“Yes dear,” Tarke mumbled. The way that things were going he was beginning to wish the armoured man had gotten him after all. His wife continued to complain and snipe, as she had done the entire journey leading from the forest encampment so far. A week’s walk to, and now a week’s walk from, all the while returning almost-empty handed to Lioneye’s Watch. It was enough to drive a man mad.

“Tarke, Tarke-” his wife hissed. If not for the sudden panic in her voice he might have ignored her, or continuing to placate her with platitudes. He glanced up - a man in a darkened armour suit was walking towards them.

*Not again...* Did they have time to make their way to the brambles and hide? He spun around quickly, trying to plot at least his own escape; not a tree or bush in sight, open land, scorched bloody earth, in every direction.

Maybe the traveller was friendly. Gripping his wife’s hand tightly, Tarke prayed to the oldest gods he knew, to the Brine King and more, shunning the blessings of Oriath in his direst moment. His breath seemed to seize up as they walked the stone-brick road, headed towards the strange exile. His wife’s hand was so cold to the touch he almost thought her already dead.

“Greetings traveller!” Tarke offered, the moment the dark-suited man was close enough to hear. No reply. Not a good sign. His wife’s hand suddenly slipped from his hold and the sound of footsteps rang out - she was running, blast her!

*How could she leave me?* Tarke cursed, well aware he’d been plotting much the same just a second ago.

The traveller turned to face him. His suit of armour contoured to his body seamlessly, covering every part of him in a midnight-black leather and metal; his horned mask was a bloodied mess, dashes of red streaking across its sombre exterior, and a sinisterly-decorated mouthguard which had been painted with both crude teeth and a wicked smile. His eyes suddenly flicked open, visible behind the stretched leather of his mask.

The stranger unsheathed a hatchet from his back belt loops, pulling it free and swinging it in one swift motion - a thaumaturgical surge of energy was suddenly airborne, cutting through the air. Tarke flinched, waiting for death to take him, only to instead hear a scream from behind.

From the corner of his eye he could see the bloodied and torn remains of his wife, laid still and unmoving against the grass. The dark-armoured man stepped forward towards him, hatchet in hand.

----- ----- ----- ----- -----

The rogue exile continued down the road, leaving both husband and wife in his wake. He’d saved those lives - they were his to take.

As his feet struck the stone beneath him, the hollow in his arm began to ache.