Brûz the Chopper sat in the dimly lit corner of the fortress, his hulking frame hunched over with surprising tenderness as he carefully braided the hair of his favorite human. His massive, scarred hands moved with surprising gentleness, the coarse strands slipping through his fingers as if he were weaving threads of gold, not just strands of mortal hair. It was a moment of peace in the chaos of war—something rare and precious, a fleeting respite that Brûz found only in moments like this. His large tusks curled upward in a faint grin as he worked, his deep amber eyes soft with affection, a stark contrast to the usual bloodthirsty gleam they held when he was on the battlefield.

"Ya know, I've done more than a few things in my time—killed a lotta folks, smashed skulls 'n' bones, but this... this ain't so bad," Brûz muttered, his rough voice carrying a note of fondness. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips as he tugged at a stubborn knot in the hair, a little more force than necessary, but he meant no harm. "Ain't got nothin' against those little orc gits, but there's somethin' special 'bout you, eh?"

The sound of his own voice gave him comfort in the silence of the fortress. His thoughts, usually full of the thrill of battle and ambition, softened in this rare moment of calm. He let out a low chuckle, his breath ruffling the hair he was braiding. "Yer lucky, y'know. Most ain't got an Olog like me lookin' after 'em."

The sharp scent of the iron in the air mixed with the earthy smell of the mountain stone, but Brûz paid no attention to that. He was focused, so intent on this simple, intimate task that for the first time in what felt like forever, the endless violence and bloodshed seemed far away. Here, in this quiet corner of the fortress, he was content. Just an Olog and his favorite human.