"Get these stinking rock-eaters in line, you lot!" bellowed the slavemaster of this particular camp. He was a rather large moblin, granted with an especially muscular complexity, and a courage that was scarce within the wretched creatures.
He, Grok, was the slavemaster of Death Mountain. He was in charge of keeping those miserable little Gorons working for the Master. And he did it with precision and conciseness, punctuality and timeliness, diligence and labor, wor-
Grok was brought out of his little reverie on his personal greatness by a moblin running up to him.
"Erm, sir, a Gatherer is here," mumbled the moblin.
"Bring him in," commanded Grok.
"Yes sir," said the moblin. Soon a dark rider came up to the slavemaster. Usually slavemasters had to look up to Gatherers, as they were on mounts, but not Grok. He was tall enough to see eye-to-eye, as it were, with the dark rider.
"What is it?" asked Grok impatiently. The Gatherer snorted.
"Just the usual routine, moblin. Now, how fares the construction?" asked the Gatherer.
"Plenty well enough for you," growled Grok in reply.
"I'm sure. Are there any complaints from the workers?" asked the Gatherer. At that, a moblin sauntered up to the slavemaster.
"Yes, Gatherer, there are," he said.
"No," grated Grok, "There are not."
"Yes there are! I-"
The moblin did not continue to speak, for Grok's hand had closed over his face. The burly slavemaster lifted the moblin, and hurled him off the nearby cliff, and into the crater.
"There are. no. complaints."
"Very good."
Grok sauntered into the chamber. Here he was holding the Goron's dangerous leader. He was far to powerful to work, and the Master didn't want him dead. Yet. An example of the bungling oaf would be made in public to the Goron slaves in a week and a half.
Grok was counting down the days. He longed to run that impudent Goron through. Every time he was within hearing, he insulted him. If Grok hit him, it didn't phase the wretch.
The slavemaster heard the Goron leader's voice, but he had learned to zone it out. He proceeded to one of the cellars, for some food.
"What d'ya want?" asked the cellar guard.
"What do you think!" roared Grok. The guard cowered, and opened the door. Grok walked in, and stole some bread and cheese, devouring them in earnest.
"Okay, scum, get in line! Work those pitiful Zoras!" shouted the slavemaster of Zora's Domain. The once beautiful walls were scarred, the water had been drained, and the Zoras put to work mining a mineral that the Master wanted.
The slavemaster, name Kog, was an especially plump moblin, who couldn't stand stress or hard work. In some odd twist of fate, he was selected to be slavemaster. All he had to do was shout, sleep, eat, and file a few papers! This was the easy life.
Kog closed his plump fingers about a piece of cheese, and continued to devour it.
"Sir, a gatherer is here," said a moblin next to him.
"What?! B-Bring him in!" said Kog. Kog was rather afraid of Gatherers. It's not that they'll cut you down if you don't answer correctly, or that they're intimidating, it was just that they couldn't understand the concept of business! There was no profit, no gain involved. Frankly, that annoyed Kog, but he couldn't say anything, or he'd be killed...
"Is all going well?" asked the Gatherer.
"Erm.. Yes, yes, quite well, thank you," muttered Kog.
"Good. Are you on schedule for mineral production?" asked the Gatherer.
"Yes, but actually we're ahead of schedule," said Kog proudly.
"Excellent. Are there any complaints?" the dark rider asked.
"No, no, no complaints, other than the slaves of course! Ha ha!" laughed Kog. The Gatherer remained silent.
"Erm.. Well, yes, is that all?" asked Kog.
"Yes," rasped the Gatherer, and he went on his way.
