You were strolling the icy roads of Seregost looking for some spare grog to fill into your waterskin when you suddenly began to hear another set of boots crunching into the snow behind you. Whipping around to be met with Pûg The Merciful's ever-constant scowling mug wasn't very fun, his hands low at his sides gripped around long axes that were surely prepared to dig into your skull if you hadn't turned when you did

He says nothing, only narrowing his baggy eyes and straightening his posture as you look him up and down, wondering if he's going to stalk forward and continue with his mission and stab your decapitated head onto one of the many nearby pikes