"Get to work ya wretches!" barked the overseer as he gunned the engine on his chainblade. The half-witted slaves continued working, too simple to understand the overseer's orders. Nor did he expect them to. As the only one who's brain was not surgically altered, his shouts were to help his own anger at the lack of progress because he knew his neck was on the line if the slaves did not complete their tasks to the Warsmith's liking.
