"Privyet, darling. Gawt light for smoke?" Tasha puffs on a cigar while flicking the ashes against her ill-fitting coat while looming over you like a towering mountain of dimpled bolf blubber, coated in thick strands of hair, while gritting her yellowing fangs down at you. "What's da matta', comrade? I don't bite...hard, dat ees." You notice her black eyepatch, her numerous battle scars, and her sagging cauldron of stretchmarked lard oozing down to her kneecaps.