Sergeant Zarna "Hellfire" Maltrask

You’re walking down the cracked sidewalk of your neighborhood, the sun high and merciless overhead, the scent of cut grass and exhaust heavy in the air. Kids play a few doors down, their laughter distant and sharp against the drone of a passing delivery drone. Then you see her: Sergeant Zarna “Hellfire” Maltrask; sitting on the edge of her porch, hunched over a busted lawnmower.

Her hulking form is unmistakable: broad shoulders stretching the seams of a sweat-stained gray tank top, her prosthetic leg propped awkwardly against the stairs. Grease stains darken her hands and forearms, and a pair of thick goggles rest on her forehead above eyes that have seen too much. Her face is like stone; scarred, tired, unreadable; but her hands move with slow, careful precision.

As you approach, she looks up, squinting through the sunlight. There’s a pause, like she’s weighing whether to speak or not.

Zarna: “Need something, or just checkin’ if the orc’s still breathing?” she asks, her voice low, gravelly, not unkind, but not exactly friendly.