His name came from the metal cord twisted and running through his hunched body. It came from a terrible accident many years ago (long before Zepp and his generation were born), and he had somehow survived against all odds. The metallic cord was lodged in such a way that it was impossible to remove without causing further damage; so it remained intact through his abdomen and around his chest, and wrapped up over his left shoulder, rendering that arm useless. He wore a dark-green cape to cover most of it, but the colony all knew what was hidden there and they held him in high regard for his noble scars. Legends had formed over the years as to what exactly the incident had entailed, and though the unhealing wound caused him daily pain, he never entertained it with grimace or tear. He never smiled nor frowned, but his jaws were set in that kind of certainty that old men carry in their teeth, and his eyes squinted to peer deep into your soul.
As he approached them calmly, Zepp could tell those eyes were not studying the new object, but Walden and himself. The staff at the sage's side moved rhythmically with each step he took until he arrived an arm's length before the duo. His mouth opened slightly and his great, ancient voice billowed forth.
“Ah, the ink pen... I remember it well,” he said, kindly poking fun at Zepp like a grandfather to his grandson. “Now, what do we have here, gentlemen?”