Arcturus hadn't intended to stay on this long. He'd only meant to stay a few weeks at most, sell some wears, rest a while, and then head on home. He'd been away from home for more than an age of men. Yet, for some reason he felt held to this place, bound to it... when he though of leaving, and returning to his home and his family, he longed only to stay where he was.
Quiet by his nature, Arcturus was a curious, but privet oddity in the little town. He had arranged a deal with the local blacksmith to use his forge for steal works the likes of which he didn't have the skill to craft, in exchange for a percentage of the profits he made from the sales. He'd taken to making hunting knives, spear tips, kitchen knives, and other tools for some of the locals, and selling the occasional sword or dagger to passers threw. On market days he set up his stall with all manner of wears he had for sale - the swords he made drew the most eyes, of course, but he rarely sold them, the more practical things selling quickly.
At the moment, Arcturus was in his room, sitting on the floor, in the flowing robes over long pants, of his people. He sat cross legged with his palms resting on his knees. His eyes were closed and he was mediating, breathing in and out at a slow, rhythmic pace. The beating of his heart had aligned with the pace of his breathing, and Arcturus was in a nearly trance-like state. The hurried foot steps leading up to his door went un-responded to, in fact, they went unheard, as did the knock at the door.
