Darkshade Mine, 11th of Sun’s Dusk, 4E 205
“Move scum! I want a steady flow of that ore to the smelter or ten lashes for all of you!”
“Yes, sera…”
“Shut your mouth, Grayskin. Just keep moving.”
Lieutenant Hrolf Beinison stood glowering over a hunched Dunmer pushing a cart full of jagged hunks of ore from the mouth of Darkshade Mine. The cart was rather small in size but the ore was heavy and the Lieutenant knew it was a stout chore to push it across the uneven mine floor and then up the short ramp at the entrance and out. Not that it mattered of course, the mine was rich with gold and the dark elves had their purpose which was to strip it down to the last pebble broken backs or not.
Besides, they has made their choice not to support High King Ulfric in the war. In fact the dark elves had been nothing but a nuisance ever since tromping over the eastern border years ago and nesting down in Windhelm. Putting a heavy burden on the cities’ resources, taking work meant for Nord people, and the endless complaining about their lot in life when they were the ones who decided to intrude into Skyrim to begin with. It was bad enough the previous High King had let the damned elves into Nord lands, but they expected special treatment just because they were immigrants and fleeing a crisis of some sort.
Hrolf’s view on the current position of the dark elves was the view of many in Skyrim these days, thankfully. If they wanted to be part of Skyrim, they can make themselves useful. And what better way to do that than repay their debt to society by working the mines and filling Skyrim’s coffers? The fact that they had to be whipped and penned for such an arrangement just made it clear to Hrolf how much of an ungrateful nuisance the grayskins were.
The elf dumped the cart’s contents near the smelter where two others of his kind worked to purify the ore under the supervision of a guard. Hrolf watched arms crossed as the carter came by him again and descended back down into the depths of Darkshade to collect more ore. The hammering of pickaxes, scraping of shovels, and voices of guards and workers alike could be heard from within echoing against the cavernous walls. Dampened only by the rushing of the waterfall that roared over the nearby cliffs down into the White River.
The lieutenant turned his gaze off to the right where the Stormcloak encampment was. Four tents sat on the mine side river bank shared by the guards who kept watch outside. The night watch were all resting up until sundown when they would be roused from their tents for their shift. A wooden watch tower was built against the scaling rock wall near the small camp occupied by a single bowman, his eyes scanning the road near the opposite bank as well as the woods on the far side. The other two guards walked the opposite riverbank but never strayed out of sight. There were more men inside who were charged with overseeing mining and keeping an eye on the labor. At night they camped inside the mine and shared shifts to make sure no one attempted to flee or sabotage the mining operation.
Cracking his neck Hrolf strode forward walking past the two elves working the smelter and approached the guard watching them who snapped to attention, “Lieutenant, sir.”
“How is the load looking for today?” Hrolf asked.
“Rather sparse. Not as much ore today and I expect the same tomorrow, sir, perhaps even Middas as well.”
Lieutenant Hrolf grimaced though in truth he wasn’t surprised. This past week had been a rich load that was sent to Whiterun and the laborers were more busy today with opening up new tunnels and simply uncovering more veins than directly mining them. He figured it to take them all day today and most of tomorrow, but by Middas he expected more ore and less rock to come out in that cart. And if that meant pushing the elves harder past sundown tonight and tomorrow, so be it.
“Damned elf!”
Lanikil Helothron winced, teeth gritted as the armored hand slapped him across the face causing his cheek to sting and head to throb. "Pick it up and move!" Lanikil bit his tongue as he knelt down and gathered the chunks of rock he had dropped when he first fell. He was walking down one of the many narrow tunnels with an armload of ore for the cart when his shackles caught on a root poking out from a crag in the wall. He fell on his stomach and the rocks scattered across the floor, causing the guard near the entrance to leap on the chance to waylay him across the face. Such chances they all treasured it seemed as he heard a Dunmer woman cry out across the large central chamber as a Stormcloak struck her with his shield for some reason.
No, there is no reason for any of this... Lanikil thought as he stood with his burden.
They just hate us.The young Dunmer somberly dumped the ore into the near full cart and turned back for the tunnel from whence he came. He stepped to the side letting a red-haired Dunmer pass, the two’s jingling shackles pairing them as slaves under the boot of the Nords.
