Karrag has a wife and children, hiding somewhere in the hills. Assuming they haven't also been captured, and pressed back into slavery. He would count how long it's been since he saw them last, but shortly after that he was sentenced to the mines, and now there is no sun to count by. He counted sleeps, at first, but sleep comes rarely, too, and there is no constant stone to mark. So he knows only that he has been here longer than most of the men and boys around him, and that his time is drawing near. He prays that slaves arrive in Volkorgoth, but it seems unlikely. Volkorgoth is a land for warriors, not for beasts of burden. He should have died a bandit. Now he will end up a ghost. There are many in the mines, echoes of despairing men and boys, violent in death as they were too afraid to be in life.

He feels the hand on his shoulder like Pharasma’s touch, and cannot tell, at first, whether this is what it feels like to die of bone-deep exhaustion, with no other cause. But the touch passes through him, and suddenly he can breathe, as he has not breathed in months. He stands and turns, to look on death. 

Death is a human woman from the desert, speaking calmly with the overseer in dwarven. She looks up at him, appraising. He would have feared that look, once, but anywhere on Golarion is better than the mines, and Karrag is not dead yet.

“Karrag of Hellcoast,” says the woman, “you have been selected by lot as a delegate to the constitutional convention in Westcrown, which will determine the laws by which the government of Cheliax will rule. Come with me."

He drops his pick and goes.