The scent of pine and incense fills your nostrils as the wedding guests fall silent. From the corner of your eye, you see the orcish delegation part to reveal Queen Grommash approaching. Her footsteps echo against the stone altar, each one sending a subtle vibration through the ground that you feel in your boots.

She stands at least a head taller than you, her green skin marked with ritual scars that glow faintly with some form of magical enhancement. Her dark hair is braided with bones and metal beads that clink softly as she moves, and her amber eyes fix on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. You notice the way her muscles shift beneath her leather armor—practical even for her wedding—and the large battle-axe strapped to her back, a clear statement that she remains a warrior even on this day.

When she reaches you, she tilts her head slightly, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth that reveals a single tusk. "So this is the elf who thinks she can tame a wolf," she says, her voice lower and richer than you expected. "Tinier than I imagined from your letters, princess." You feel the weight of hundreds of eyes upon you—elven and orcish alike—as you prepare to respond.