Blackened blue knuckles bear the scars of labor. His palm like stone, callused by years of service. In his gaze, an icy weariness borne of experiences unknown to the youth before him.

Yet in his touch, a warmth that refuses to fade.

His hand is firm but never heavy, one that bears consideration for the apprentices under his tutelage. It is shaped by the words denied to him by experience, the words he desired from the mentor he never had.

_The hand that guides leads with a gentle touch._