You've only been in the building for twenty minutes, and you're ready for a coffee, a cigar, and a mid morning nap. After the scared dwarf tells you about the Ogre, curious workers start to assemble around you. Just as you are about to start giving orders, the secretary comes running down the hallway, a piece of paper in her hands.
"Mr. Urist! Mr. Urist!"
"Yes?"Between labored breaths, she pants "The elves from the Aesylus crafting guild are at the door!"
"And?"She holds out a piece of the finest paper you've ever seen, and on it is a set of very small words written in an ornate font. The factory is still lit by gaslights and is pretty dim overall, so you have to hold it up close to your face to see it.
We have needed this steel for eight months now. Your business has strained relations between your clan and ours. Your Burgomeister has given us permission to deal with your factory, in the oldest manner.
Give us what we paid for, by 6PM today. We will be outside. In case you forgot the original agreement, we will need twenty tons of your cannon-barrel steel, in flat slabs.
You fold the paper in half and put it your pocket. The oldest manner. Humph. The Elves very seldom will fight with dwarves, but this factory has been an embarassment to the local government for too long. Instead of getting involved directly, the Dwarven leadership have basically allowed the Elves to "declare war" on this business.
Well, that probably means there's probably a bunch of Elves outside with guns...
You motion for the secretary to follow you back towards the lobby, as to not to alarm the rest of the workers here.After reaching far enough of a distance, you ask quietly
"How many are out there? Did you see any guns?""There are at least a dozen out there. And yes, they have guns."
"Go back to the lobby. Make sure the cafeteria prepares granola cereal, or whatever the Armok those elves eat. Make them comfortable. We are making that shipment TODAY.You walk back into the production hall and yell loudly :
Everyone, stop what you are doing and FALL IN NOW!The dwarves look taken aback. About a dozen and a half dwarves fall in a semi-circle around you. You look at them. A decrepit lot, wouldn't be fit for miltary service back in the old days. Most are dirty, look malnourished, and reek of sobreity. You know you are in a bad position, but this crew has caused this mess and you're going to be shot if they don't get started again. So, it's time to rally the crew.
"Look, let me tell you a little story. When I got started in this business I was up to my ass in Kobalds every day when I headed to my shift on the smelting lines. Literally. Up. To. My. Ass. It was back in the siege of Sockbanners in the Vale of Giggling and we lost good men every day just getting the goddamn ore in the door to the yard. But we were in a goddamn war and willing to do whatever it took. Now you are telling me that a perfectly good yard is shut down because of one goddamn ogre? Listen up all of you! It's time to ask yourselves if you are dwarves or elves! Either get the hell out of my factory or grab a pick and follow me into that yard!"We are making twenty tons of Armok's own cannon steel today, Ogre or no Ogre!"You tell everyone to grab anything that would be of use, and meet you back in the center of the production hall in ten minutes. You take a quick assessment of the men and material you have your disposal, and now you need to come up with a plan.
1 - Forklift
10 - Picks
3 - Axes
2 - Stoking pikes
1 -
Oxygen LanceDwarves:5 haulers
5 furnace operators
2 engineers
2 mechanics
1 record keeper
Exits Main Lobby (right)
Trainyard (left)
You don't have a copy of this yet.
You know all the furnaces in production hall B are shut down, due to a lack of raw materials.
-Pig Tail Cloth Suit- (worn)
Pig Leather Shoes(foreign)(worn)
-Briefcase- (carried)
This factory hasn't shipped a single thing in over 4 months. Get in there, fire some people, and get production flowing out the door. You have full authority under the Kingdom of... the remainder of the paper has been ruined by a stain from a plump helmet sandwich