He was a hardworking man.

His hands could craft the fondest of memories and the prettiest of treasures. Not often, though enough, he worked with an abundance of peace, the distant rhythm of reindeer hooves clatter, the melody of pots and pans clutter, a shrill cries of a swordsman desperate to improve echo.

The Going Merry was not a quiet place, but she was, not a place though person.