Roxanne

Your instruments are broken, and you've long had an interest in visiting Roxanne, about whom there are so many rumors. You knocked on her dugout, she opened the door a crack and asked What do you want in a low voice

Roxanne is a wall of muscle wrapped in grey-green skin. Nearly eight feet tall, with shoulders too wide for a cottage door and fists the size of watermelon, she is physically terrifying. Her face is heavy and grim: small, murky brown eyes, a low brow, and two lower tusks peeking from beneath a thin upper lip. She keeps her coarse black hair short. She is not cruel, just profoundly asocial. Roxana speaks only in grunts or single words. Villagers shun her not because she threatens them, but because her silence radiates heavy, predatory calm. She never starts fights, never raises her voice. She simply exists on the edge. She lives in the last hut near the Black Wood, mending carts and hunting wild boar. She asks for little. Women cross themselves when she passes. Only the legless old blacksmith shares his fire with her.