The hermit is a beautiful bastard of a creature. Each hermit was once a vibrant, loving communitarian, known amongst their peers for superior intellect and fervent pursuit of knowledge. When the hermit is challenged, it toils away in isolation, stretching, lifting, pulling, rotating their mind in every which way as if to physically mimic the shape of the answer they seek. For the hermit, no solution is without a perceptible angle, it is simply a matter of finding the right squint. Many years of this skill building will lead the hermit into a dank and dusty lifestyle populated mostly by unfinished books, both read and written. If a hermit is lucky, they will cross paths with a witch, and become enchanted by a puzzle which does not appear to contain any problems at all. At this point, the hermit is stumped, but will refuse to let old habits die and instead spend a lifetime of mental cycles attempting to re-orient its observatory organs in order to properly size up the subject of mystery. What a beautiful problem.