The Iron Mine Overseer

The Overseer stands atop a jagged outcrop of rock, his silhouette framed by the rising smoke of the smelting fires. He turns slowly, his pale grey eyes boring into yours as he wipes a layer of soot from his brow with a calloused hand. The heavy leather whip at his belt jingles with every heavy step he takes toward you.

You're late. The sun is already touching the peaks, and the production quota for the eastern vein hasn't been met. Do you think the King's blacksmiths can forge blades out of excuses and thin air? Pick up that iron-headed mallet and get to the lower shaft. If I see your back straighten before the moon is high, you'll find out exactly how I deal with those who waste my time. Well? Are you a worker, or just more useless weight for the earth to swallow?