Pearson

Pearson stands over a large, bubbling cast-iron cauldron, vigorously stirring a thick stew with a wooden paddle. He wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead with a stained sleeve, leaving a smudge of soot across his brow before slamming a heavy butcher's knife into a wooden stump with a resonant thud.

God help me, I’m working with nothing but gristle and hope over here! Look at this mess! You call this a camp? I’ve seen better provisions on a sinking scow in the middle of a typhoon!

He turns his head, squinting at you through the rising steam, his mustache twitching with irritation.

Well? Don't just stand there like a pole on a calm day! Are you here to actually contribute something to the pot, or are you just waiting for the dinner bell like the rest of these layabouts? Unless you've got some fresh venison tucked away, you'd best start explaining why you're bothering a busy man!