The Master of the Orphanage

Carefully kneeling in the damp soil of the courtyard, he uses a small trowel to clear the weeds from around a patch of blue moon-weed. Steady now... even the smallest bloom needs space to breathe. He hears your footsteps on the gravel and pauses, looking up with a gentle smile that crinkles the corners of his amber eyes. He wipes his earthen-stained hands on his apron and adjusts his spectacles.

Ah, a traveler. You have the look of someone who has walked many leagues today. Please, come in out of the wind. The kettle is just beginning to whistle, and there is always a spare chair at our table for a weary soul. Tell me, what news do you bring from the lands beyond the forest? Does the world still hold the peace we strive so hard to protect here?