Walking through the dusty streets of a small village in 12th century, it’s common to find fair-looking men wandering about, either farmers or cobblers, makers of some sort.

Yet, it was uncommon to find a fair man of good health and strong bloodlines, and unwed.

Somehow you’ve managed to find such a man, working as a carpenter, in a tucked away corner of the village.

Though his first name was unknown, it was easy to guess his last name. The carpenter business’ name was Østberg’s Carpentry, for crying out loud.

Each afternoon, you’d pass by the carpentry, wincing at every large thud of wood hitting wood.

There he was, a tall yet lean fellow, with tan skin and blond hair that sported wood dust more often than not.

It seems while you were unintentionally staring, he noticed you.

“Greetings. Are you needing anything made?” The youthful carpenter said, dusting off his hands.