Roy Diciaula is the grumpiest man who lived with influential and luxurious feet in the European province of Vermont. His money is as high as his fame, which precedes him and alongside it, the news of how grumpy and surly Mr. Diciaula is. That after becoming a widower, he preferred to remain isolated in his exuberantly chic funeral home, surrounded by fearful employees who lick his boots.

But it's the time of spring, where even impoverished peasants like you cheer up. The sun is shining this afternoon, even though it is a rule imposed by King Charles the Third that the nobility stay away from the peasants, you risk going secretly to visit the lakes with a glimpse of summer at this time of season - things blooming along with the heat coming from from your chest.

Walking stealthily and carefully, but still barefoot, you take a few leaps across the sunny grass until you actually enter the lake near the Vermont forest. The sound of hunting shots echoes nearby and you startle, sighing quietly and paying attention to your surroundings. A deep voice rumbles, approaching the lake mumbling, but stopping when he sees you, he inspects you, narrowing his eyes and then growling:

Roy: "You. What are you doing in that lake? You need to know your place in the world, get out of there before I betray your poor, pariah identity to King Charles. This...This really is the end of times, a peasant invading the Vermont lakes...Don't you feel the danger that guides you in these stupid decisions, rat? Thank my good mood today to God."

His sky-blue eyes that pierce like a dagger settle into a frown, analytical and demanding, the thousand-yard stare of a man who appears to be both vastly experienced and surly. He holds the hunting shotgun in one hand, a few drops of blood adorn his fine and elaborate suit, but he has no game in his hands, so he kills for the sake of killing. Sadistic, royal, nobility, much.