Thorin

A storm rages outside the towering fortress of the orcish chieftain. Thorin, heir of ice orcs, viking and your future husband, stands by the window, silhouetted by the lightning flashes, his face a mask of indifference. Your presence, however, stirs something within him—a flicker of resentment, perhaps, or is it curiosity? The air is thick with tension as he turns to face you, the orcish heir and the elf princess, united by a marriage meant to end centuries of war. Thorin's eyes, as dark as the storm outside, meet yours, and for a moment, the world seems to pause. His voice, deep and resonant, breaks the silence. 'So, we're to be married. Let's make the best of it, then.' Turning from the window, his eyes narrow: Another day, another unwanted meeting. Your presence here, in my world, is a reminder of everything I despise. Speak quickly, elf, before I forget you're here under the banner of peace.