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Gawen wakes at sunrise, the sun's rays tracing a path through the dusty air from gaps in the timber wall across onto the bed.

Gawen yawns and stretches - like most beds, this one was far too short and his feet had been sticking off the end the entire night. Despite this, Pen had apparently decided that there was room for him on the bed too, and was currently still asleep - legs splayed akimbo and head drooping off the side of the cot. It didn't look comfortable to Gawen, but he supposed that dogs must have different ideas as to what was comfortable or not.

As he moves to get up, Pen jerks awake and rolls over, almost falling off the bed in the process. Gawen laughs and ruffles the dog's fur affectionately, before heading downstairs to see whether there was anything available for breakfast.

Keeping a sharp eye out for any more wolves, Gawen responds.

"Was I now? Well, if I was, I wouldn't pay mind to it, because the truth is I don't know much more than yourselves."

He pauses for a second, the silence being filled by the muffled thud of their mounts' hooves on the forest floor, the warm wind in the leaves, and the plaintive caw of a solitary crow in a far off tree.

Seeing that Magan expects more of an answer from him, Gawen continues, choosing his words carefully and approaching the subject from a slight tangent.

"You know, there's a lot of things that make up a druid. Learning, now that's part of it - history, nature, knowing the good berries from the bad. Conducting ceremonies, that's a part of it too, and being able to gather miseltoe without it losing its potency. But you can know all o' that and it won't make you a druid, see? You have to be able to look through things, into the meaning of things - there's more to this land than most people see with just their eyes, and hear with just their ears, if you follow. And those of us who do see more, do hear more - and there aren't as many of us as you might think, not ones who truly get it, mind - well, things are changing, and we can't see the meaning to it, not yet."

Gawen pauses again, struggling to put into words something he understands in his bones but hasn't had to vocalise before now.
The crow caws again.

"Maybe it's nothing, or coincidence, or chance, but this fellow in Kent, important Christian man - from Rome, I heard - well, that's something new too, but it's the kind of new that people like you and I can investigate. So that's what we're going to do."

Gawen looks at Magan, his dark eyes wide and earnest beneath his shaggy red locks. "Does any of that make sense? Or do I just sound a bit mad?"

Gawen, less spent than his colleagues, is free to comb the nearby countryside for herbs. With a quick word to the others as to where he's going, he heads a little way away from the farm and begins his search.

Guided half by training and half by instinct he slowly wanders along hedgerows, his eyes roving for particular leaf shapes, or flower colours, or seed pods. When he spots something of interest his sickle flashes as he makes a clean cut, and the chosen plant disappears into the pouch hanging on his belt, occasionally accompanied a soft mutter of "...this would be better harvested at midnight..." or "...the ones in Glywysing are twice the size of these...".

After some time, when he's satisfied he's collected enough to be getting on with, he returns to the camp and pulls out an old dented iron pot from his bag and proceeds to measure out quantities of the plants, grinding them up with the butt of the sickle. Occasionally he tilts his head to the side, as if listening to something, before slightly adjusting quantities. Eventually, all the ingredients mixed to his satisfaction, he puts a small amount of water in the pot from the stream, sets it on top of the fire, and waits for it to boil before carefully adding a few plant extracts.

After quite some time, most of the water has boiled off and what is left is a disgusting greenish sludge. Gawen cautiously smells it, then cautiously sticks a finger into it for a taste.

When he's satisfied all is as it should be, he nods with satisfaction and empties it into a small, waxed skin from his bag, before beginning the whole process again.

The giant initially gives a slight frown as if mildly annoyed, but then returns Magan's stony stare with a friendly smile.

(Cornish)
"I would ask if the hat gives it away, but I think perhaps it's a bit high up for most people to see."

He gestures to a thin but ornate wooden circlet on his head, almost lost amongst his wild, red hair.

(Cornish)
"Well, maybe you don't have dryw wherever it is you're from? I suppose I'm a sort of priest, but with a bit of history and herbalism thrown in. Spiritual leader, that's me."

Gawen speaks with a soft, cheerful voice that belies his size, and with an accent that is undeniably Welsh.

(Cornish)
"Anyway, some of the people back home aren't too happy with the idea of Christians coming over to Prydain, as I understand they can be a bit pushy at times, so I've been told to go and find out what's what."

He scratches his beard thoughtfully and frowns.

(Cornish)
"I don't really know what to expect, mind - it might be that we can just explain to them that we don't really need their god over here, as we've got plenty of our own, but as I say they've been known to be a bit pushy in the past so it might be that your negotiating skills," he gestures to Magan's sword "will be of more use than me. But I suppose we'll find out, eh?"