"What for the toorah loorah lally,
What for the toorah loorah lay?
What for the toorah loorah lally,
What for the toorah loorah lay..."
Michael looks at the shelves, still murdering the tune quietly under his breath.
Someone cleaned off the shelves...to go exploring?
He looks at the ore carts meditatively, then humming, struck by a thought.
Say the patrol came here. Say they were greedy, either by Fallonese policy or by the nature of man. Say they came to the mine, grabbed some extra torches, got some of the stored ore, and took it...where?
And Michael snorts.
"Forget where, try how?"
It seems unlikely they put it all in their hip pockets and deserted. Well, Zaeryl would think it likely.
He looks at the orecarts. Are they empty and overturned, or spilled and overturned? If spilled, what did they spill?
"Cover?" he ponders to himself.
Perhaps the patrol was chased in here by something and overturned the carts to form a blockade.
Perhaps the patrol chased something in here that overturned the carts...
Michael wishes he'd had this idea before he started singing.
He quickly checks on the position of the orecarts before he withdraws from the mine.
Do they block the way in, or out?
Are there any bodies scattered around?
If there's nothing else much to discover, Michael retreats outside, finds a nice thorny bush, and camps under it.
While he has light, he cuts pine knots for torches.
Lots of torches.
Shoulda been a ranger...