I had dreams. I thought I could make something of this grand expedition. Tragedy has befallen my dwarves, however.
We set out in the year 125 from our homeland, one of the grandest in Romxah. In the middle of the Mire of Meteors, that great wide swamp of red sand and clay, we made our new home and called it Tanathgusil. Our complex went 10 levels deep, but we never were even able to establish a dining hall... It was in that harsh winter of 126 that our water ran dry as our luck.
I had just seen off the liason from my newly constructed office when a snowstorm came across the mire, freezing the water solid. Our supplies were not enough to last the storm, and I had not organized a brewery schedule. 10 of our number perished from thirst that day. Not long after we dwindled down to three. I had attempted to build up a supply of alcohol, but it appears too late.
All that remains is myself, and the ruins of my failure. You will find me here dead in the still, having drunk beyond my mortal fill of Stinkale.
- Stukos Stakudlotol, Expedition Leader, Tangathgusil