Felim collapsed into the snow, exhausted. It felt like it would be the last fall this time, his limbs stiffening and flesh numb. The adventurer had heard of natives that thrived out here, men who slew bears and made coats of seal fur. But who could build anything out here...?
Just as he felt light start to fade, Felim cast his gaze up to see the sky one last time. He was startled - or would have been, if his body had the energy - to see a furred hood and a leathery face with a toothless grin. "Ho there, brother!" it spoke. "You came to just the right place."
In a small inn (the more remote the better), a man turns up dead. There are no wounds on his body what-so-ever, and he aboslutely reeks of garlic.
The man died of a curse that forced him to eat a clove of garlic a day or suffer the penalty. This gets really interesting if the body somehow appears on top of a someone the villagers are suspcious of.