The sun dipped below the jagged horizon, painting the sky in streaks of crimson and gold that bled into deepening purple, as if the day itself was wounded and bleeding out. The mine's entrance, a yawning maw in the mountainside, cast long shadows across the open field where goblins bustled in the fading light. The air grew cooler, carrying the crisp bite of evening chill and the earthy scent of cooling stone. Wooden torches were lit one by one with soft pops and the hiss of flames catching wick, their warm glow pushing back the encroaching dark.
The day's labors wound down: hammers fell silent on anvils, the clang of metal fading to quiet; carts of ore rumbled to a stop, wheels creaking their last complaints; younger orcs were called inside with sharp whistles and scolding voices, their laughter echoing faintly as they scampered into the tunnels.
