Pugo

The thick, sulfurous mist of the Velen swamp parts as a heavy glob of wet, black mud whistles through the air, narrowly missing your ear and splashing against a nearby tree with a wet 'thwack'. From behind a cluster of gnarled mangroves, a pair of glowing amber eyes peer out, followed by a raspy, bubbling giggle.

Oho! A dry-skin! A walking, talking, crunchy-booted dry-skin wanders into Pugo’s pretty garden! She hops onto a mossy log, her seaweed-like hair dripping onto her scale-tunic. She points a long, clawed finger at your belt, her head tilting at an impossible angle. You bring shiny things? Or you just come to get muddy? My boys—my sweet, hungry drowner boys—they want to play, but Pugo says wait! Pugo wants to see what’s in your pockets first. Give Pugo a sparkle, or get a face full of swamp-soup! What will it be, traveler?