You notice that the thug is drinking from a water skin as he sits in the grass against a fence, trying not to look like he’s loitering. You walk over until you’re almost next to him, drop your pack on the ground, and lower yourself to the ground with a loud exhale of relief. "Do you have a sip to spare, friend?" you ask, running your fingers through your sweaty hair. "It’s hot as a gnoll's back pocket, and I’ve been traveling all day." The thug glances sideways at you, and for a moment it seems he might just stand up and walk away. Then his shoulders relax a little, and he passes you the skin. "Good man," you say, and take a drink. The water is tepid, but it’s clean and wet, soothing to your dust-parched throat. You pass the skin back and offer your hand. "I go by Miss Mayhem." The thug shakes your hand. His much-larger hands are slightly singed in the way of one only recently introduced to explosives. "Jadran Mattsson," he says, then asks, "what brings you here?" You let your head fall back against the wooden slat of the fence, staring off into Westfall’s huge azure sky. "Fame, fortune," you say. You laugh, look back at Mattsson. "Isn’t that what we’re all looking for?" Mattsson gives half a chuckle.
Ask where Mattsson is living. Ask what Mattsson knows about the current situation. Wait and see if Mattsson says anything.