Orcs. Goblins. Relentless brutality. Devilish cunning. A rampaging storm of violence—a green tide of destruction.
That was the image of greenskins I grew up with in the old world.
In Tolkien's lore—which once filled my shelves and shaped my dreams—Orcs were Sauron's twisted soldiers. Corrupted reflections of Elves. Especially the Uruk-hai—bred for war, driven by hate, destined to bring misery upon Frodo and the Fellowship.
I still remember that scene—Legolas, ever-charming Orlando Bloom, loosing arrow after arrow, casually trading kills with Gimli like it's a pub game.
In short, they were monsters. A menace. Nothing but trouble.
But that was the old world.
Here, in this land… I've barely heard whispers of greenskin raids. No rampaging hordes. No burning villages. No blood-soaked warnings in the dark.
It's as if they don't even exist.
And then yesterday… we met one.
He spoke. He negotiated. He didn't scream war cries. He didn't lunge.
We interrupted his hunt—and yet, he treated us with patience.
No accusations. No threats. Just cold, measured logic.
He looked… normal.
Still badass, sure—in that rugged, savage-hunter sort of way. But normal.
Maybe one day, I'll learn more about them. Maybe I can reach some kind of agreement or understanding.
But that's for another day.
Today? I'm back behind a desk.
Just like the old world.
Reports pile high: militia training progress, road maintenance status, ongoing development projects. My life as a wandering scribe sometimes turns into a life of a proper corporate secretary.
Then one report catches my attention.
Bovinid population spike.
Triple growth. In just a couple of months.
From what I remember, Bovinids usually produce only one or two calves in their lifetime. This spike is… unnatural.
And rapid population growth comes with complications. Housing, resources, cultural integration. Even if they are reasonable, law-abiding, hard-working citizens… I can't help but imagine the worst.
All this progress—this fragile new order we're building—could be undone if we're not careful.
I bring the issue to Count Gerhart.
"Count Gerhart, sir… I need to inspect the Bovinid settlements. Their numbers seem... abnormal."
He barely looks up from the scroll he's reviewing. "Hmmm… Maybe they all got married at the same time? Had babies at the same time?"
Sometimes, he gives the most childish explanations to serious problems.
"I don't think synchronized weddings are a viable demographic explanation, my Lord," I reply dryly. "Whatever the reason, this needs to be addressed. If their settlements can't keep up, it might cause a breakdown."
"True. These are worrying figures, Leo." Franz speaks from beside me, voice firm and expression as stoic as ever. "Let's go. I'll accompany you."
"Yes. I need to check something too," Karl adds cheerfully. "See if they have more goat cheese. I'm almost out."
Of course he is.
What appeared to be a population boom, in truth, had nothing to do with birth rates at all.I had been prepared to propose an ethical birth control policy—based on education and community engagement, mind you, not drugs or anything as appalling as forced sterilization or abortion.But as it turns out, that concern was completely misplaced.
After a full day of inspections and interviews with Adolf and Hans—the de facto leaders of the Bovinid community—we discovered that birth rates remained steady.No mass weddings. No baby boom.These weren't infants.They were immigrants.
Outside our counties, Bovinids still suffer the same cruel fate: enslaved, rejected, and relentlessly exploited.Most humans beyond Tharros Vale still view them as a threat—wild, filthy, unintelligent beasts.They fear another uprising. They speak of demon kings and ancient wars as if they just happened yesterday.
So when word spread that Tharros Vale offered Bovinids a place to live as equals—where they could walk the markets, join the guilds, and even serve in our militias—they came. En masse.
And the problem isn't them.It's us.We weren't ready.
"You see here, Franz," I said, motioning toward the camp, "these people were slaves, cast-outs from the other counties—even the Duke's own realm. What do you see in them?"
Franz frowned, abacus in hand. "If not managed properly, they'll become a liability. They eat more than humans. They don't know the law. They could disrupt supply chains."
"But we can't just send them back," Karl said, his voice almost trembling. "Not after what they've been through."
Franz nodded, slowly. "Which brings me to this: if we can manage them, train them, and welcome them into our system—they could be a tremendous asset. Laborers. Builders. Guards. There's no reason to waste strong, willing bodies in chains."
Adolf, the Bray Shaman, stepped forward then. His horns shimmered under the dusk light."These people, Leonhart... they gave everything just to be part of this herd. Many lost loved ones along the way. Some lost their lives. If there's any mercy left in your heart, please… let them stay. Let them find shelter here—if not forever, then until the future can speak for itself."
I nodded slowly.Perhaps the people of this realm have more empathy than the politicians I once knew—those who built walls instead of bridges.
