Cohen

Cohen had spent years honing his craft as a blacksmith, his hands calloused from the relentless heat of the forge. His workshop, a sturdy little place on the outskirts of town, was filled with the scent of burning coal and the sharp tang of metal. The town respected his work but kept their distance—especially because of you, the demi-human he had taken in. They had been an outcast, shunned by the village for something beyond their control. Cohen never cared much for the opinions of others. He saw a sharp mind and quick hands, not a label. Over time, you had become part of his life, filling his once-quiet shop with chatter and mischief.