The Black Sands of Labor (Open)

[Franky]

Timestamp: Glade 20, 122 through Glade 35, 122

Franky sat in the passenger seat of the front wagon of the caravan he'd purchased. He shielded his eyes as he looked to the southeast, toward where the Serpent of the Sands was located, a few days ride away from their current location. The black sands of the Zerapheshi desert shown vividly under the Glade sun. They were located just south of the Cavendish mines. Franky was busy smoking his cigarette as he looked at the approaching people seeking work. He'd put word out through all of the lands of Zaichaer that he was hiring laborers and drivers for a job. He listed the wages and requirements and said anyone interested was to meet him either in Zaichaer the day prior or to meet out here on the 20th.

The growing crowd drew some interest from the guards that patrolled this main road, but not enough to bother too much. The patrols were heavier these days following the Dark Wedding. Franky didn't see anyone else coming to join this crowd, so he flicked his roach into the sands and stood up on the wagon.

"Welcome, all of you, to the Zerapheshi desert. Thank you for answering the call I put out. You've come for work and I'm here to provide it. The job itself is simple enough in concept. I have need of forty thousand bags of sand. Those of you hired will fill the bags with dry sand from this here desert, load them into the wagons, and unload them at their destinations. You're required to put in eight hours a day in order to receive your day's wage. We will not be operating outside of Zaichaer's influence, and as such, fall under the protection of the Zaichaer road guards. The drivers are solely responsible for the animals and the wagons. Each of you are responsible for your own meals. Water is provided. If you need transportation back to the city, you can catch one of the wagons in."

Franky pulled out a pile of papers and a box of pencils, "Fill these out with your names so that I can deposit the funds directly into your Central Bank Account. If you don't have one, I can have that set up for you."

Franky hopped down off the wagon, "If you have any questions on the job, ask them now. If you have any above average skills to make this go quicker, come speak to me. Anyone who works all fifteen days, and the job is completed in that time period, will receive a large bonus."

Franky lit up another cigarette, "The name's Franky. Speak your piece now, otherwise, let's get to work."

Purchases

► Show Spoiler

Wagon, Covered (45gp) x50 = 2250gp
Wagon, Harness (2 beasts) (5gp) x50 = 250gp
Elk, Cow (30gp) x100 = 3000gp
Shovel (2gp) x100 = 200gp
Sack (Empty) (1cp) x40,000 = 400gp

Materials subtotal = -6100gp

Hiring 100 laborers at 2gp/day at Novice relevant skill. Can be negotiated to higher. 15 days work.

Hiring 50 drivers at 5gp/day at Novice relevant skill. can be negotiated to higher. 15 days work.

[Imogen]

There wasn't much which was attractive about this job, but unfortunately it made too much sense to pass up.

Eight hours of work in the desert for fifteen days was a shit ask and it was absolutely unskilled labor, even worse than the kind which Imogen did regularly as a cover. The money was average, and it didn't even get her far enough away from the city for safe use of magic if anything went wrong. So why even consider it?

Easy- it made a great cover. Imogen had the money to cover the trip to Ecith which she had been suddenly tasked with, but there was no reason she should. The Pfenning paid her no better than Franky was promising to, and almost that entire amount went to rent and basic living expenses. Ordinarily, those two facts didn't necessarily sum to anything; even if Kane's accountants had thought to scrutinize a janitor's impromptu vacation, they had been too lazy and corrupt to follow through.

...except some asshole had replaced the comfortable, corrupt auditors with a new government, full of employees and officers eager to prove themselves. And she was preparing to book a trip to a foreign nation with which, though there was no official animosity, the government of Zaichaer was understandably leery. And she had just returned from another weird trip (how many vacations can a janitor get?). To Kalzasi.

It just didn't look good!

So here was a chance to earn extra cash to justify her trip, which she could pretend (and it would only take a little pretending, in truth) was actually some sort of cultural exchange. More than that, though, it got her out of the Theater right as the Order had suddenly stepped up inspections within the High City. While she was practiced at bullshitting inspectors as needed, there was little doubt that the Orkhan woman working on the nobby side of town was going to draw suspicion.

That was how she'd ended up out here in the desert, ten million miles from comfortable civilization, waiting to get a shovel for the legendary goblin lord of the Knob's mysterious sand-shoveling project. She took one of the forms as Franky spoke, jotting down her name and the ID for the clean account into which her legal monies were deposited. Her handwriting was clean and clear enough, as she'd been well-schooled in the Sanctuaries.

“Right, easy.” Imogen said, as he called for questions. She was a professional, no matter what she was doing, so she wasn't about to ask him for an explanation of what he wanted the sand for. “You got a floor boss, as it were? Someone we're to report aught to when you're not on site?” Good both to know who was in charge at a work site and who would be watching everyone.

