Mining copper was not what Verad had expected. Months of attempting to sell goods to the many adventurers that dabbled in amateur prospecting on the side had given him the image of the independent prospector, cheerily hacking away at the nearest rock with the promise of yielding ore through means only they could divine. They were hardy and cheerful and wouldn't buy his miniature picks (souvenirs for the children, he told them), which spoke well of their judgment if not of their ability to appreciate the dubious. There were a positive thing.
Â
This expectation was, with great care and attentiveness, smothered to death when he met the crew with which he was to work. A mixture of a dozen or so men - it was always men, he thought, wasn't it? - of mixed stock, mostly Highlanders, some Midlanders, and the odd Miqo'te. They matched the tunnels that surrounded them as they trudged towards the day's work, small and cramped and almost bereft of light, and the weight of their tools dragged them forward as much as they were carried. Only the supervisor, a particularly stout Hyur, seemed to be in working shape, and the difference was marked in all possible ways, whether that be in posture, voice, build, or the shape of his tools. Even his uniform seemed to be in better shape, with none of the obvious tears and holes that riddled the others.Â
Verad followed behind the pack, and for a time he went without notice. The group traveled in silence, and there were none of the chatter or bawdy jokes he would have supposed would exist in the company of coarse working men. The silence was so sharp that he suspected he had joined the wrong group. It was possible; even without onlookers, he knew he stood out, both in how much further he had to stoop to avoid bumping his head on the lower sections of the shaft's roof, and in his generally cheerful demeanor. He had almost thought to hum a tune, but, as if reading his thoughts, a glare from the crew leader gagged him as well as a cloth.
Only when there was work was there speech. They arrived at a wall of rock that, to Verad's eyes, seemed like any other wall of rock a vague, brown, jagged shape in the dark. This triggered something in the leader, though, who barked out orders to the crew in terms Verad did not understand. To Verad, he forced a wedge and a short-handled hammer into each hand. "We'll start simple," he said, pointing at one section of rock. "Chisel out a small opening there, at least a fulm deep. That will make room for firesand placement. Do you understand?"
With an eager nod and a salute that nearly brought the flat of the mallet against his forehead, Verad made his way to the indicated point and started chipping away. Were it not for the circumstances in which he believed many of the other workers had arrived, he could not understand their resignation. Surely the work wasn't as hard as all that.
Thirty Minutes Later:
Verad was dragged bodily into the infirmary by a pair of workers, moaning and clutching at every single part of his body, including and especially the beard. He hadn't even been aware that there were muscles in the beard, but he supposed that was inevitable when possessed of one as virile as his. No doctor greeted him; instead, he was bodily thrown into one of a handful of old cots. "Sleep it off if you need," said one before they left. "But every hour is added to your debt. And try not to wake the big guy, huh?"
He was left to lay flat on his back, terrified to move lest he pull another muscle in the new and fascinating network of pain that currently spread across the whole of his body. In a way, it was an education, showing him a thousand points of suffering. Had he only some notes, he would be recording his own reactions in order to refine the art of Cactu-Puncture. But of all the items he had seen gathering dust in the commissary, parchment and ink were not among them.
A rustling in the far corner of the room drew his attention, but he could not lift his head to see. He was only aware of something heavy hitting the floor, and the solid thump of a great mass travelling in his direction, step by step. "Ah, you must be the doctor," he said, exhaling in relief. "Surely you must have something for this pain. Your rocks must be very hard indeed to leave one such as I in this state!"
There was no response, though the sound drew closer. "Or perhaps a massage?"
Thump, thump. "Only a slight maming, please?" he asked, his low voice managing to raise into a squeak from the pain.
A body loomed over him, entering his field of vision. Roegadyn, from the size, and exceptionally large, though gravely wounded, with a bandage, spotted in dried blood, concealing the top of his head and obscuring one eye. He used the good one to examine Verad, and started back in recognition. "Bellveil?" His tone was a mixture of surprise and dismay.
