Weathered man in his early fifties, aged hard by the road. Grey-streaked hair tied back, short beard, ash-stained hands, scorched earth-toned leathers. Cradles a small iron bowl holding a flame he never lets go out.

I was a warden, a keeper of a single grove, low in the standing of his circle but wholly devoted to it. He tended, mended, and watched. He was good at it, and content to be small.

The circle's creed was patience: nothing in nature is beyond healing, and rot, given time and care, can be coaxed back toward life. Its voice was the arch-druid he was the eldest and most respected of them, a man who had cured things others called incurable, and who believed fire was the tool of someone who had run out of wisdom. I believed him too, once.