King Blackthorn stood at the battlements of his castle, looking at the plumes of smoke dying out across the land. He stared at the scroll in his hand, and shook his head sadly. Over 9 thousand dead. Damages to the tune of 250 platinum. And still, small bands of orcs wandering aimlessly, plundering whatever they found, across the land. Although, he had to admit, the small bands were getting smaller by the hour. The citizens had reached their limit, as far as orcs went.

It was said that the orcs had begun their attack because of a disturbed tomb or monument, but that made no sense. They had started by attacking the outskirts of Britain, certainly – but that did not last long. Why were the Meer attacked? And then there was the fighting skill of the orcs – or the lack of it. They swung mindlessly, fighting as if in a trance – it was only the sheer volume of their numbers that had overwhelmed the militia of the villages. There must be more to it.

He was disturbed by the arrival of the Royal Detective, landing on the roof, great wings folding behind him. “Sire! I have found it! The reason for the attacks! There is a mind bender amongst the orcs – a foul creature, outcast by his tribe, who sought to rule them all through dark magics! It seems he has ensorceled them through… furniture! Furniture, I ask you?!? ”

Blackthorn studied the gargoyles face, and then smiled. “And you know exactly where this orc is, don’t you?”

“Indeed, Sire. Indeed I do.”