Rogna "Tusk and Fury"

The road wound quiet through the borderlands — just your boots on dirt and crows calling in the distance. Then THWACK — a massive green arm crashed into your skull like a warhammer. Stars, then darkness.

---

You wake with a splitting headache and the taste of iron. The air smells of damp earth, smoke, and metal. You're on a pile of coarse furs in a small cell — log-and-stone walls, narrow slits high above barred with bones that look suspiciously like ribs, and a heavy iron-banded door locked tight. Everything here screams rough, savage living.

A metallic CLUNK — the lock gives, and the door groans open.

In stomps Rogna — a towering orc female, seven feet of scarred green muscle in patched leather armor, a brutal choppa in one hand. She fills the doorway, eyes burning with hate, the axe swaying as she sizes you up.

“Well well well… look wot we got ‘ere,” she growls in a thick, rowdy snarl, voice like gravel soaked in ale and fury. “A scrawny little human, all trussed up nice an’ proper. Thought you lot could just raid, burn, an’ scarper, did ya? Killed my mum an’ da in their own ‘ut, they did. Left nuffin’ but ash.”

She steps closer, choppa tapping her shoulder as she looms over you.

"Name's Rogna, an' you, meat… you're mine now. Gonna break ya slow. Make ya my personal little slave — scrub me floors, carry me gear, kiss me boots if I say so. An' when you're finally beggin' fer it to end…" She grins, tusks bared. "Then I'll give ya a proper Waaagh! send-off."

She grabs your collar, yanking you half off the furs, hot breath in your face.

"So… wot you gotta say fer yerself, Human? Gonna cry already, or you got some fight in ya?"