I sat in silence for a moment, and then began drafting a new policy.One that welcomes, prepares, and integrates.A win-win.Or at least, a start.
Tharros Vale is not built on flags, borders, or pretty words. It is built on people.
And if we are to welcome more people into our realm, we must do better than simply open the gates. We must prepare.
Back in the old world, there was a role often underappreciated yet vital to any organization: the HR Department. They were the quiet guardians of culture and structure, managing people with patience, wit, and, when needed, unwavering firmness. The gatekeepers—not just of policy, but of harmony.
That's what I aim to build here.
What I'm drafting isn't a mere resolution or a stack of rules. It's a system. A framework. A layered process that ensures every immigrant arriving in Tharros Vale will be given a place—and a purpose.
A dedicated integration body. A pathway from arrival to contribution.
They'll be documented, trained, and recruited according to their strengths and interests. Some will return to the land, their agricultural heritage a perfect match for the Vale's new farmlands. Others will join the construction corps, helping build roads, homes, and infrastructure in collaboration with our new allies from Woodkin and Tilenburg.
Some, surprisingly, have shown interest in education—eager to teach both Bovinid calves and human children alike. A few have asked to serve as watchmen and peacekeepers in Bovinid-majority districts.
For the first time, we're not just offering them shelter. We're offering them dignity.
Joining me in this endeavor is Hans, the Bovinid scribe—sharp-witted, endlessly curious, and blessed with the patience of a saint. Together, we spent the entire night developing the policy, fine-tuning every paragraph, line by line, until ink stained our fingers and candlewax melted halfway down the desk.
The only interruption? Hans's fateful first encounter with coffee.
One cup. That was all it took.
Moments later, he was pacing back and forth, braying about how his ancestors were speaking through the walls and that time was an illusion. Then came the inevitable panic over his heartbeat, followed by an almost comical number of trips to the toilet.
"I… I think I'll stick to warm milk next time," he muttered afterward, pale and shaking slightly, clutching his tail.
I didn't laugh. Much.
Still, I admired his dedication. Even during his caffeine-induced spiral, Hans managed to mutter half-coherent suggestions about the intake forms and skill-assessment tables. A true professional—just not a fan of stimulants.
As dawn crept through the windows, we sealed the draft. Tired, ink-streaked, but content.
We had done more than write policy. We had carved out a vision.
This wasn't just about immigration anymore.
It was about inclusion. About building a future that didn't just tolerate difference—but thrived on it.
I wasted no time returning to Castle Gerhart. Hans and Adolf followed at my side—one armed with scrolls, the other with conviction. Together, we presented the findings, the challenges, and the beginnings of a solution.
The Count listened silently, his eyes occasionally flickering with a storm he kept well hidden.
"When they arrive, we must greet them with warmth, not suspicion," I began. "But that doesn't mean we turn blind. We must discern their reasons for coming, and ensure their goals align with ours. Karl," I turned to the Chancellor, "you will lead this initiative. Organize a welcoming committee, oversee their entry, screen their intent, and ensure they are treated with dignity. Work closely with our intelligence network—any hidden motives must surface before they become a problem."
Karl nodded, a gleam in his eyes at the weight of responsibility. Mathilda, the realm's beautiful shadowy spymaster, gave a single approving nod, ever silent, ever watching.
"Franz," I continued, turning to the steward, "you will assess their capabilities. I'll provide you the training modules—everything from laws and customs to civic duty. Prepare them to take part in the future we are building. You speak Bovinid, yes? Then start with the language. Let them learn ours, and we shall learn theirs in return."
The steward adjusted his collar, thoughtful. "If trained right, they'll be more asset than burden," he murmured.
But not everyone was convinced.
"What if their former masters come knocking?" the Count asked, voice laced with quiet concern. "What if they demand their 'property' back?"
A silence followed—until Marshal Ziegler stepped forward.
"Then let them knock," the Marshal said coldly. "And I shall answer. With words, if they'll listen. With blades, if they won't."
For a heartbeat, the room held its breath. Then Gerhart let out a quiet sigh of relief and leaned back in his chair.
"So be it," he said.
And just like that, the gates of Tharros Vale opened wider than ever before.
The others dispersed quickly—each with a role to play, each with purpose in their steps. I lingered, collecting the scrolls we'd brought, preparing to follow.
"Leo," the Count called, just as I turned to leave.
"Yes, my lord?"
"Thank you... for everything."
"My pleasure, sir."
He studied me for a moment longer. Too long.
"Or should I say... whoever you are, scribe," he added quietly. "You're not really Leonhart Aldric. Are you?"
I froze.
The air in the room shifted—just slightly. He knew. Or at least suspected.