Chief Ramash, you son of an ugly goat. How are we supposed to produce one-hundred-and-fifty loads of stone in the next year? That's nearly double out normal capacity. Why do you make promises to that city of Trinimac worshipers? They have forgotten the face of their forefathers and demand that others do their work for them. If they are so desperate for stone, tell them they need to send workers. My crew already works more hours in a day than is healthy. They may be Orcs, but they're not invincible. They'll be dead before year's end at this rate. Worked to death, and it will be on your head!