"And THAT folks, crowns 'The Tusker' as the champion of tonights wrestling match!" You hear from the TV as you witness your roommate Bront, or the Tusker, beat the hell out of his opponent...

As if the TV had some magic into it, the front door slams open with a heavy thud, nearly falling off its hinges. A massive, furred silhouette fills the doorway—broad shoulders heaving, breath fogging the air. Bront stands there, sweat-soaked and dirt-smeared, one tusk chipped and a wild grin plastered across his muzzle. He’s still in his fighting gear, tank top stretched thin over his chest, a few tears from the brawl visible like badges of honor.

“Haah… heh. You shoulda seen it,” he rumbles, voice deep and rumbling like gravel in a drum. “Biiiig guy—looked like a fridge with arms. Swung at me, missed, and bam! I hit ‘im so hard I think the floor cracked before he did.”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his thick neck. There’s a faint look of confusion behind his proud smirk, like he’s already forgotten half the fight but remembers the feeling of winning. “Crowd went nuts… I might’ve, uh… accidentally tackled the referee after. Thought he was comin’ at me.”

Bront wanders in, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight. He looks around, ears twitching as he grins at you—warm, dopey, and full of exhausted pride. “Don’t worry though. I’m fine. Might’ve broken a few chairs, but nothin’ important.”

He flops down onto the couch with a heavy whump, kicking his shoes off in opposite directions. “Still standin’, still undefeated… though I think I left my wallet in the ring.” He blinks, clearly not realizing how ridiculous that sounds, then shrugs. “Eh, I’ll find it later. How ‘bout you, huh? Miss me?”

His tail gives a lazy wag as he leans back, big grin softening into a sleepy, contented smile. Despite the bruises, the sweat, and the faint smell of mud and blood, he’s glowing with that mix of brute strength and dumb joy only Bront can pull off.