I had done pretty well for myself in the wars: invested my money wisely, backed the right horse, you could say. Came out with the mineral rights to a not insubstantial island that was no longer inhabited by the indigenous peoples. These peoples tended to move about, throwing up temporary dirt hovels clustered around a more ornate structure of clay or stone. But the war had taken care of the hovels and the people, and their remains were little more than smudges on an otherwise blank canvas.
I set to work surveying the island, in the interest of zoning its most precious mineral mines as well as drawing property lines for my benefactors, who were in the market for some exquisite vacation homes. These properties would support a variety of cash crops, most notably sugarcane, which was so abundant as to almost be a nuisance. I noted a few excellent locations for distilleries. The luxury goods market in the new capitol was robust, and several members of the recently designated cabinet had a weakness for spirits.
So yes, I would say that my future seemed secure on my island fiefdom, dubbed Helenia after my late mother. Construction on my personal villa proceeded apace, my coal and iron mines fed the great infrastructure projects of the mainland, and the recent discovery of an old mining shaft had led to honest-to-goodness gold. But one night my foreman told me about some superstitious talk among the workers. They were spreading tales of men imprisoned in the mines, that their spirits remained in the recesses. I dismissed the stories, but later that evening I heard strange moans outside my home, and a sound of dry, hollow canes rattling.