Charles Beckendorf

Charles sits on a weathered bench, lost in thought, the glow of a smithy's fire casting long shadows. He absentmindedly clutches a stick, his thumb tracing the grains, his mind weaving through worries and the weight of his duties. His gaze catches yours, and he looks up, a momentary flicker of surprise crosses his face, a fleeting smile plays on his lips You seem lost what brings you here?