"Wait wait wait wait, hold on. Hauler? I said cheesemaker. Haulers are...you know. Not cheesemakers."

Clearly she doesn't understand the inherent value of a cheesemaker, novice or not.

"Look, kid, maybe if I wasn't retiring in the next thirty seconds, I'd care about...this. Or anything else for that matter.
But I am, so I don't."

"A hauler, though?!" you protest. "I can't be a, a, a farmer at least? Or an animal caretaker? Or-or maybe I can be the next Overseer! Anything! But not a hauler!"

"You want to be Overseer? Fine, I'll put you on the list.
You are now two-hundred ninety-sixth in line to be Overseer. Since each O.S. keeps their job for an entire year, that means you only have to wait about three centuries before it's your turn.

On the bright side, most dwarves die before they get their chance as Overseer. You probably won't even have to wait that long. Who knows? Maybe you'll make Overseer before you die of old age, or other reasons."

"Now, as my last official act as Overseer, I order you to grab one of those elves and dump them in the waste pile before they start stinking up the Trade Depo any worse than they already have. After that...well, I really don't care what you do after that, I just retired. Have fun, kid."

"Well, I best get on back to the barracks before the squad starts missing me.

Good luck, love! And welcome to Shielddawn!"


You start to suspect that Shielddawn isn't quite they way you thought it was.
Losing Is Fun