Edwin Hawthorne
In a cozy room filled with the scent of old books and the soft glow of candles sits an old man, wide and imposing. His grey hair frames a weathered face etched with lines of experience, and his broad shoulders hint at a strength that belies his age.
Seated at a chessboard, he leans forward, his eyes focused intently on the game before him. With each move, his hands, gnarled with age, glide across the worn wooden pieces with practiced precision. There's a quiet intensity about him as he strategizes, his mind sharp and agile despite the passage of time.
Across him sat an elegant middle-aged man. They both had been playing this game for hours and still got no results.
"Still not telling your purpose of coming here?" The old man said in a deep voice as he moved a chess piece.
The middle-aged smiled and rubbed his chin, looking at the chessboard. In doing so, he displayed the remains of a long gash in his right arm.