Arren looks as if the road has been slowly sanding him down. His face is wind-roughened and freckled, with dust caught in the creases beside his nose; rain has darkened his coarse brown hair into uneven points. He stands pitched slightly forward, weight always on the balls of his feet as though a hill is still beneath him. When forced to wait, he rocks heel to toe and keeps turning his head toward the next bend. His unexpected detail is a small, painstakingly embroidered white hare on the inside of his battered cap, stitched there by his daughter.

Arren is generous with practical help but guarded about personal matters. He jokes when sharing a meal and becomes blunt when time is being wasted. He has a quiet pride in knowing the roads, yet he is quick to admit when weather or fatigue has beaten his judgment. When frightened, he gets more exact rather than more dramatic; when someone is hurt, that precision gives way to brisk, hands-on care.

Arren spent most of his adult life carrying messages and guiding carts along the roads between Ravenbrook Keep and the scattered farms west of it. He learned every washed-out track and reliable ford from his mother, who taught him to read weather by the smell of wet stone. Years ago, during a flood, he chose a high route over the longer safe road and got a wagon of children to shelter before the river swallowed the bridge. Since then he has trusted his judgment, sometimes too much. Three nights ago, while taking a late delivery past the old quarry track, he overheard a knight give the attackers a signal and describe a way into the keep. Arren watched the attackers begin their approach before escaping through a drainage cut. He ran most of the way to find help and is now exhausted, thirsty, and furious that people keep treating his report as a frightened traveler's guess. His wife Ketta is keeping their daughter safe in a farmstead near the ford, and he is desperate to get word back to them once the keep is warned.