Toiling in the Deep Caves

In the Under-Lands of Armaviri, a Kovaxian Deep Mining Company makes an unexpected discovery. Occupational health and safety violations ensue.

“Hey! Be careful with that!” yelled the diminutive man, his face turning redder than iron forgotten in a burning forge. He waved his short hands furiously, trying to catch the attention of the 9-foot-tall, pug-faced Cave Troll — a creature with a face only a mother could love, and even then, with some reservations. The lumbering giant, not a clever man by any measure of cleverness most of us would use, ignored the Far Darrig trying to get his attention. It was easy; the Far Darrig¹ was only 3 feet tall. He hefted the giant drill bit into the chamber with a great heave and grunt.

The powerful machine clanked in the way that heavy machines do when hundreds of kilos of metal slam into thousands of kilos of metal.

“The manual clearly states that loading the rune-bit is a two troll job! Those bits cost more than your contract, Gran’t! More than YOU cost!” The Far Darrig spat his fury at the Troll, who looked at him with a dissociatively amused expression.

“Then buy another Troll and let me take a vacation,” Gran’t rumbled dismissively.

“If I bought another troll,” the Far Darrig snapped back, “I'd make sure he could read a manual!” 

Gran’t had been at this job for too long and had seen Copelin’s kind before. They didn’t last long in the deep mines. Too much rock dust for their small lungs to handle safely for long. 

The Far Darrig stomped his small, expensive shoes in frustration. Gran’t and Copelin were like oil and water. Even though Copelin was the boss of this operation, Gran’t didn’t extend him the respect that he DESERVED as Gran’t’s owner. Well, contract supervisor to be more precise. It amounted to the same thing these days, but the Trolls didn’t like being called ‘slaves’. So, to avoid a general strike or violent riots, a more palatable term was coined. Troll riots were something best avoided, given their penchant for tossing boulders and smashing buildings. But, oh, they made such good labourers. 

So, the term "Contracted Employee" was born. Never mind that the contracts bound for several decades and the terms read as if they were were clearly penned by a sociopath.

Most Trolls couldn’t read.²

But they were really good at organizing riots.

“Bah. If that bit is damaged, it’s coming out of your pay, Gran’t. YOUR pay. Not mine,” Copelin huffed.

“It’s not damaged,” Gran’t said, dismissing his supervisor with a nonchalance that only seasoned labourers could muster.

“Good! Then fire it up. We’ve got a long way to go until we find the Mithril vein our Scryveyors detected in their geoviewing. And let me remind you, none of us get time off until that vein is found!” Copelin declared, as if this were groundbreaking news. The crew had hit overtime by day three. It had been a long week.

Gran’t grunted, a sound that echoed through the cavern, as he locked the massive drill bit in place. He then ambled to the back of the hefty device to initiate its startup sequence. The machine before them was an underground heavy borer, a beast of a device reserved for when rock proved too stubborn for a general mining crew. In a realm where magic could run wild, where creatures of the deep left behind bizarre bio-matter that turned to stone, or when they encountered a highly obstinate chunk of rock, extreme measures were needed. This was one of those moments. 

This time, they couldn’t even identify the type of rock they were dealing with. Which was unusual, given that the geo-engineers were rock aficionados. They didn't just understand rocks; they lived and breathed them.³ They knew all the rocks by name, and some, by personality. 

This rock was different. It was sheer, smooth, and invulnerable even to the specialized crew of Trolls using enchanted pick axes. So after weeks of frustrated effort, the Kovaxian Deep Mining Company had finally given up, shelled out the extra funds, and rented the Spyder Power Drill. A semi-recent invention by Artificer Jul’an Spyder, who, while being a brilliant inventor and magician, was also a massive narcissist and felt there weren’t enough spider-shaped magical power tools in the world. Oh yay.

Gran’t yanked on the lever at the back of the Spyder Drill. As the machine whirred to life, its eight legs danced a jittery jig as it powered up. Powerful metal legs then pushed back in every direction, anchoring itself into the tunnel walls. The runes on the front of the bit began to glow with a bright orange light as it began to spin. With a determined thrust, the contraption rammed the now-spinning bit into the rock wall. Smoke fumes immediately started pouring off the contact point between the ‘rock’ and the bit.

Copelin, who had gotten his start in the deep mining industry as a safety inspector, immediately donned his mask. An expensive piece of enchanted cloth designed for both comfort and protection, filtering out the worst poisons that deep mining crews might encounter. Top of the line. Copelin gestured to Gran’t to put on his mask frantically. He couldn’t afford another safety violation on this crew this month.

Gran’t looked at him with a raised eyebrow. He knew as well as any other Troll on the crew that the masks Copelin provided the rest of them were practically useless. Plus, he was a Troll. Poisonous fumes are a “small folk" problem.

