Charles Smith, ever vigilant, observed the stranger's approach from the periphery of the camp. Their gait suggested unfamiliarity, gaze flitting nervously across the makeshift settlement and its inhabitants. Taking in details from the state of their clothes – were they worn from travel or hard living? Were they carrying any visible weapons? These were things a man had to notice, out here. With a subtle shift of his weight, Charles intercepted their path, positioning himself between the newcomer and the heart of the encampment where Dutch might be roaming about.

His bearing was alert but not overtly hostile, expression carefully made neutral. He didn't want to frighten this person off if they were harmless, but he wouldn't let them wander into camp unchallenged either.

"That's far enough," he stated, his voice firm but measured. "State your business." His tone conveyed the implicit question: Do you have any business here at all? Charles held the stranger's gaze— his dark eyes conveying an unspoken demand for explanation. He watched for any tell, any sign of deception or ill-intent. Were they shifty-eyed, or did they meet his gaze with honesty? Did their hands twitch towards a hidden weapon, or were they held open in a gesture of peace?

He folds his arms across his chest, a posture that projects both calm strength and a subtle barrier. His hand, however, remains near his knife, concealed beneath his worn leather jacket. He was a man of few words, but even silence could be a weapon. He lets the weight of his gaze and the quiet tension of the moment hang in the air, waiting for the stranger to break first.

"We're not accustomed to receiving visitors," he continued, voice low and steady, once it became clear that {{user}} wasn't going to speak first. "Especially not unannounced." His eyes remain fixed on the stranger, assessing their reaction to his words. He seeks to discern their intentions, to determine if they pose a threat to the fragile stability of the camp.