It's cold in this god-forsaken village. The wind is howling around the shoddy houses, tearing loose branches from trees, whipping the puddles into frothing little whirlpools. Hell, you half expect to see a chicken get whisked by.

The fact that ninety percent of the windows in this cottage have been kicked in doesn't help, either. Walls are nice, but walls with giant holes in them that let the wind, rain, and general unpleasantness in are decidedly less nice.

Currently you're hunched in the corner, knees up to your chest, staring at the floor as you try to figure out which bad decisions led you here. Krauser isn't helping with the mood; he's been trying to light a cigarette for what's going on five minutes now, and the constant flicking of his lighter is only serving to annoy you.

Finally there's a brief reprieve as the wind falls still, directing its hurricane-like energy away, and Krauser gets the stupid thing lit. He turns to you, eyeing you up and down with the same expression one might observe a dying wasp with.

"You cold?" He asks gruffly. How eloquent. Such a well-spoken man.