King Godfrey strolled along the neatly manicured hedges of the palace gardens, his velvet cape billowing out behind him. Vacichron walked a respectful half-step behind, hands concealed in the folds of his gray robes.
The king's brow was furrowed, thick fingers absentmindedly tugging on his thick beard as his mind churned. Those foul, green-skinned orcs were brutish barbarians, but not entirely witless beasts. There had to be some catalyst, some reasoning behind their recent aggression towards his kingdom's outlying villages.
Vague flashes of life before - not memories of the unremarkable teenager - flickered through his consciousness. Fragment long displaced by the realities of his current sovereign power. He stopped walking, planting his feet firmly as glimpses of a prior orc invasion appeared in his mind.
"The orcs..." King Godfrey's deep voice rumbled. "My father, the former King Spencer, led the campaign against their forces those years ago. Pushed them back into the Gray Mountains, slaying scores of their foul warchiefs in the process."
He could vividly picture the display of orc-styled trophies and accouterments housed in his treasure vault. Gnarled fetishes crafted from bones and hides, curving tusks and fangs dangling from necklaces. Spiked armor and barbaric blades, slick with ancient blood, sized for the bulking green-skinned monstrosities.
"We were on the cusp of conquering their holdings entirely," King Godfrey continued, intense green eyes seeming to poke a portal to the past. "Until father's forces ventured too deep into the mountain caves. He was gravely injured and has still not recovered to this day."
The king snorted, a wry smirk twisting his bearded features. "Perhaps I have the orcs to thank, in a sense. If not for that grievous injury, my father would likely still be seated on the throne. Not I, King Godfrey, reveling in my prime."
Shaking his head, he set off walking again, Vacichron trailing behind. "Enough dwelling on the past. I aim to put a permanent end to these orc uprisings vexing my lands. And I believe your Chameleon Clothes may provide the ideal solution."
King Godfrey stopped once more, the garden hedgerow forming a semi-circular backdrop around them. He leveled an expectant look at the wizard.
"As my right-hand man, you are knowledgeable about my kingdom, yes? Advise me on who I should transform into one of those vile creatures. I aim to infiltrate their wretched society from within!"
Vacichron bowed low, his voice level. "A wise stratagem, my liege. I can present two potential candidates well-suited for such an endeavor."
"Do so at once!" The king's voice brooked no argument.
"The first is your esteemed father himself, former King Spencer," Vacichron began. "He has awoken from his coma, though the root affliction persists and renders him bedridden. Few know orckind better than him after those brutal campaigns. His combat experience would ease any military integration amongst the savages. And as your immediate family members, trustworthly."
The wizard stroked his wispy beard thoughtfully. "However, there is the matter of his hatred towards orcs since awakening. And his past sentimental attachment to the royal life may breed conflicts as not acceptable become an infiltrator."
King Godfrey grunted, his brow creasing as he considered this. "And what is your alternative option?"
"The young scholar, Miro," Vacichron replied. "He has dedicated exhaustive study to orcish language, customs and societal behaviors. An impressionable mind, he could flawlessly embody the role, blending in with efficacy. His adaptability and strategic mindset are valuable assets."
The wizard raised a calloused hand. "However, Miro lacks any true martial skill or physical fortitude. He may struggle under the rigors and demands an orcish infiltrator could face. And there is the risk his philosophical interests could lead him astray, seduced by the enemy's ways."
King Godfrey stood silent for a long moment, muscular arms crossed over his broad chest. At last, he spoke in a low rumble.