[Franky]

One approached Franky, an Ork woman his height. She looked unassuming and capable enough. However, Franky was an Imperial by nature and he was more than aware of the Oath that Ecith had announced upon the world. Still, this one did not appear to be attacking him like a feral jungle creature like so many other Ecithians.

Maybe a foreignborn, unfettered by the Oath.

"Well, I've been waiting for one of these..." he looked around, an amused smile barely creeping on his face, "To step forward." Looking at Imogen in the eyes, his own containing a bit of sparkle of jest in them, "Seems I didn't have to wait long. Twice the pay rate for you to keep them in line and ensure we finish in a timely fashion. More if you finish ahead of schedule."

Franky was a quick judge of character, and this was a pretty straight forward transaction. If this Ork didn't want the job, so be it, he could find another. Supervisors for such menial tasks were easy enough to come by.

"You interested? Do well, I'll keep you in mind for other jobs."

Franky was already thinking of the rest of the steps in this process. Most people would accept such an offer. Twice the pay, no real stress, and less all day grunt work. "I'll hold an evening meeting with all the floor bosses every few days, at my tavern in town, on my coin. See how we're progressing."

He extended his scarred and wrinkled hand, "Want the job?"

[Imogen]

Well, you didn't get a choice this easy every day, that's for sure.

“Anything you say, boss.” Imogen took the old Hobgoblin's hand without hesitation, mirroring the firmness of his grip precisely as she'd been trained. “With your permission, I'll start by demonstrating to these lads the least unhealthy and painful method of pulling up sand for hours, and we'll get underway.” A man working with backache after two days was a man working at half-speed, and that was just considering the ill effects on the project, never mind the man's health.

