Murphy was well-versed in the folly of villains who prattled overmuch, so he refrained from foolishly divulging his background to the failed staff.
"Send them to the pastures, it's all the same," he dismissed the confused looks and exited the adventurer's guild reception hall.
A few prepared miner skeletons cooperated to string up the slumped bodies and haul them out, trundling their haul towards the conveyor at Clyster Street.
It mattered little that some were Seth's age in Murphy's eyes - they were equal prey.
By nightfall, around three hundred reserve troops remained at large. Their disgraced captain puffed out his chest, vowing this matter rested entirely on his shoulders.
The miner skeletons scoured every corner of City of Gath, the captain's diligent assistance leading them from the red light district to culverts, rooftops and even the homes of a few dimwits. With their leader's treacherous defection, most soldiers promptly surrendered, weapons clattering to the ground.
By dawn, nearly two thousand captured reserves involved in the incident had been packaged and conveyed to hastily constructed "pasture" pens at the city's outskirts.
While the prisoners rekindled family ties in the "Happy Pastures", Murphy remained industrious. He had vampire thralls deliver stockpiled medical supplies - including treatments for external injuries - he'd long commissioned.
Considering most prisoners sported cracked skulls, Murphy opted to start by treating their wounds to preserve working efficiency. Under the miner skeletons' intimidating presence, few dared defy orders as officers and grunts alike queued for the decidedly dubious skeletal "medics'" herbal remedies.
As soothing coolness spread across their battered heads, the wounded marveled at the benevolent wizard's compassion, even towards captives. Just as tears of gratitude welled, a swooning dizziness overcame them. Soon, every prisoner sprawled insensibly.
"They laced it with sedatives! The fiends!"
Murphy emerged outside the fenced pasture, surveying the fields of prostrate bodies with a nod to the skeleton medics. "Not bad dosages, lads."
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"You honor us, Your Majesty," they bowed, clutching their skulls proudly.
"Everything's ready?" Murphy scanned their preparations.
The skeletons arranged behind him straightened respectfully. After a brief incantation, Murphy's mass teleportation whisked them, along with the crumpled prisoners, away in a brilliant flare.
Miles beyond the trade outpost's desolate foothills...
Murphy and his skeleton guardians materialized from the radiance as the dazed prisoners plopped gracelessly like dumplings into a pre-designated enclosure.
This fenced area dwarfed the cave pen, spanning miles to accommodate basic camps, a freshly dug well, and hundreds of agricultural tools littering the barren soil.
Donning his skeletal visage, Murphy subtly adjusted his robes and bearing before telekinetically plucking Witt and the captain from the prisoner pile.
Considering the sluggish awakening such spells induced, he opted for a true mass rouse instead.
The dazed captives rose groggily, comprehension dawning as their surroundings' unfamiliarity curdled into foreboding dread.
A confident baritone commanded their attention. "Gentlemen, if I may have your eyes."
Assured of his audience, Murphy continued genially, "Allow me to clarify your situation. Due to a...misguided endeavor that sadly failed, you now find yourselves the captives of one Murphy the mage."
"This Murphy fellow just so happens to be in my employ. I, Lord Toras, am rather shorthanded for agricultural labor. Upon learning of your...availability, I insisted you resourceful tools - my apologies, able-bodied resources - be conscripted over. So fear not, sirs, you've been spared execution!"
Murphy swept an arm indicating the fallow expanse behind them. "In the days ahead, you'll be responsible for tilling and cultivating these fertile lands."
Gasps rippled through the captives as the gravity sank in. Murphy raised a reassuring hand. "Now, to inspire your utmost diligence: any man who fulfills one year's honest labor shall earn his unconditional freedom!"
The hopeful murmurs stilled as the wizard's gaze sharpened with paternal encouragement. "One year contains three hundred and sixty five days of twenty four hours each. Work merely eight thousand, seven hundred and sixty hours collectively, and you may return home as proud, emancipated citizens!"
A bucket of icy realization doused their smoldering embers of hope.
"Factoring our humane eight hour workday policies, you'll more realistically require a thorough three year tenure, barring exceptions."
"But I understand the fervid zeal of the working man's heart!" Murphy raised a placating hand. "To accommodate such admirable fervor, I grant you the privilege of overtime labor accruing towards your quota. Any excess hours beyond the daily eight shall count towards your eight thousand, seven hundred and sixty hour requirement. Anyone achieving that total shall earn immediate release!"
His declaration met with deafening stillness, faces mirroring grim resignation until a blazing determination - the passion of honest toil - flickered in their eyes, many captives already eyeing the distant mounds of tools with new regard.
At length, one gruff voice rang out: "When can we start, sir?"