And I used to think the Gray Quarter was bad. Lanikil thought darkly as he seized his pickaxe from where he left it and went back to work, each swing he would pretend was to the skull of Ulfric Stormcloak. Chips of rock ricocheted off his arms and face as he struck the stone again and again, every breath was laced with a growing flame of hate within his soul.
I will not spend my life as a slave in this land serving a foreign king. And neither will the others.Lanikil planned to escape, he been planning it for weeks now, though in truth he was still working out exactly
how. The mine and outside camp were well watched and secured day and night and the locks on the sleeping pens were far from simple. Lanikil was no rogue and lock picking and sneaking around were not his vocations. Before all this he had been a hunter who sold meats and skins in the Gray Quarter to his fellows. Tracking, shooting a bow, and cleaning game were all he knew, he wasn’t an assassin of thief. Perhaps if he could get the key to his cell - but alas he was no pickpocket either and he dared not be caught by these Nords. At the very least they would lash or starve him for several days, at the worst he would be executed to set a more compelling example.
But Lanikil had no intention of dying in this mine or in Skyrim. Where would he go if he did escape? He would worry about that after he escaped. Part of him saw it as a futile concept, a ham fisted mental construct of misguided hope. The other half of him said he just had to wait - wait for the right time to make his move. Wait, and watch.
So he worked and toiled, sweat pouring down his gray flesh and matting his hair against his scalp and brow. His back, arms, and core burning and aching as he struck and struck, breaking stone and hauling it by the armfuls, the rocky jags scraping his skin and making his arms and hands gritty. His bare feet tender and callused from walking across the abrasive and harsh mine floor. His heart pained from the screams, cries, and groans of his fellows. Good men and women suffering under the tyranny of “The Bear of Markarth”. This pain would inevitably turn to anger and this anger drove him to survive and to wait for his moment to break free.
Brunwulf Free-Winter was no fool. When his associate
Tilsi told him of the four new potential recruits to their cause that would be coming to see him he knew that he needed to meet them somewhere other than his home. Receiving letters and having a sole Dunmer woman come and meet him every few days was one thing, but four strangers coming and going from his home was something else. Especially as he was already being watched by the Stormcloaks for his reputation of being opposed to Ulfric.
With Tilsi’s aid he had found a suitable enough place in the Gray Quarter to have a meeting with these four. It was an abandoned house that once belonged to a cobbler, an unfortunate soul that had been dragged off to work as slave labor in the mines. The house had been cleared out mostly aside from two beds and a few pieces of furniture here and there. And Brunwulf had even sound a stash of Honningbrew mead in a secret compartment in the upstairs bedroom.
He had asked Tilsi about these four new prospects, a Dunmer, an Altmer, a human, and a Khajit. The Dunmer, Velyn, was from right here in Windhelm and frequented the Corner Club. Brunwulf thought he recognized the name but he said nothing. The Altmer was found in Rorikstead which Brunwulf found a little odd but did not press. When he asked for a name Tilsi said the agent who had found him said he was mute, and while this troubled Brunwulf a little he would give the man a once over chance. The human was named Gungnir. The agent who had sent him along gave little on the man other than him having Nord blood and having recently been thrown in the Pit in Falkreath after a run-in with the guards. He certainly had a personal stake in joining the cause for sure. The Khajit had been separated from his caravan or something like that and seemed a bit of a wanderer now. The details on the cat were a little sketchy but Brunwulf certainly was not turning anyone away. He told himself that more recruits would come and for now this was a good start.
And now here he sat by the fireplace in the abandoned house, Tilsi standing across the room leant up near the doorframe, the bald Dunmer woman constantly glancing out the window nearby for any sight of a patrol. Before Brunwulf sat the four newcomers, potential additions to the Resistance. Each looked intimidating in their own right, and grouped together they looked rather formidable without doubt.
“So,” the weathered Nord said, breaking the silence, “you have come to join the Resistance, then? You are quite the group. Tell me a little of yourselves then. And what brought you here.”
Member
Shoopuf
Gunther
loco rococo
Birdboy
Vampiretwilight
iibread
FalkinPAAAWNCH
Sick Ducker
Bork
Bonesaw McGraw
