[I]What do I do?[/I] Perfect pondered, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, pressing heavy, occasionally trembling body flat into the cold, hard ground as he peered between the leaves of a little tuft of yellowish growth, hidden behind two outcroppings of rock that now served to prevent anyone from spotting him past the furtive little plant... unless they peered over it, of course, which was quite possible. Laying flat as he did, still and unmoving, simply endured the cold and peeked at the people he had been following for nearly two days now. It had taken all this time to catch up to them, and another long while for him to maneuver - mostly by inching across the ground from cover to cover, flat on his stomach as he was now - to this position, where they were unlikely to spot him. He was still too far away to hear what they were saying to each other when they spoke - in fact he could barely hear them speak at all, as long as they voices remained at normal speaking-volume - so they were very unlikely to hear him, but even a psychopath knows that sometimes caution is the better virtue, especially when one finds oneself in a strange land one knows nothing about. And especially when the people one was spying on were... well, like those people.
The strange man with bells on his clothes seemed, if intuitively rather odd to look at, like the smallest threat out of the four, about as poorly armed as Perfect himself, if not even worse than his own armaments. He had spotted a sickle in the man's possession - a tool for farming, ill-suited for hurting people, he reckoned - and a broken sword, neither of which seemed like they posed a significant danger to him. His own sizable knife was still clutched in his right hand, blade resting snugly in its sheath, and the sharpened sticks lay beside his left hand, ready to be snatched up and used as needed. Perfect was much bigger than the bell-wearing fellow, too; the little guy seemed like he could be knocked over with but a casual wave of the great serial killer's hand, so Perfect was far from intimidated.
Then there was a guy in black leather armor, who struck Perfect as logically an easy target as well, but his instincts warned him to make a final decision about how much of a risk this person was. He had not actually seen a weapon in that man's possession at all, which made him suspicious to say the least. What kind of person would have the common sense to don armor, but not to acquire as much as a basic piece of weaponry? It could be that he had simply entered this world with armor but no weapons, of course - Perfect had no idea what determined which objects were in their possession upon coming here - but even then... nothing? Perfect had just come here, and had managed to craft some additional basic weapons already. It did not make sense, which probably meant that it was not true; he was bound to have a weapon hidden somewhere. Either that, or he was unbelievably stupid. He was small as well, and immediately unremarkable, but he was a difficult target.
The woman was, intriguingly, of more concern than the two men. She was tall and sturdy, though not quite as tall or as sturdy as Perfect, and carried a sword [I]and[/I] an axe with her. Never mind whether she actually knew how to use those weapons, both had longer range than anything at Perfect's disposal (unless he opted to throw his knife), and were ultimately very dangerous in even inexperienced hands. She was pretty, though, at least from a distance... Perfect liked her.
But what [I]really[/I] motivated Perfect to keep to the shadows, and to keep respectful distance from these people out of fear that they might notice him and either drive him away or downright kill him, was the armored figure. Forget about the fact that they were potentially four against one, that they had food and water (unlike him), that they were all armed, and that this particular behemoth of a man wielded a halberd that was a deterrent against approaching them by itself; what troubled Perfect most of all was the [I]armor[/I]. Everything else were odds he could, in theory, overcome by sheer strength, speed and wits, but platemail armor like that? Neither his knife nor his sticks could ever hope to ever reach the man inside that suit, no matter how much he stabbed or slashed at him. At best he could maybe manage to land a blow against the warrior's head with the butt of his knife and knock him out through the helmet, but even that would be a troublesome feat to accomplish. That one was dangerous... exceptionally so. If just one piece of armor had been missing, or the shape had shown any signs of the existence of a vulnerable area, things would have been different, but as things were...

Not that Perfect actually meant to kill these people, or even fight them at all if it could at all be avoided. Why in the world would he want that? The most important resource they had that he needed - their experience with and knowledge of this world - could only be acquired from them as long as they were alive, after all, and preferably amiable to and honest with him as well. And aside from whatever meager resources the four of them could be lugging around, what reason did he have to kill them? To remove the threat? It would have been a wiser and simpler course of action to wholly avoid them, if that was his intention, rather than stalk them for the better part of two days' trek through harsh terrain and heat-that-turned-inexplicably-to-cold. He wanted to approach them openly if at all possible, to take advantage of everything he could garner from interacting with them, but he did not want to die (again) because he did so. It was not fear; psychopaths were not very susceptible to that, nor was Perfect. It was simply the logical conclusion that his chances of surviving the encounter were not very good, if they proved hostile.
Not that he would have much of a choice, soon. The fact that he had caught up to these people at all was - as much as he wanted to accredit the feat to his own physical shape - mostly due to him being newly awakened and not as ravaged by the reckless environment of this dreadful place, and thus in possession of greater vitality and stamina. Over the past couple of days, however, their situations had reversed; they had food and water, while he had not. Their condition had presumably been maintained relatively stably at the stage they had been on when he had first spotted them, whereas his own thirst had gone unquenched and his hunger unsatisfied. The thirst in particular was bad; already he felt himself weakening, and he knew rationally that he would only grow weaker the longer he went like this, and would ultimately not last long without water. It helped that the heat had given way to this infernal chill, but he still needed something to drink. He already felt downright sick from time to time from sheer thirst, which was a much more troubling notion than the feel of hunger gnawing in the pit of his stomach. Already his limbs grew heavy, and his mind did not function as well as it could have. The water-situation needed to be fixed - soon - or he was really going to die.
Not yet, though... first he needed to make sure. Either he had to end up in a situation where he literally had no other recourse than to approach these people for help, like finally being on the brink of succumbing to thirst altogether, or he had to witness some kind of confirmation that these people were not hostile to strangers.
And a chance for them to prove whether they were hostile or not, as luck would have it, was exactly what occurred now. Perfect did not smile; he simply stared. Still. Watchful... desperate.