“You hear the announcement?”
“Yeah, sounds like another generation is bout’ to vanish from the town.”
The other miner sighed, his soot-covered shoulders sagging.
“Town’s already dying, this might be the final nail in the coffin.” The other miner mused, thinking of his son. Jerod, who just started growing hair on his lip. Poor kid had no idea what was coming.
“Town’s never not been dying. Hell, I don’t think this town has ever been alive.” One miner chuckled, momentarily breaking the gloomy tension.
The two aged miners were pulled from their thoughts when something blocked out the flickering light cast from the lantern above them, their only source of light down in the tunnels.
“Move.” It grunted, a massive iron pickaxe resting against one great shoulder.
The two miners wordlessly shuffled aside, making way for the brute in the cramped shaft. Neither bothered to greet the giant, both knew it was pointless.
Everyone knew how much Bron hated small talk.
It was something you’d learn from your very first day in the mines because if there was one constant in the Deep-burrow mines, it would be Bron.
Bron had been working in the mines longer than any other. The old orc would be nearing his 80th birthday by now, and he’d been labouring down in the depths for at least 70 of those years. It was work that could drive a man mad, go to the vein, swing a pickaxe, fill a sack, climb back up. Repeat.
Even among coal mines, the Deep-burrow mine was infamous for its shit working conditions, monotonous labour and lack of railed carts.
Hell, even the pay was shit.
Most who worked here only did so out of desperation, and never for long.
But not Bron.
----------------------------------------
Grey…
Grey…
Grey…
Grey streaked with black.
Bron dropped his sack on the floor, the rough fabric rustling as he kicked it aside.
800 metres down and he was still finding coal. Bron wondered if this gods-forsaken mine would ever run empty, he was starting to doubt it.
With a firm hold on his rusted pickaxe, Bron struck the vein with a heavy blow. Barely even feeling the vibration, he reared back and swung again. Settling into the familiar routine, Bron slipped into autopilot. Staring blankly at the wall with old, tired eyes.
Shards of rock bounced off his burly chest in great amounts, the rock quickly yielding to Bron’s impressive orcish strength. He was no stranger to this work, and it showed. His pickaxe precisely targeting the surrounding granite, gradually revealing the (not so) precious mineral.
Bron could do this work in his sleep by now, countless days spent in the mines had turned the old Orc into a master at his craft. He knew exactly what striking stone felt like, and what striking coal felt like.
Which is why he was so startled when he struck something hard, something that did not yield to his strength.
Metal.
Leaning in, Bron none too gently brushed aside the gathered dust. But the second his hand touched cool metal, an unbearably painful shock ran through his body, his every muscle locked in place.
“AURGH!” was all the Orc could grunt out from seized lips, his shaking body immediately collapsing to the ground. Bron vaguely felt his head bounce off the stone floor through the haze of pain.
Thank gods for thick Orc skulls.
[BEGINNING BIOLOGICAL SCANNING]
An impossibly loud voice blared, with a buzzing voice Bron swore he could feel down to his soul. He desperately looked around for who it was, but all he could see was the stone ceiling above him, his body still not obeying him.
[SAPIENT RECOGNISED – COMMENCING PLASMA INTEGRATION]
“ARRRRGHH” Bron’s screams filled the cramped shaft as liquid fire ran through his veins, boiling his body from the inside out.
[PLEASE STAY CALM]
“ORAHH! FUCK YOUR CALM”
[FORMING AI]
“GORODS GRIMY BALLS!”
[AI FORMATION COMPLETE]
[CRUCIBLE COMPLETE]
The mind-numbing pain finally subsided.
Bron lay on the cool floor for what felt like hours, just breathing. Taking great big gulps of the air his paralysed body previously denied him.
Dear gods almighty, Bron should have known better. He’d worked in these damn mines his entire life, he knows the 3 rules.
Don’t eat weird shit, don’t touch weird shit, don’t even fucking look at weird shit.
It was a simple set of rules that had kept Bron alive for more than 70 gods’ damn years, and he went and broke em, and look what happened.
He got electrocuted, and probably injected with some hopefully not deadly hallucinogenic drug.
He was too old for this shit.
[You’re never too old to defecate Bron.]
Huh, guess the drugs haven’t worn off yet.
[If you don’t have a consistent digestive practice, I could suggest some good medicinal plants that can improve your internal bacterial environment]
Bron brought himself back to his feet with a grunt, eyeing the weird metal thing with apprehension. Without taking his eyes from the blasted thing, he grabbed his sack and pickaxe and walked back up the shaft. Only looking away once he turned a corner.