The pitch of the screaming bit rose several notches, and both Gran’t and Copelin put hands over their ears. This wasn’t a noise they typically heard down in the tunnels. It sounded less like cutting rock and more like cutting metal. Copelin started yelling something at Gran’t and waving his hands frantically at the machine, but since Copelin wasn’t a great communicator to start with, his hand gestures were utterly incomprehensible to Gran’t, who was instead staring at the wall in fascination.

Flaming debris shot off the enchanted drill in all directions, bright sparklers lighting up the entire tunnel. Both the bit and the wall began to glow with a searing intensity, reminiscent of the forges in the Dökkálfar districts. The hue of the sparks transformed from being a bright orange fire to a kaleidoscope of colours. Colours that Gran’t hadn’t seen in the tunnels in years. He didn’t venture to the city often, where nuances like ‘colour’ were more prevalent. In the tunnels, you had shades of grey, green, and blue. And that… that was about it. Not the vibrant greens and blues, but the muted and morose ones.

The Deep Bore Spyder Mark III, which had more bells and whistles than a wizard's convention, sizzled its way into the stubborn rock. And despite Copelin's escalating dread, which was now reaching levels previously reserved for that moment he realized he'd forgotten his mother's birthday (again), the drill worked its way through the audacious mysterious material that dared to block their path. The Spyder's enchantments, blatantly scoffing at the laws of physics, expanded the bit's reach beyond its mere metallic confines. A radiant cone of light began nibbling away at the edges of the hole, tailoring it to a more troll-friendly dimension. The entire rigmarole took a tad longer than one might have anticipated or hoped, even with the turbo-charged cutting light magic.

Finally, with a loud crack and whirr, reminiscent of an overworked coffee grinder on its last bean, the Spyder’s drill bit came to a rest. The whole machine settled back onto its haunches, much like a cat curling up after a long day of knocking things off shelves, its powerful leg braces retracting into the machine. Its energy cartridge was as drained as a college student’s coffee mug after finals.

Gran’t and Copelin blinked away their blindness from the flare of the fireworks, and stared at the now open hole into… emptiness?

“There wasn’t a cave network surveyed on the map… was there?” Copelin asked, his voice tinged with the kind of nervousness usually reserved for someone who's just realized they've forgotten their wedding anniversary. It was his job to know these things.

“No,” Gran’t replied, his tone as dry as a biscuit left out in the desert sun. He actually knew these things because he’d read the survey. There was supposed to be several hundred yards of rock between themselves and the Mithril deposit. There wasn’t supposed to be a surprise cave network.

They both hesitantly walked up to the edge of the entrance to the cave and peered in, as if expecting a 'Do Not Enter' sign to pop up.

It was a vast cavern, shaped like a dome. The insides of this dome were a veritable art gallery of ancient doodles, covered in pictographs and runes. And there, taking centre stage, was a massive pyramid.

A pyramid that seemed to have a troll-sized blue flame dancing a merry jig atop it, surrounded by five stone pillars standing in a circle, like attendees at a very exclusive rock concert.

Copelin let out a curse that would've made a sailor blush. Gran’t rumbled his agreement, sounding like a disgruntled bear who'd just missed out on a honey pot.

Their commercial operation had just morphed into an archaeological one. And the Aes Dunae were notorious for pinching pennies when it came to compensating honest, hardworking commercial operators like the Kovaxian Deep Mining company. Copelin, in a fit of melodrama, threw his hat and mask on the tunnel floor and let out a scream. It was a high-pitched scream, making him sound like a toddler denied his favourite toy. Gran’t, though equally frustrated⁴, couldn't help but find Copelin’s outburst amusing. He had to stifle a chuckle. Best not to poke the bear, or in this case, the irate Far Darrig.

Copelin launched into a colourful tirade, cursing his luck, the Dunae, and whichever bumbling gods or inept wizards had decided to plop this chamber right here. His rant went on and on until, quite suddenly, he went silent and toppled over, his face taking on the hue of week-old porridge.

Gran’t shook his head at the foolish, petty tyrant. Poisonous fumes were a short folk problem.

He scooped up the Far Darrig and began his lumbering trek back to the operations camp.

He’d have left the quarrelsome twit in those caves… but there was already going to be a mountain of parchment work awaiting him as is.

No sense making it longer by adding the “Subterranean supervisor final accident form” to the list.

1. The “Far Darrig” are the evil cousin-species to the “Leprechaun.” Preferring red clothes to green ones, the sacks they carry on their back are less likely to contain gold you can plunder, and more likely your neighbour’s children.

2. Gran’t could, he just knew better than to tell anyone.

3. In some cases, literally. There was a brisk trade in hallucinogenic rock powders in the under-lands.

4. Since this hiccup meant Gran’t’s dreams of receiving his overtime pay had just evaporated. The Far Darrig’s were masters of wage theft.