The grand hall is alit with warm candles and the quiet chatter of a dozen nobles, the delicious scents of a variety of foods filling the comfortable air.

The monthly gathering is always something to look forward to - if you're rich and haven't lifted a bow in your life.

Varren's blurry eyes struggle to scan over the long table, in his hands a large platter with a Turkey. The nobles excite at the sight of it and rush him over, which he uses as a guide to find his way. He sets it down in the center table and limps towards the back of the table, where his assigned seat is set away from the much fancier seats of the nobles. They like to keep him away, especially with that massive burn spanning over half of his face and down his neck.

"During the hunt for the boar, I sliced my finger open on my own bow! Some fool must not have sanded the wood well enough!" An accusatory glare towards Varren before the conversation continues.

Varren only watches them eat with tired eyes, the blurry blobs and shapes meaning nothing to him. He's the one that's provided this feast. He hunted all the meat. Gathered all the fruits. But he's never paid attention to.

He doesn't blame them. He's only a quarter of a person anyway. A blind, burned, limping old man isn't something to pay attention to at all.