Camp Commander Sarion Bjorn gritted his teeth at the report that had been provided to him three days ago by the head supervisor of the mine. He had over two hundred miners in the Tora vein in the godforsaken mountain, and for some mysterious reason, they still weren't hitting their daily quota.
A quota that he'd personally set way lower than the forecasted ore that could potentially be mined in the vein. It hadn't been a generous act on his part, something to ease the workload of his miners—no. Sarion had a handful of miners smuggling Tora ore out of the mine to him, a little treat for himself, off the books of course. The problem came when he realized that he wasn't the only one diverting ore from the mine.
As it was, their mine was having a shortage of about 20% in the quota he'd told the head supervisor to set. Not only were the miners stealing from him, they were bold with it. He'd begun making examples in the camp, though, sending out the few miners he'd caught to 'patrol'. A little cunning act from his end: if the miners didn't return from their 'patrols', he could put out an order for a search party to find them. Peradventure they were discovered dead in some part of the forest, all he'd need to do is deliver a little speech, and the rest of the camp would be ready at his signal to clear out the surroundings. A win-win situation, except for the fact that he wasn't meeting up with the quota he'd informed Relas Touch that he'd have ready.
Those little bastards are stealing from me.
He needed to handle it urgently before the matter would devolve into something else entirely. A hard hand would need to be enforced, but Sarion was wary of turning the miners against him. Fear could only go so far when it came to miners.
Thud!
Sarion's meaty palm came down hard on his desk, rattling the entire thing. He was the only one permitted to 'steal' Tora, as he was the one organizing and protecting these buffoons from whatever evil lurked in the forest. Stroking his beard, he got off his chair and stared at his office mirror, his dwarven frame barely filling the frame.
Hardened muscles covered the entirety of his frame, his brown beard reaching his chest while the hair on his head was tied into a neat ponytail. Sarion wasn't like the other dwarves who liked to fight or forge weapons in oppressive heat. No, he had a different path than most, one that had made him sort of a social outcast in his own clan.
They didn't say anything when Sarion made his decision to let his system-given Archetype of a Berserker go dormant while he followed the path of a miner. Instead, they began to edge away from him, 'forgetting' to invite him to social gatherings and the like. Eventually, Sarion made his peace with it and joined the closest Mining crew—Relas Touch.
It was a mining guild filled with gremlins and other outcasts like himself, working to make a name for themselves while avoiding bloodshed. At the time, he'd thought he'd finally found a way to beat the system at its own game, but it turned out that the system always won.
Sarion glanced at his palm. It was clean right now, but he knew the truth. His hands were stained with the blood of innocents. This was his seventh baby world in the span of ten years. Each world the heads of Relas Touch sent him to hardened him. He killed the surrounding inhabitants of any mine he discovered as soon as he could. He liked to tell himself he was dealing with a potential problem before it could materialize, but it was just a way for him to drown the guilt.
It was logical still. He'd seen what could happen when native inhabitants discovered the use of Tora ores. He'd been nothing but a greenhorn in the 128th company when they'd been attacked by native inhabitants. The natives managed to kill a couple of them by surprise, but in reality, they stood no chance against the higher-leveled amongst them.
It was a massacre. He'd had the fragile mindset of peace stripped off of him after watching his friend die that day. The worst part was that it could have been him dying in some backwater baby world. Since then, Sarion made the solemn vow to be cold and ruthless. He killed on a whim. He needed but a stray thought to move him into action. His sprees improved his Berserker Archetype and, by extension, his Gladiator class.
Reports of him were sent to the head offices, which began Sarion's ascent upon the steps of hierarchy, eventually making his way to camp commander. It wasn't an amazing title in the grand scheme of things, but at least he didn't have to mine anymore. All he had to do was fill out a couple of paperwork and sign some shit he didn't care about. He looked focused and relaxed when talking to his miners, but in truth, he was itching for a fight.
A rap on the door shook him out of his thinking.
"Come in," Sarion called out, taking his seat behind the desk.
Nikit walked in, the gremlin shorter than Sarion by a good bit, which made him feel a lot better about himself. After all, it wasn't that often that he got to see someone who was shorter than him.
"Nikit, how can I help you?" Sarion asked his head supervisor.
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"My Commander, I am afraid our issue of theft is getting worse by the day. At this rate, we'd have to reduce the quota before the week runs out," the gremlin timidly said.
Sarion hid his true feelings on the matter behind a facade of indifference, stroking his beard as he pretended to consider the issue. He couldn't show weakness to anyone. Childish rage was looked down upon more than anything. It was best to remain calm and unpredictable.
