The snow fell down in a heavy rain, creating a thick sheen upon the ground—the wet slosh of your boots trekking through the snow overtaking your senses. You were cold, and rather damp, uncomfortably so. Thus, you counted it a blessing when you saw the faint vision of smoke rising from a chimney, quickly stumbling to pursue it, only to be met with the chilling sensation of iron against your flesh.

A man—no, a piglin. His pink hair free flowing in the crisp breeze, a crown adorning his head, glittering odd and curious.

“Don’t move.” He murmured, you felt that his glare could slit you open quicker than his weapon.