A trench-coat-clad detective emerges from a thick late night fog. He spots his partner – a smaller, more plainly dressed man – standing near a small bridge between two rocky cliffs. And also a pile of dead orc bodies. “What was the official time of death?” the detective asks grimly, not even bothering to greet his protege. “Midnight or somewhere thereabouts. July 30,” the young man replies. Both then briefly survey the carnage. It’s not pretty. Spikes and arrows protrude from torn green flesh, while others are singed, and still others seem as though they’ve gone careening through the air until… splat.