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[It’s quite alright Bron, the procedure is complete. Making contact with the delivery unit won’t activate it.]
Bron needed a drink, or several. Maybe with a generous amount of grog, he could flush out this annoying drug.
[I’m no drug, Bron. I’m a biologically implanted nerve-imprinting artificial intelligence biomancer, or BINAB]
Hell, with any luck Bron might even die from alcohol poisoning. Death didn’t seem like much after that experience.
----------------------------------------
“Early night Bron?”
“Hmph.”
“Alright, you meet your coal quota?”
“Hmph.”
“That’s okay, I’ll just add it to tomorrows work-day.”
“Hmph.”
With a final grunt to the Lead-man, Bron left the mine. His head aching, and his wallet empty.
Today was turning out to be a pretty shitty day.
[I’ve been scanning through your memories Bron and I have to say, you don’t get out much do you?]
Bron followed the worn track through the Dark-wood forest, lofty trees adorned with thick vines towering over the large Orc. The occasional hoot of a Muck Ape echoing through the untamed woods. Thankfully, a generous few meters were cleared out either side of the track, to make any lurking predators slightly easier to spot. Unfortunately, the mine had been built right on the coast, so the sound of crashing waves made the perfect blanket of sound for predators to hide in.
Not that being able to see or hear a Fern Lion would make any difference.
Soon the narrow dirt track became a muddy road, and the dark woods faded behind him.
There were very few buildings in the town, a small corner store, a filthy bar held together with luck and a few rusty nails, and a dozen or so dirty huts built with whatever people had on hand. Sticks, cloth, bark. No house was the same, but all houses were similarly destitute.
Home sweet home.
[Well, this is depressing.]
----------------------------------------
Mudlock was supposed to be a temporary town. Only set up by desperate miners to extract anything they could from the small coal vein nearby, a project that was supposed to take only a few months.
But the Deep-burrow mine, as it would later be called, wasn’t as small as they thought. It just kept going and going, with no end in sight even 90 years later. the town and mine were still alive, if barely. Clinging to life like a drowning rat.
It was a terrible town in the middle of nowhere, with barely any supplies sent to it by a kingdom that often forgets its existence. All in all, a horrible place to call home.
But, Bron had been living here since he was 8. Having moved here after his family were killed, and he’d been here ever since. Doing the same job, every day, every year.
It wasn’t an interesting life, but for an Orc with no credentials or noticeable skills, it was about as much as he could hope for.
Well, either that or working as a slave-soldier for the kingdom.
[So, um… which lovely house is yours?]
Oh right, grog. Bron needed to flush this… whatever it was, out of his system the only way he knew how.
[I’m not a drug Bron. I’m a biologically implanted nerve-imprinting artificial intelligence biomancer]
And that damn stubby better not water it down.
[I know you can hear me.]
----------------------------------------
Dranik’s bar wasn’t too busy, only one or two patrons drinking at a rotting wooden table. The bar never did get many customers until the miner’s shift ended, then Dranik could rake in some real money. No-one drank more than coal miners who hated their lives.
The short dwarf chuckled as he wiped down his bench with some of the new disinfectants brought in with the supply wagon, thankfully the crown finally remembered that this mudhole existed.
Pausing in his cleaning, Dranik poured himself a small cup of fine liqueur, the good shit he once drank with his friends back in Karrak. After all, miners weren’t the only ones who hated their lives.
“Oh yeah, this old mining town’s finishing up. Just sign this contract to run a bar till we dry out the mine.” Dranik mumbled, not the for first time, as he brought the cup to his lip.
“It’s only got a few months left in it, should be a good bit of cash for the holiday.” He continued, slamming the empty cup down pouring himself another.
“It’s only a lock-in contract for formality really, to make sure you don’t run off with all the proceeds. Like we said, it's only for a few months.” Another cup was poured, the harsh drink slightly overflowing.
“few months my ARSE! 15 gods’ damn years in this BUNGHOLE!” The furious dwarf bellowed, ignored by the few customers who’d long since grown used to the barkeeps' spiel.
The angry dwarf was very much a constant in the small town, one of 3 actually.
Dranik was always angry, the mine was always open and…
Bang! The reed door was slammed open, and in walked the third constant of Mudlock.
Bron.
