@goxinsane
There was a certain sort of freedom that Bentley had found in his travels. What had started out as volunteer work, it had simply progressed to a young man's journey in trying to recover from heartache, and find things about himself that he had lost along the way. Or had never known were there. It had taken him throughout lands and homes of kind strangers that had let him board for the night, in exchange of some hard work of some form. Many times he earned a few coins during the day, playing his guitar in the market, or learning to barter with things that he could make with supplies he'd either bought or found in his surroundings.
Bentley was grounded. At peace. Perhaps a little unshaven, and his hair longer than his mother would approve. But it didn't matter, because his soul could breathe.
He knew that his time was drawing to a close, and soon he would have to return home -- but it was not without memories, and treasures far greater than any amount of money or luxury could provide.
Still, he played his guitar in the market square that morning -- simply because he was feeling inspired to. Battered case open at his feet, worn boots tapping along with the rhythm in which he played. If one were to stop and listen, perhaps feel generous to drop in a coin or two, he'd appreciate it -- but for now, the humble traveler played, happy just to be there.
