long last, it was time for the grand unveiling. Well, "Grand" might be a bit of an overstatement. Sure, there was much merriment and plentiful ale, but that was just a normal dwarven evening. Regardless of how grand the opening was or wasn't, it happened, and that's the important thing here. The Most Honorable Chairwoman had a subfort all her own, and the miners' plan was set in motion. Again, "set in motion" is rather too generous. This plan contained no moving parts. Around midnight on the day of the Chairwoman's ascension, the single hallway to her chambers was caved in. Given the appalling structural integrity of the hallway, it would've happened sooner or later without dwarven intervention, but the miner's guild nonetheless took full responsibility for their "accident" and promised to "rescue" the Chairwoman. All in all, this was pretty par for the course for a fledgling fortress. A few petty insurrections never hurt anyone, and they helped add some history to the fort. Unfortunately, after spending so much time synthesising bad luck, the genuine article found it's way in. In the early hours of night, a goblin raiding party bust open a side-entrance to the fort, and cut through the sleeping dwarves. There were no survivors. Except for the Chairwoman, of course. She heard everything. The miners were planning to leave her to rot for a while, and had slid generous amounts of food and ale into her storeroom during construction. For months she remained trapped in there. At first she tried digging out the tunnel, but eventually she realised it was no use. When the reclamation team broke through the hallway, they found a grim sight indeed. The entirety of her wing was covered floor to ceiling with masterful engravings, all depicting dwarves being slaughtered by goblins. Her skeleton lay in the corner, hunched over an unfinished carving.