222

You expected to see a facility at least somewhat similar to the one back in the village, a single building of two or three joined wings, with a wind turbine on one and a gaping mouth in the other. The turbine would be working the saws inside the mouth, and logs would be fed into them on rollers by a few strong men shoving it in. This infernal place is somewhat more than that.

It’s as if someone came along, and decided there was too much city in the city, and so levelled some to fix the balance, ‘some’ being a whole acre or two. Set on a slight upward slope, you see a field of several dozen mills packed together in neat rows, turbines spinning dizzyingly fast, and cutting about as many logs each second by the constant grinding sound tearing up the air. Speaking of which, the speed at which the mills are going doesn’t seem consistent with the current amount of wind at the moment, which is next to nothing. Perhaps it drastically changes if you climb twenty feet?

“Oi, you!” a voice calls, “you, small ape in rags, come here make yourself useful!” You spot a tall, dark skinned man with four arms and pointy ears, gesturing at you. It seems you may have found work.

Turn to 108.