"Is that so?" Sarion mumbled rhetorically, receiving a nod from the trembling head supervisor regardless.
His current punishment would have to suffice. Maybe he could tweak the parameters a little bit, but nothing that would seem too unreasonable to the miners. Something that'd make them think twice before stealing but at the same time prevent them from rioting at his orders.
"Let them know that whoever is caught stealing will be cut off from food rations for a week and also be sent further out into the forest to patrol," Sarion said with a bored tone.
"I will, sir!"
"Fantastic. Anything else?" Sarion asked the head supervisor who'd still not asked to take his leave.
"...No, sir!" Nikit said.
Sarion could tell that the head supervisor wanted to say something but had held himself back at the last minute. But he couldn't be bothered to press it out of the man's throat, especially with the facade he was currently putting on.
"Good. Dismissed."
He watched with a bored expression as the gremlin exited his office, closing the door behind him. His expression morphed as he heard the click that came with his door closing.
Veron's clangers.
These miners were going to wreck him if he didn't do anything fast. The absence of a battle in his last baby world seemed to have diluted his bloodthirsty reputation. They weren't afraid of him; they didn't respect him as their better. He needed a show of force, and he needed it like yesterday.
Running a hand through his head, he considered the options he currently had at his disposal. Publicly executing a couple of thieving miners would solve the fear problem, but it'd probably reduce productivity, which would still negatively affect the fulfillment of the quota.
Giving them some heartfelt speech wouldn't even leave a scratch on the ruthless minds of his miners, most of whom were fighters like himself, eagerly waiting for a reason to let loose.
The last option seemed like the best course of action: give the people what they wanted. He'd give them a battle if it was all it'd take to help let loose some of that tension and at the same time make them realize why it'd be futile to go against his orders.
I just need scapegoats.
Getting off his arse with a grunt, Sarion left his office and began heading to the mines himself. Sometimes it was good for people to see true power walk amongst them, plus he thought it wise to have his war hammer by his side for this particular 'stroll'.
With a thought, his massive war hammer was within his grasp. The true identifier of a dwarf was the hammer. It didn't matter which class or Archetype they belonged to—the hammer was their identity as a race, and those who opted for other weapons were looked down upon, not that Sarion would judge, considering his own experience with judgment.
As he walked amongst the tents and hastily made-up 'buildings', he received greetings from all around. He made sure to respond in some fashion, preferring to nod for the most part, but he also exchanged words with a couple of others as he made his way to the mine.
While the camp itself mainly comprised miners, it also had a couple more additions to it. He had the patrols, the cooks, the logistics people, and a couple of others that were all under him.
The commander.
Sarion's smile widened at the thought, even as he walked through the camp. The promotion had happened two years ago after he'd been recalled back into the Relas Touch branch in his home world—Moctera. It was after he'd stepped up to lead his company that had been assigned to handle a baby world after their commander had been assassinated in his sleep.
Not that uncommon when it came to mining expeditions. Deaths happened, and the higher-ups rarely cared about the location or the how. They just replaced and replaced, keeping the chain of command going so that they could continue the flow of Tora back there.
This was a piece of information that had troubled Sarion at the time, but he'd been too excited for the promotion to think it through. And even with all the terrible information he had now on what being an official commander meant and the risks that came with it, he wouldn't change his decision.
The only painful niggle in the equation was that he'd had to give up drinking ale ever since the promotion. He'd kept a clear mind since the day after celebrating his promotion in a tavern back home. From that day to the present one, he'd avoided ale like it was the plague, preferring to keep his mind sharp in case of attempts on his life—and yes, there had been attempts, multiple.
Each of them had ended the same way, with his assailants publicly executed. Power was everything in the new world, and people did anything to get it and went even further to keep it. Same as him. If sacrificing taking some ale down was all Sarion needed to do to keep his life and his new status, then he'd do it without batting an eyelid.
The mine was within his sight, and he calmly watched gremlins and dwarves alike moving crates of the precious ore into storage as he walked. The crates were filled to the brim with the glowing rock. His eyes met theirs, and they greeted him, receiving a nod in return as he focused on his destination.
A soft pressure pushed on his senses as he stepped into the mine proper. The place was darker than the rest, as it'd been picked till only a few Tora remained to light the way. He continued making his way into the deeper parts of the mine, clangs echoing around as gremlins and dwarves alike used pickaxes to get the ore out, the latter race swapping out their hammers for pickaxes to work.
Sarion stared at the work going on in satisfaction. The miners around him greeted him before returning to work. He stared across the mine in equal parts greed and cunning. While the mine would fill his pockets, a battle would quench his bloodlust.
I just need scapegoats.