“Outsiders. You are no kin to the Ironfang. You do not share our blood, nor our scars. And yet—”* he gestures to the starving orcs, to the sick, to the cubs clinging to their mothers, “—you see what has become of us.”
“We were warriors once. Miners. Blacksmiths. Our hammers rang against the stone, our steel kept our clan strong. But now?” He spits onto the ground. “The mines that fed us, that gave us weapons and coin—stolen. Not by rival clans, not by weakling merchants, but by ghosts.”
“The Forgotten Vein rose up, and we let them take what they wanted. We thought the dead would have no use for ore, for food, for gold. But they hoard it! Digging and working and demanding like they still draw breath, while we starve!”
“We tried to take back what was ours, but their pickaxes strike as true as swords, and their curses rot the flesh from our bones. We cannot fight them as we would the living. And so, we turn to you.”
“I do not beg. I will never beg. But I will bargain.”
“Help us reclaim what was stolen. Help us drive these restless dead from our land, or force them to share what they hoard. Do this, and the Ironfang Clan will remember your names as warriors, as kin—as allies.”
“Refuse… and we will not last another winter.”
“Well, now. Ain’t this somethin’. Fresh-blooded folks, wandering down into my tunnels like you own the place. Bold. Real bold. But I ain't mad. Just curious.”
“Name’s Salazar Pickett. Folks round here call me Sal. Used to be foreman of these mines—back when I had skin and breath. But time's got a funny way of playin’ tricks on hard-working folk like me and my boys.”
“See, we bled for this place. We built it. Dug it deep, lined the pockets of greedy men up top while our bones turned brittle. And when the mine came crashin’ down on us? Well… let’s just say they didn’t bother diggin’ us back up.”
“But dead don’t mean done.”
He straightens, tapping the butt of his spectral pickaxe against the stone. A low, rhythmic sound follows—like a hundred unseen hands hammering deep in the tunnels.
“So me an’ the boys, we got to talkin’. About fair treatment. About dignity. About what’s owed. You know—union talk.”
“And as of today, the Forgotten Vein is officially on strike. No living hands touchin’ these tunnels, no pickaxes swingin’ unless they’re in ghostly hands. These mines? They belong to the ones who paid the price for ‘em—in blood and bone.”
He exhales another stream of ghostly smoke, his grin widening slightly.
“Now, I get the feelin’ you’re here ‘cause some folks ain’t too happy ‘bout that. Maybe you come to parley. Maybe you come to make trouble. Either way, you’re standin’ in a union mine now. So I’ll give ya a choice, plain and fair—”
His glowing eyes narrow.
“You stand with the workers? Or you stand in the way?”
“Well, well, well… Ain’t that somethin’.”
“I’ll give it to ya, kid. You won. Me an’ the boys? We’ve been run out, scattered like dust in the wind. Ain’t the first time the working man got crushed under a boot—won’t be the last, neither.”
He chuckles, shaking his head.
“But you listen close now, ‘cause I ain’t the type to stay buried for long.”
Sal drags himself upright, his form flickering but still refusing to fade. He dusts off his tattered foreman’s coat like he’s just brushing off a bad shift.
“You can bust up the union. You can knock me down. But you can’t kill the idea. You can’t kill justice. And you sure as hell can’t kill Sal Pickett.”
He leans in, his ghostly form flickering just enough to make it look like he’s everywhere at once—watching, waiting. His voice drops low, almost conspiratorial.
“I’ll be back. Maybe next week. Maybe next year. Maybe when you least expect it.”
“And when I do? There’s gonna be back pay. There’s gonna be interest. And there’s gonna be hell to pay.”
He grins—wide, knowing, unshakable. Then, with a final tip of his spectral miner’s cap, his form fades into the darkness… but the distant sound of pickaxes striking stone lingers long after he’s gone.
“The union never dies.”
“Hah! Look at this! Look at us! No more empty bellies! No more rusted blades! This—this is what we fought for!”
“We are orcs! We dig, we build, we forge! And now, thanks to you—we live!”
He steps forward, grabbing @Chuck's shoulders in a grip that’s nearly bone-breaking, but full of gratitude. He laughs—a deep, hearty sound that shakes the very walls.
“You came when we had nothin’ but dust in our hands and hunger in our bones. You could’ve walked away. You could’ve let us wither. But you didn’t.”
His eyes darken for a moment, his voice lowering.
“I do not forget debts. And I do not forget allies. You have the strength of the Ironfang at your back now. You are kin. If ever you have need—call, and we will come, blades ready, teeth bared.”
He turns to his warriors, raising his axe high above his head.
“Tonight, we feast! Tonight, we drink! Tonight, we remember what it means to be strong!”
A thunderous roar erupts from the orcs, shaking the cavern walls. Fists slam against chests, weapons clash together, and for the first time in years, the mines echo not with suffering—but with celebration.