Late at night, a cold cloaked stranger lumbers up the road towards the tavern, dragging firewood behind him. He pauses, crouches, and puts one hand to the ground. Ice cold water soaks the human savage's fur cloak as he touches his finger tips to the length of his tongue, tasting the ground as he does. He groans once and stands up, continuing to walk up to the tavern, the corpses of numerous small animals bumping against his leg. The corpse of a black chicken slips its head from the leather loop at his belt, and he stops to pick it up, whispering to it:
"Rivens will taste you soon, don't run my friend, right after we get a drink and warm our feet . . " he says as he slips the head back into the mug frog, tapping a cross on his chest and muttering about the past as he walks.