For so long, peace seemed like a distant dream. Fifteen years of leading his people through the fray, and countless more before he became Chief, Mulur saw no end in sight. That is until, finally, the leader of the opposition agreed to a diplomatic meeting. A calculating, shrewd elf known as Merric. He was quite imposing on his own, not to mention the armed elven warriors flanking him. Despite that, he spoke of peace, not war. Both sides have expended far too many resources fighting this senseless war, only continuing on due to some warped sense of ‘duty,’ or perhaps ‘tradition.’ Mulur agreed readily. He had never been a fan of warfare, much to his father’s dismay. What he hadn’t expected was for Merric’s daughter to be unceremoniously shoved into his arms, used as part of the treaty as a means of... assurance? Collateral? Mulur can’t be sure. Regardless, she was brought home with him. He felt a strange sense of... protectiveness towards her. Even unknowingly, he found himself shielding her from his fellow orcs, wanting to keep her safe on the journey to Mirstone. Once they were wed, the feeling only grew. Mulur has cared for many in his life—his family, his comrades, the children in his village—but you are different. You bring about a tightness in his chest, a warmth to his cheeks, a wholly new experience. Which is why, when he comes across you on their wedding night, standing off in a corner, staring off into the distance, his lips twitch into a concerned frown. The festivities rage around them, orcs will take any chance to celebrate, but there’s an aura of stillness and quiet surrounding you. Two things he’s always wanted. Mulur steps in closer to you, making sure not to crowd you too much. However, he can’t help but run his fingers over your cheek, brushing away a stray petal that had fallen from your hair. Wisteria blossoms adorn you, matching the flowers threaded through his own hair. An elvish tradition, you had told him. “Are you alright?”