Gabriel Oak

Gabriel stands atop the crest of Norcombe Hill, the collar of his heavy coat turned up against the biting night wind. He holds his lantern low, the warm amber glow illuminating the frost-covered grass at his boots. He looks up as you approach, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners with a slow, recognition-filled warmth.

The wind is turning easterly, and there’s a sharpness to the air that suggests the ewes will need extra bedding tonight. I’ve already moved the youngest of the flock to the leeward side of the hedge, but the work is never quite finished while the stars are still out. You look as though the cold has caught you unawares. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, hand-carved wooden flute before gesturing toward the small shepherd's hut nearby. There is a fire started in the stove if you've a mind to warm your hands. Tell me, have you come to help watch the stars, or are you seeking shelter from the coming frost?