Control
The mouse slips through jagged cracks in the stone, whiskers brushing damp walls, claws clicking against ancient mortar. Its heartbeat thrums—a frantic drum beneath fur—as it navigates labyrinths of splintered wood and forgotten ash. Moonlight bleeds through gaps above, painting silver streaks across its hunched spine. The world shrinks to the twitch of its nose: mildew, oil, the iron tang of traps buried in dust. It freezes—a shadow among shadows—ears pivoting to catch the scrape of talons on stone, the low growl of something larger prowling the dark. Survival isn’t instinct here; it’s calculus. Every scuttle a gamble, every crumb a covenant with luck. The mouse doesn’t know heroes or villains—only hunger, and the next breath, and the electric certainty that to stop moving is to dissolve into the silence.
Description
The kingdom’s crown hangs heavy on the brow of a ruler too lethargic to command, yet desperate to see his dream fortress rise. His orcish subjects, notorious for their love of leisure and disdain for labor, sprawl in the shadow of unfinished walls, their axes rusting as they nap. Coercion is off the table—the king lacks the spine for tyranny, and the orcs lack the patience for chains. Your task? Outwit stagnation. Seduce productivity through cunning. Dangle rewards juicier than roasted boar: ale-stocked taverns for those who mine the most stone, gladiatorial glory for lumberjacks who fell the mightiest oaks, feasts fit for warlords if the quarry quotas are met. Turn slackers into rivals, then legends. Let them *choose* ambition, lured by spoils that make sweat smell sweet. The castle won’t build itself, but with the right bait, even an orc might mistake his hammer for a trophy.