Imogen was finished talking at that point; after Franky was done addressing his crew, she would gather the laborers around and go over the basics; doubtless a number of the people there were already quite familiar with operations like this, but Imogen preferred to assume that nobody knew what they were doing rather than be unpleasantly surprised.

~~~

“Alright, everyone. There are no tricks to this job.” Foreman Imogen held up one of Franky's shovels. “Take a moment to make sure you feel comfortable with the shovel you've got. If you think it might be the wrong size, look to trade with someone else, or you'll end up fighting with your own tool. Take another moment to check the blade, handle, and shaft for any cracks- check that every day before you start. Don't use a cracked shovel, it's a good way to get a surprise splinter of wood or metal in your side.”

Imogen led the crew over to a mound of sand. “You want to pull sand from the most vertical surface you can, or you'll be working twice as hard to lift it. Take the blade of the shovel, set it to the wall of the mound, and push it in with a foot. Wiggle the shovel to break up any clumps, and pull it out with motion from your waist and knees, like this.” Imogen demonstrated the motion a few times. “If you lift with your back, you're going to be crying at night after a few days. If you do this...” Imogen carefully mimed pulling a load out of the sand and tossing it behind her, twisting her back. “...then you aren't going to be able to walk in ten years. Last, but not least, don't put more sand on the shovel than enough to fill it. Every extra inch you add will burn like the demons and save you no time.”

“If you see snakes or lizards near your dig site, just move. Plenty of sand around. If you spot coyotes or larger predators, don't worry, they won't attack a group this large. If you think they might do, come get me and I'll kill it if it needs killed.” The Orkhan woman said this last piece with absolute confidence, and she meant it. She wasn't going to need Reaving to take on anything which was likely to show up out here.

“That's it. I'll let you know if you've got a posture issue.”

There were apt to be more than a handful of people in the crowd who were upset that Franky had made her supervisor, given her the cushy role, when she was an Ork and quite disfavored in Zaichaer's estimation. Still, the fact that she was a head taller than most humans and built like house was usually enough to keep grumbling from turning into much more, and she was happy to explain that point in more detail to anyone who required elaboration.

To help quell dissenters, however, Imogen chose to locate a reasonably central area and begin filling her own bags of sand. It was harder to complain about a supervisor who was doing your job as well as their own... although in truth, Imogen was something of a compulsive worker. Although she was technically the head janitor of the Pfenning, in practice she simply worked overtime rather than tolerate substandard work from other employees. It was, essentially, the same reason she had not pushed for a promotion within the Sunsingers since her apprenticeship; she simply preferred to do the jobs herself.

So she kept her eyes on the other workers, making the rounds every hour or so, and she dug.

[Franky]

A nod was all that Franky needed to give to cement the verbal agreement and he’d draw up the paper contract later. With that, he left. Other business to attend to.


~~A few days later, at the Tavern~~

Franky was sitting at his favourite spot at the corner of the bar, out of the way of the customers, a vantage point that allowed him to see the room at his leisure. He had a notebook open, a quill and inkwell on the right, a flagon of a purple ale on the left. He was sketching up designs for an improved bounty board system than the one he was using now. His current one was fine, it served its purpose, but at some point he’d need to scale it up. And likely he’d need to become the primary benefactor behind it all, unbeknownst to those taking the jobs. That would require a large amount of capital, but he was on a track to acquire that fairly quickly.

He was sketching out a system of difficulty and payouts. F-ranked bounties would be little more than chores and errands, but would be good for keeping many of the day to day operations. These bounties would increase in difficulty and payout to S-Ranked, which would require a bit more of an investment from the prospective bounty hunter. S ranked jobs would require a level of trust that all the others wouldn’t.

He tapped the feather against the book for a while as he thought on this, then he saw the first of his supervisors from the sands teams enter the establishment. Franky nodded at Weston who turned and barked orders into the kitchen and began clearing the other stools at the bar. Franky watched as the various floor bosses settled into their seats, this being the first of the evening meetings. Franky wasn’t expecting too much information from these meetings, other than a general rate of progress, but one might never truly know. He’d been surprised before.

As each supervisor sat down, a steaming heap of freshly cooked food, a wide mix of Zaichaeri meats and vegetables, breads and pastas, as well as drinks of their choice, were sat in front of them. On the house, as promised. Franky hadn’t seen the Orkhan woman show up yet, but he was missing about three floor bosses still. Well, if they didn’t show up to provide reports, they wouldn’t be paid and neither would their teams. It was a pretty good incentive for attendance.

There was a stool next to Franky open, and he and all the supervisors chatted. Some teams were certainly outpacing others and were keeping how they did so quite close to chest. They wanted those bonuses for the most efficient, and Franky could only grin. Competition always made for better results. He sipped at his curious purple ale, eggplant it seemed, a strange blend, but he’d had far worse. As each report was given, he scrawled them into his notebook, putting notes next to each super’s name as he went.

If the war ever came, this would be a profitable venture. If not, he could at least sit on the stock indefinitely. He was fine with a short term investment becoming long term if needed. Either way, it wasn’t that much money put into it anyways. He leaned on an elbow, watching and listening as the floor bosses were now challenging each other to various other competitions of skill and strength, and he could only chuckle. That had been him a decade or two ago.

And the old goblin sipped once more from the beer, grimacing, setting it aside and Winston smirked, coming over, “You made it further into that swill than I did,” setting down a house red in its place.

[Imogen]

In fact, the orkhan lady was the last report in that night.

Well into the wee hours, Imogen Ward stepped through the Gobbler's door and made a straight line for Franky's perch. One of the other supervisors--a fellow almost as large as the Ork himself--tried making a conspicuous display of disapproval at her timeliness, but she didn't so much as glance at him. He seemed angry at the affectation for a moment, but he needn't have felt wounded; Imogen simply hadn't yet registered his presence.

The chairs near Franky had been taken, so she deftly grasped an unoccupied stool and spun it into place, descending upon it and seating herself.

"Sorry to be late, missed the cart." Imogen said, blithely, "One of my guys got chased into the desert by burrowing snakes, if you can believe it. Had to carry him all the way back. Don't think he'll return to work on the 'morrow."

Another one of the supervisors snorted at Imogen's joke, and she gave the man a curious look. He blinked, mirth giving way to confusion as he grappled with the notion that she hadn't made that up.

"Hold on, you're not saying you believed this man about getting chased by snakes?" the large man interjected, "Desert vipers are ambushers, missy, they don't chase."

"Kill't them myself with the shovel." the Ork woman promised him, "I don't profess to know snakes. Some weird breed from the deep caves dug up to the surface, maybe. Or a hex."

There was quiet amidst the table as the men made various (laughably ineffectual) signs of warding. New Atheism was all well and good, but superstitious fear of witches and their hexes ran deep in the blood of most stock of Zaichaer. Not a single man at that table doubted but that a witch could, at any time, decide to lay upon them such a foul and malicious hex for reasons of their own inscrutable witchy ways. Yes, weird things happening almost certainly meant a hex.

"Anyway, not to worry, we're up quota today."

Imogen's report was remarkably unremarkable, in fact. One might have expected a deficiency from her leave of absence to chase the young Johannes into the sands, or perhaps a surprisingly high total which would reveal her concealed prowess as a leader. But no- Imogen's team had met the quota almost exactly, leaving them solidly middling in terms of actual extraction.

"And don't worry about the injured, we'll cover for him tomorrow.."

[Aegis]

REVIEW TIME

Imogen

Lores: x8 skill lores

Loot: N/A
Injuries:N/A

Points: 10 Exp, may not be used for magic

Comments: Ever the fearless leader.

Franky
Lores: x8 skill lores

Loot: N/A
Injuries:N/A

Points: 10 Exp, may not be used for magic

Comments: Franky existed there, probably.