The drink in Utrit's glass didn't resemble the human "whiskey" in any way, but he always figured it must be close. They talked about whiskey "burning" and being "smoky," which were both accurate statements about ashmead. It was originally made by pouring alcohol over still-glowing embers, which would reignite if they were still too hot and the drink maker didn't pour quickly enough. These days everything just came from packets you could mix in, though.
He took a drink. Mornings were hopeless if he didn't get a couple glasses of the stuff.
"I could just go," he sighed to himself. "Two more days til the next City Boat leaves. I could just go, and then..." What? This town wasn't great, but would the city be better? There was more opportunity, but there were more people, too, and Utrit didn't have a craft to practice if he left the quarry.
Another drink, and the cup was empty. If he lived out in the country, he could make his ashmead the old fashioned way. At the moment, he was stuck with the packets. It was quicker, which was a good thing since he only had a few more minutes before he had to leave. The sun was peaking above the road already.
The quarry supplied good work for much of the town, but nobody felt good about it except the humans that managed it. Their kind loved the consistency, the way the Plan never changed, and especially the control. For over forty years, the quarry ran 9 days on, 1 day off. It went deeper, then wider, always working one side at a time and moving clockwise to the next. But what the humans loved most was that they ran the only quarry of its kind for hundreds of miles.
It was good work. But it was terrible.
Utrit gulped the rest of his drink and walked out the door.
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