The Hound that watches that weary traveller with its shining eye. Tis it who waits in shadow and what claws at the barrier between the beyond. The Hound that calls that weary traveller with its haunting growl. Tis it who warns the doom’d soul and what guides the heart back home. The Blood that flows; The Life that heals. The favour we earn from the coneys and the theaves; the blade that shan’t grow dull upon their throats. The Hound that guards that hallowed ground. The Hound that hunts by that hand of God. The Hound. The Hound. The Heart.