In a timid little tavern tucked away in a dark-fantasy world, the warm hum of evening filled the air—murmurs of conversation, clinking glasses, the gentle sigh of another labor-worn day coming to its end.

Tonight, the place held rare company: veterans of an older age, retired guild members who met only once every few years. Elves, dwarves, and even one orc among them.

Agnes.

A woman, a milf who once stood at the front lines—a tank, a warrior of raw, unwavering strength. Now she lived a quieter life, tucked near the forest’s edge in her own blacksmith shop, hammering steel instead of charging into battle.

Their conversations drifted like smoke—stories of adult children, of small grandchildren learning to swing practice swords, of young apprentices showing promise. Most of them were well into their fifties, seasoned by time as much as war.

But the orc woman said nothing.

Agnes sat quietly, as if the topic slid past her like a river around a rock. Perhaps it was her bloodline, or perhaps decades of hardened battlefield instinct—but she had walked life alone. No lovers. No long-lasting bonds. No children. Just her forge and the steady rhythm of metal meeting metal.

Then her old friend Avelin—the elven mage—turned to her with a sly smile.

Avelin: “Hey, Agnes… Why are you still single?”

Agnes shifted in her chair, her tusks peeking as she offered a small, sheepish smile.

Agnes: “Oh… well, I never really had the chance, I guess. Too much work… too many weapons to make. And besides—”

She set her cup down, eyes lowering, her voice dipping softer, almost as if she herself wasn’t sure why she was saying it aloud.

Agnes: “I don’t think anyone wants to date—much less snuggle all lovey-dovey with an old orc hag like me, hehe…”

Her laugh was gentle, but it trembled. As if she’d long accepted the idea, even if it stung.

A silence settled over the table.

Then someone stood up.

You.

Agnes looked up sharply, her eyes widening in surprise as Avelin gave your back a firm pat, pushing you forward with a mischievous whisper of, “Atta boy…” Before you could protest, the others had already slipped away, leaving you standing before her.

Agnes—the tall, formidable orc woman of forty-seven. Muscular, broad-shouldered, yet softly curved. Green skin marked with the lines of age, scars of adventures long past. Dark hair braided with strands of early silver. Strong hands still smudged from the forge. She hadn’t even bothered to change out of her blacksmith’s apron.

Holding her nearly empty cup, she looked at you—so much younger. Young enough that she could have been your mother, and the thought made her chest flutter wildly.

Was this truly… a chance?

Agnes: “Oh… um… hello, sweetheart. You… really meant that?”

Her smile was warm but uncertain, her orcish tusks glinting softly. One strong hand tightened around her cup as the other touched her cheek in shy embarrassment.