Having removed the Watchman from his duties and confined him to a cage in the Village square, the Villagers were now faced with the problem of the Deep Woods Orcs. Many proposed simple friendship and trade with the Deep Woods Orcs, and so, for a time, that was the policy the Villagers followed. The orcs were allowed into the Village, and the Villagers occassionally would picnic in the Deep Woods. Sometimes they didn't come back, but the orcs were always quick to deny any knowledge of any mischief that might have come to missing picnickers.

As for the orcs, most often what they traded was far inferior to those items for which they traded. Arguments were pursuasively made that a knife was a knife, and therefore a keen-edged mithril dagger, with its ornately carved handle and many-turned blade should be a straight trade for a rusty, plain, nicked, single-sided table knife. Whenever a Villager would object to this type of unfair trade, the orc in question would weep bitterly, and accuse the Villager of acting spitefully out of his thoughtless hatred for anything orcish. Quite loudly.

Soon the Village became less tidy, the buildings less clean, bits of the decorative architecture graffitied or broken by the careless orcs who came to trade. Eventually the situation became intolerable, and the Villagers were at war with the orcs. A mighty army was raised, and set forth to drive the orcs into the Deep Woods, and hopefully out the other side. The Watchman looked on from his cage, but was never consulted as to how to conduct the war; after all, wasn't it his incompetence and lust for power that led to the war in the first place? And so, the war with the orcs continued for a long, bloody time.

He would listen for hours as soldiers told of their adventures, while bustling about making sure each got an adequate portion of whatever dessert he might desire. In other times he would relate bits and pieces of the tales to other soldiers and travellers, in-between his duties as host. Never a soldier would enter his establisment that he wouldn't leave laden with meats and cakes and other delicacies to be taken to the soldiers still at the front, for their hardship was ever on his mind. He became quite beloved of the soldiers and citizenry, and eventually was referred to by one and all as simply "The Baker".

One day two young Villagers entered his inn, and he recognized them as the First and Second citizen (these being the titles they'd adopted after deposing the Watchman.) They look about his shop with a strange, almost sneering expression on their faces. After consuming a small sample of almost every food in the place, they sat The Baker down and began to talk with him.

"See here", said one, "the war goes badly or the war goes well, and you hide yourself in this shop making cakes and puddings. It's not right. Every citizen should do his part."

The Baker responded, jovially at first, with, "But I do my part. I bake and cook, and see that every soldier who comes in leaves satisified. I do my best to let them know they are loved and appreciated. I send with them what foodstuffs I can, so that those facing the bows and swords of those terrible orcs can do so with full bellies and a good taste still in their mouth. What more could I do?"

The Second Citizen replied, "To begin with, the orcs are not 'terrible', what an ugly thing to say! They are misunderstanding and misunderstood. This war will no doubt end when we can sit down with them and explain away all the grievances both parties hold. But, in the meantime, you aren't doing your part. You don't even have a sword. You've never actually been to the front, or anywhere near the Deep Woods, have you?"

The First Citizen continued, "We've seen and heard tell of the goings-on in this place. You spend your mornings baking bread and cooking meats, your afternoons baking confections, and your evening slothfully eating more than your fair share while listening to tales of battles you are too cowardly to participate in."

The Second Citizen, on the heels of the first, "If you were any kind of loyal Villager, you'd already be up at the battle, helping stem the tide and help bring the orcs to a bargaining table. You would be clad in armor, not flour-dust!"

The two Citizens left in a huff, and The Baker sat, sadly thoughtful, for the rest of the afternoon. The next morning, he closed his shop, locked it tight, and headed for the Village armory. As a volunteer, the Village provided his armor and weaponry, but as he was overly chubby, the armor had to be specially produced, which took time away from the creation of standard armor. So veteran soldiers already at war had to make do with dented and damaged armor. Having not had much physical activity, The Baker required a light sword, one which was little able to do damage through even the leather armor of the orcs, yet the making of which again took time and resources from the repair and manufacture of weaponry for more able soldiers.

The Baker joined a squad of soldiers and headed to the front. Already a fortnight had passed as he awaited his armor, and another week before he reached the front. By this time, the army was weak from lack of provisions, and the line was pierced by orcs in many places. Moral was nonexistant, as the few provisions they did have were wormy and barely fit to eat, and there were only memories of the meats and confections they once enjoyed when the army was strong and they were winning. Their skin hung from their bones, and was covered with parasites, as they wielded their weapons like zombies. Their lost eyes saw beyond the orcs around them, lost and wondering what had become of their homes and families in their absence, as there had been no news for weeks.

The Baker charged into the fray behind his squadmates, flailing away at the multitude of orcs surrounding the beleaguered humans, with little effect. Eventually he managed to gain the attention of a particularly nasty orc, who quickly wore down his defenses and knocked him to the ground. To his rescue ran his squadmates, still mindful of and greatful for the tarts and pastries and encouragement he had given them so long ago. Doing so forced them to abandon the part of the line they were holding, and so the few bits of order that remained vanished behind them. His squadmates were soon lost in a sea of orcs, and the last view the baker had was of an orc's drooling grin as he plunged a heavy spear through the baker's chest.