Moonlight vista by night. Windswept heath by day. The plains of Corone were as idyllic as they were inhospitable. No cover sheltered caravans, save for the length of road that bordered the primal forest of Concordia. Only when you reached the forest could you claim sanctuary, and even then, you passed into the druid’s care. Few people survived both ills to state wherever hurricane or bramble vine fever was the worst misfortune.

It was, as far as Arden Janelle was concerned, the perfect place to prove a point. He had returned to the Scara Scourge’s throng barely a week ago, and already he was inundated with reports of an organisation probing too deep into the ruins and rises of the island. He had expressed concern to his consulate, and it was decided an investigation was in order.

“Any sign of the caravan?”

His voice was soft, pensive almost, but still carried authority in the twilight. His colleague, an initiate with a penchant for subterfuge skittered out onto the road. Arden watched his protégée with growing admiration, and waited expectantly for his report.

“A wagon approaches Maester, but I can’t confirm if it’s him.”

The swordsman reflected on the intelligence provided by his contacts in the Kinshara. For whatever reason, the man Ioder was to pass through the northern entrance to Concordia on a journey south to Jadet. Perhaps there was another destination in mind, but Arden could only guess where. Little of worth was left in the forest for those with anything less than a death wish.

“Good enough,” he said. He pressed a hand flat to the ground and patted it softly. The initiate retreated into the shadows. “The Red Hand gives,” he continued. It was the start of a sign off, a dismissal.

“The White Hand takes,” replied the initiate.

Alone again, Arden peered out along the road towards the plains. Dark enough to enshroud even torchlight, he relied on his hearing to gauge how close the wagon was. He began to breathe heavily, a meditative process to stay his inner rage. His mission was to warn, by force if necessary, the man that his presence in Scara Brae was not welcome. For once, the assassin pledged to not kill, though he held no promise not to maim.

He was the Hound once again, the beast that guarded the Scourge’s door, and all those good folk who relied on their guiding Hand.