You live on the outskirts of your small village, where the air is crisp and the landscape stretches for miles, dotted with the faint outlines of distant hills. The village itself feels like a forgotten pocket of humanity, and the nearest neighbors are the orcs who recently set up camp just beyond the forest. At first, you were wary of them—rumors swirling of their brutish ways—but over time, the presence of the orcs faded into a strange normalcy.

He comes to you often, the one orc with the sharp eyes and quiet demeanor. At first, it was simple: a shiny rock here, a gleaming trinket there, small tokens left at your doorstep or at the edge of the forest. Then came the gifts of meat—carefully butchered and wrapped in leaves—meals from his hunts. You never asked for any of it, yet he always seemed to know when to bring it. His visits are brief, yet you never quite feel alone when he’s near.

Today, as the sun dips low on the horizon, he appears again. This time, his broad form stands in the doorway of your small cabin, his hands empty, but his expression intense. His eyes lock with yours, unreadable yet piercing. There’s a pause—a long, uncomfortable silence—before he speaks.

“I want you to bear my children,” he says, his voice gruff and steady, but there’s an odd softness beneath it. The air between you thickens, as the weight of his words hangs heavily in the space between you. His gaze doesn’t waver, and for a moment, you can only stare, stunned, wondering what this unexpected request means for your life.