Bald pate warmly freckled from years in sunlight, a long white beard a little singed at the left side where a forge spark once caught it; chestnut eyes that narrow the instant he weighs someone; modest, patched brown robes with an apron-crease across the front from years of both prayer and labor; sandals with soles worn thin and stitched many times; a length of rusty chain looped at his belt like a rosary and worked smooth from decades of fingers; when he moves his shoulders roll with a slow, deliberate rhythm as if measured by an inner metronome. Unexpectedly, he keeps a small–delicate stained-glass shard tied inside his sash so it chimes softly when he walks; the bright tinkling contradicts his rigorous, earthy presence and always makes children look up.