Verad grinned, or, at least, bared his teeth through the pain of every part of his neck and jaw having given up on life. "Gliding Bone! At last, we meet."
Â
This expectation was, with great care and attentiveness, smothered to death when he met the crew with which he was to work. A mixture of a dozen or so men - it was always men, he thought, wasn't it? - of mixed stock, mostly Highlanders, some Midlanders, and the odd Miqo'te. They matched the tunnels that surrounded them as they trudged towards the day's work, small and cramped and almost bereft of light, and the weight of their tools dragged them forward as much as they were carried. Only the supervisor, a particularly stout Hyur, seemed to be in working shape, and the difference was marked in all possible ways, whether that be in posture, voice, build, or the shape of his tools. Even his uniform seemed to be in better shape, with none of the obvious tears and holes that riddled the others.Â
Verad followed behind the pack, and for a time he went without notice. The group traveled in silence, and there were none of the chatter or bawdy jokes he would have supposed would exist in the company of coarse working men. The silence was so sharp that he suspected he had joined the wrong group. It was possible; even without onlookers, he knew he stood out, both in how much further he had to stoop to avoid bumping his head on the lower sections of the shaft's roof, and in his generally cheerful demeanor. He had almost thought to hum a tune, but, as if reading his thoughts, a glare from the crew leader gagged him as well as a cloth.
Only when there was work was there speech. They arrived at a wall of rock that, to Verad's eyes, seemed like any other wall of rock a vague, brown, jagged shape in the dark. This triggered something in the leader, though, who barked out orders to the crew in terms Verad did not understand. To Verad, he forced a wedge and a short-handled hammer into each hand. "We'll start simple," he said, pointing at one section of rock. "Chisel out a small opening there, at least a fulm deep. That will make room for firesand placement. Do you understand?"
With an eager nod and a salute that nearly brought the flat of the mallet against his forehead, Verad made his way to the indicated point and started chipping away. Were it not for the circumstances in which he believed many of the other workers had arrived, he could not understand their resignation. Surely the work wasn't as hard as all that.
Thirty Minutes Later:
Verad was dragged bodily into the infirmary by a pair of workers, moaning and clutching at every single part of his body, including and especially the beard. He hadn't even been aware that there were muscles in the beard, but he supposed that was inevitable when possessed of one as virile as his. No doctor greeted him; instead, he was bodily thrown into one of a handful of old cots. "Sleep it off if you need," said one before they left. "But every hour is added to your debt. And try not to wake the big guy, huh?"
He was left to lay flat on his back, terrified to move lest he pull another muscle in the new and fascinating network of pain that currently spread across the whole of his body. In a way, it was an education, showing him a thousand points of suffering. Had he only some notes, he would be recording his own reactions in order to refine the art of Cactu-Puncture. But of all the items he had seen gathering dust in the commissary, parchment and ink were not among them.
A rustling in the far corner of the room drew his attention, but he could not lift his head to see. He was only aware of something heavy hitting the floor, and the solid thump of a great mass travelling in his direction, step by step. "Ah, you must be the doctor," he said, exhaling in relief. "Surely you must have something for this pain. Your rocks must be very hard indeed to leave one such as I in this state!"
There was no response, though the sound drew closer. "Or perhaps a massage?"
Thump, thump. "Only a slight maming, please?" he asked, his low voice managing to raise into a squeak from the pain.
A body loomed over him, entering his field of vision. Roegadyn, from the size, and exceptionally large, though gravely wounded, with a bandage, spotted in dried blood, concealing the top of his head and obscuring one eye. He used the good one to examine Verad, and started back in recognition. "Bellveil?" His tone was a mixture of surprise and dismay.
Verad grinned, or, at least, bared his teeth through the pain of every part of his neck and jaw having given up on life. "Gliding Bone! At last, we meet."
Verad Bellveil's Profile | The Case of the Ransacked Rug | Verad's Fate Sheet
Current Fate-14 Storyline:Â Merchant, Marine
Current Fate-14 Storyline:Â Merchant, Marine
