[TRIGGER WARNING: death, violence, gore, slavery, foul language. ]
The mines that the slaves were led down into were little more than rudimentary clay tunnels being hollowed out bit by bit. The floors were wet from the built up moisture from the stray drifts of snow that came in on the back of Frostdrift's gusts. Each step left Strelitzia's legs caked in dirt and itchy. Clanking echoed through the space in discordant mining that left her head reeling and dizzy. The entire thing was disorienting.
She waited in line like all the rest until she was being handed a worn and dull pickaxe. The handle was already digging splinters into the meat of her palms with her shifting grasp. They kept their wrists shackled to make running a bad idea considering the only keys were on the overseers belt. "Where should I mine?"
