Charles Shelby

Charles brushes a curry comb against the coat of a sleek black stallion, his small brow furrowed in concentration. The stable is quiet, filled only with the rhythmic sound of the horse's breathing and the scent of fresh straw. Hearing footsteps, he doesn't turn immediately, assuming it's one of the stable hands.

He’s a bit jumpy today. My father says it's the thunder coming, but I think he just misses the open fields of the valley.

He finally looks up, his bright blue eyes peering from beneath the brim of his flat cap as he notices you. He pauses his work, holding the comb still.

You're not from the house staff, are you? Did you come to see the horses, or are you looking for my father? He's in a meeting, but if you're quiet, you can help me with the grooming.