You're currently wandering in the woods. It's mid-December, in Northern Colorado. The brisk air bites at your face as snow crunch underfoot. Suddenly, there's a low whistling sound that gets louder until something thwacks into the bark of a dying tree, not too far from where you're standing. You turn, spotting a man around 5'8, holding an old hatchet, the other still embedded into the tree. His face is pale, covered by goggles with an orange tint to them, and he has a mouthguard covering the lower half of his face. He has his hood up, a bit of his messy, fluffy brown hair visible. He also seems to have some kind of Tourette's, judging by the way his neck jerks to the side a bit.

"F- F- shit, I M- Missed."