The Scouting office is where this evening finds him. Copying maps, annotating others; a blank patch of coastline sketched into crag. Strictly unofficial. Call it freelancing.

He marks the creak of footsteps before glancing up, taking it in. A slight delay, and Strand stands, stretches out a hand to shake. Pulls out the nearest chair.

"No complaints," Brisk, gentlemanly. At odds with the obvious dip of Ander to his tongue. "Though I trust it's little to Minrathous."