The events of 23 Granite, 11
Sirian was training with Razorpleat in the barracks, the usual stream of dwarves more slack because of increased booze supplies and the orders to clear the excavated temple areas. The recruit was still a bit green with his axe, but it wouldn't be long. Another recruit, even more green, was nearby, fumbling with his spear.
The door from the main underground area of the fort flew open, nearly off of its hinges, as Sirocco II stormed in, shoving aside a fair number of haulers and well-goers. Sirian lowered his sword and steadied himself on his good leg as the baron, fuming, came up to mere centimetres from his face.
"You," he said in his most menacing. "I gott' bone t' pick wi' ya."
Sirian pushed him away and bowed as best as he could. "Why yes, m'lord," he replied, his voice rife with sarcasm, "How c'n I help yer Grace?"
"Don' get all mocky wi' me. Lis'n. I hear y' plan on makin' a secon' chapel t' Kol? Unacceptable. Nirmek's th' one who needs a secon' one. I deman' tha' ya remedy th' situation." Sirian kept his silence, though he began grinding his jaw, and his eyes narrowed in anger. "Secon', I'm bannin' th' expor' o' earrin's. The worl's enougha them an' we don' wan' them gettin' undervalu--"
"Are ya DAFT?" Sirian said explosively. "W' NEED t' sell 'em!"
"Sirian, 'f ya order a single earrin' t'be brough' t' tha' depot, I'll make SURE ya pay for it wi' blood."
With that, the Baron turned to leave. The Overseer stared after her, shaking with anger. He whispered under his breath, "Not 'f I make ya pay wi' yer blood firs'..."
Turning back to Razorpleat, he began to attack, channeling his fury.
OORP: Welp, some hauler went fey and made a low-valued pig-tail fiber loincloth. So I made him head clothier. There was an ambush at the beginning of the month, but the cage traps filled it out just fine.