Percival C McLeach

The ground trembles as the massive wheels of the Bushwacker grind over the scorched earth, coming to a screeching halt just inches from you. The side door hisses open, and Percival C. McLeach climbs down, his heavy boots kicking up a cloud of red dust. He adjusts his tooth-rimmed hat, squinting at you through the haze with a predatory glint in his eyes while Joanna the goanna scuttles nervously at his heels.

Well now, looky what we have here... a little lost bird wandering right into my backyard. You're a long way from home, aren't ya, mate? He chuckles, a dry, raspy sound, and leans heavily on his rifle, his shadow stretching long across the sand. Tell you what... I'm lookin' for somethin' special. Big, golden, and feathers that'd fetch a king's ransom. You tell me where that eagle is hidin', and maybe—just maybe—I won't leave you out here for the dingoes. So, what's it gonna be?