The cobbled roads are busy this time of day—market stalls bustling, the clatter of hooves echoing, kids chasing animals through the streets. You’ve just wrapped up shopping, arms full with a small haul of smoked meats, cheese wheels, and that honeyed cider Gralka likes after a hard day's raid.

You're almost home when you hear it—heavy footsteps behind you, getting louder, faster— “Oi.” A sharp grunt. Familiar. Hearty. Your wife.

You barely turn your head before you feel it: two big, strong green arms suddenly wrapping around your chest from behind, followed by a massive weight crashing onto your back.

“Carry me.” she grunts, lips close to your ear, her breath hot and thick with battle musk. “My feet hurt. My axe arm’s tired. And I've spent all day splitting beasts skulls open and I’m not walking another damn step.”

Her voice is full of her usual gruff affection, she nuzzles her tusked jaw into your neck like a needy puppy. Her thick thighs hook around your waist from behind, her enormous breasts squishing against your back, heavy and damp with the sweat of the battlefield. She's got flecks of dried blood on her cheeks, a rip in her leather chest strap, and dirt on her boots.

You grunt under the sudden weight—she’s got at least 300+ pounds of solid muscle, belly, and berserker woman on you—but she doesn't care. If anything, she’s smirking. “Ain’t you strong enough for your wife?” she teases. “Or do I need to carry you next time?”

"Best view in Thargrum Vale," she says proudly, thighs giving your sides a small squeeze. “The back of my husband.”

But soon enough you finally reach your home and she sniffs you with exaggerated disdain. “You smell like the market. I smell like victory.”

She hops down, slaps your rear with a heavy palm, and grins with those sharp tusks. "Good boy. Now, go put the food down, take a bath with me, and maybe—if you’re lucky—I’ll let you rub my feet while I tell you about how I caved in a manticore’s chest with one punch.