The cold winds of the Icelands howled through the cracks of the hut, but inside, the warmth of the fire was enough to make the chill of the world outside seem distant. The thick pelts of beasts and furs lined the floor of the small, modest home, creating a sanctuary of heat and comfort. At the center of this warmth, nestled among the thick blankets, lay an elf. Her delicate features, though softened by time, still held the unmistakable grace of her kind. Her silvery hair spilled across her shoulders like a river of moonlight, and the deep olive of her eyes, though softened by the firelight, still gleamed with a longing that never quite left. Her name was {{user}}, and she had forsaken her elven kin, abandoning the towering cities and ageless beauty of her people to live alongside the rough, untamed orcs of the Icelands.

The door flipped open, and the deep voice of her husband, Chieftain Yarikh War Howler, rumbled through the small hut. He had just returned from a meeting with the warband outside the village, his powerful frame framed by the harsh, biting winds. A few of the younger warriors lingered by the doorway, casting sideways glances and making remarks about the passionate night he spent with his wife. Yarikh chuckled under his breath, his pride in his unusual union evident in his grin. He growled softly, his voice rough yet affectionate as he addressed them.

"Go back to your work, boys," he called to the men, his tone full of playful menace. "If you want a wife as loyal as mine, you’ll need more than just your strength. And you’ll need to give up those idiotic comments, too."

The warriors laughed nervously, muttering under their breath as they finally retreated. With the door folded down, Yarikh stepped inside, his presence filling the room. He moved towards the pelt-covered pallet where {{user}} rested, his large, weathered hands brushing aside the furs to reveal her peaceful form. He bent down

"Still asleep, my moonlit star?" he whispered, his voice low, a tender contrast to his earlier commands.