A large Orc who stood head and shoulders above even the tallest humans in Mudlock, and far wider too. Bulky muscular arms connected to burly shoulders, a substantial gut and dull green skin. All together with a face not even a mother could love, lopsided, wrinkled and with two worn tusks jutting from perpetually frowning lips. But who wasn’t frowning in Mudlock?
“Oh great, you. I was wondering why the average intellect of the room just plummeted.” Dranik grumbled, already grabbing the largest pitcher he had.
“Grog. Now, tunnel rat.” Bron spat, resting his bulk against the old stained counter.
[That sounded racist.]
“Don’t ye speak to me like that! Ye fat fuckin pig face!” The angry dwarf retorted.
[That sounded really racist.]
The red-faced dwarf started pouring some of his cheapest, nastiest swill into the pitcher, adding some of his disinfectants for an aftertaste. Maybe this time the great old oaf would go blind.
“I see you skimping me stump, more.”
Dranik sneered at the Orc but added more disinfectant all the same. All but throwing the pitcher at the Orc, taking some joy in the splash that hit the Orcs shirt when Bron caught it.
But Bron couldn’t care less about his rags, and immediately downed the pitcher in great gulps.
One of the men drinking at the table stared in awe at Bron, who just drank what had to be the highest proof alcohol in the kingdom like it was damn water. The men drinking with him barely even glanced, having seen the same feat and more many times.
Bron pounded the bench with his empty pitcher.
“More.”
[How are you still alive?]
“Shut up!”
Dranik watched the old Orc warily, pouring the bane of his bar another drink. Seeing the Orc now shouting at nothing, the Dwarf felt true hope finally light in his heart, a tiny ember of optimism. That maybe, just maybe, Old Bron had finally lost it.
Orcs were a strange people, long thought to be beasts and monsters cursed by an old vengeful god and given sapience. But what made them truly unique among the sapient, was their strength. An Orc in the midst of a battle-rage had truly fearsome might and was more than powerful enough to rip the limbs off any unfortunate man who crossed their path.
And an Orc never lost their strength, not even old age could blunt their edge. Orcs reached their physical prime around the age of 40, and never leave it. An orc in their 80’s was every bit as physically capable as a younger Orc, but they could die of age just the same.
Apparently, it usually began with the deterioration of their minds over the span of a few days, then they die quietly in their sleep. Like their bodies, the finely tuned war machines that they are, just turn off.
And Bron was nearing that age.
Wouldn’t be all that strange for the grumpy Orc to one day just, not show up to Draniks bar.
Oh, how he couldn’t wait for the day…
“Another.”
Passing the Orc shaped problem another drink, Dranik lamented that today wasn’t that day.
[Fascinating, your species biology seems very capable! Even your blood-filtration levels are off the charts, perhaps an early evolutionary trait to deal with poison?]
Bron angrily rubbed his brow, this weird hallucination just wouldn’t go away. Usually, Bron was damn near immune to toxins and drugs, maybe he was getting near that age.
Whatever, maybe if he drinks enough, he’ll forget he was drugged.
[That’s not how that works.]
“This is going on your tab Tusker. With interest.”
----------------------------------------
Bron tasted mud.
Why was walking so hard? Clumsily putting an arm against the ground, Bron heaved himself upright. Nearly tipping back the opposite direction.
[You biologically sapient beings confound me. Purposely poisoning yourselves for what? Fun? From what I’m reading your endorphin levels actually dropped, so not even you think this is fun.]
Damn fucking flea-bearded ale-stain stopped passing him drinks, saying some nonsense about, ‘Not wanting a fat dead swamp skin rotting up his bar’, as if a little grog could kill Bron. Tomorrow, Bron swore he’d drown the rock gobbler in his own piss.
If he could just figure out where he was?
If back that way was the bar, then his hut should be somewhere to the east, near the forest's edge. Wait, where was east?
[East should be toward your left.]
“Feck off ya grimy git, and git outta my fuckin head!” Bron roared at the persistent voice, he was starting to think it wasn’t just a drug.
[No, your other left.]
The stupid voice didn’t know what it was talking about, Bron had lived in this mudhole his entire life. He knew his gods' damn way around.
[This is the complete opposite direction.]
His hut should be around here somewhere…
[The town is barely 200 square meters; this should not be this difficult.]
“You think this is my first rodeo?” Bron questioned the sky, who never seemed to shut up!
[You’re staring at an empty road, if you’d just turn arou-]
WHO MOVED ALL THE FUCKING HUTS?
[Creator give me strength.]