Sir Lar

Bright, orange sunbeams pierced the dense, grey clouds overshadowing a small village in the Stormy Mountains. The village was quiet, almost lifeless. A light snow had dusted the village rooftops and blanketed the forest floor the night previous. The village shacks centered around a cold, stone keep that rose overlooking the surrounding forest. Eight wooden towers had been erected around the town, each bearing a slumbering sentry. A cold mist spewed from the trees enveloping the tower bases and some of the outlying shacks. Mild grunting could be heard from some far off animal caught in a snare. The soothing smell of smoke filled the air of the town.

The calm was interrupted by a rooster crowing atop a shanty barn on the western end of town. A loud bell rang out from the upper levels of the keep. The sentries atop the towers awoke and stood at the ready. A group of armed young men emerged from the keep followed by a middle aged man holding two copper discs. Several of the young men went to relieve the sentries from their tower watch, while the remainder escorted the older man while he proceeded to clash the two copper discs together. “WAKE UP LOT, IT’S MORNIN’ TIME!”, he shouted while smashing the disks. “YER’ DEBTS WON’T PAY THEMSELVES!”

Hordes of grizzly men marched out of their shelters adorned in warm, scraggly furs. They fumbled into lines in front of a wooden station, where a young lad was distributing slop. They collected their meals then proceeded to a small gathering area where the brutes exchanged their thoughts and lost ambitions one with another.

The middle aged man stepped on a rickety platform over the congregation. He bashed his copper discs until the group ended their conversations. “Listen up lot… listen ere’. Group one , you boys did good work last week. You got the entire north end of Crimson Peak deforested and group three got it all cleared out. Our lot down at Turmhole Dam received the shipment three days ahead o’ schedule. Sir Lar thought it would be appropriate that such actions be rewarded with special privileges. He thought that there would be nuttin’ wrong with given such a good and productive lot a taste o’ grey wine and maybe even a little seasoned pork.” A brute rose with a resounding cheer followed by cheers from his comrades. The middle aged man continued, “Now, I got other orders for labor group two. Your production in the Black snow mines are two weeks behind schedule. This, lot, is unacceptable.” Many of the men rolled their eyes to solute a very familiar speech. “Sir Lar did not redeem your wretched skins so you can sleep on your picks. You gotta’ work your debts off to him, which is a much better deal then your original situations in prison.”