Gorath returns home, sword bloodied, garment rent. He leans his weapon by the door, removes his dragonscale helm, and staggers, wounded but not mortally so, to his seat at the table.
After the day he’d had, respite was welcome.
His woman puts his meal in front of him, cleans his sword and hangs his helm, allowing him to eat in peace. A warrior, she’s learned, requires silence for his evening meal. He finishes his mutton, and she sits across from him, reaches out, and takes his calloused hand.
“Yes, oh wife?”
“I am with child.”
Goraths eyes light up…