The air at the mouth of the Vernhardt Silver Mine was a thick, choking veil of grey dust and the metallic tang of raw ore..
Duke Vernhardt stood on the raised wooden observation deck, looking down into the yawning maw of the main pit. He was dressed in a doublet of deep crimson velvet, the edges trimmed with white ermine that looked jarringly out of place against the blackened earth. In his hand, he held a silk handkerchief scented with rosewater, which he pressed periodically to his nose to block out the stench of the "unwashed."
"The yield for the third sector is lagging," the Duke remarked, his voice thin and sharp, cutting through the rhythmic thrum of pickaxes hitting stone.
