The Gorgon Mines were a place of absolute misery, a colossal scar carved into the face of the Northern Wastes where branded slaves toiled under the watchful eyes of Syndicate hunters. At the heart of this operation, within a crude fortress built of black rock, Gorgon Silas was seated upon a throne carved from a single, massive geode.
A messenger, one of the Syndicate's lower-ranking members, knelt on the floor before him, his body trembling.
'This was a bad idea, I should have just run away. He's going to kill me.'
Silas did not look at him, his attention focused on a petrified songbird he held in his palm, a perfect, stone effigy of a creature caught mid-trill.
"Well? What did the old man say? Is he ready to hand over the filth that dared to touch my people?"
The messenger swallowed hard.
"My lord, we received no word. Lord Moria's guards at the gate simply stated that he was… unavailable."
