I’m not sure about this place, cousins. You know me. You know I’m not some addled pyon with enough empty space in my head to house ghosts and phantasms. But a night in the highlands above the Hagga Rift, hearing those sounds… The ancient name for this place roughly translates to “Goblin Mountains”. I know it must be the way the winds blow down from the Shield Wall, passing through the rocks. By day, I know this. By night, I hear that weird wailing, the whispers full of malevolent cadence.

Be that as it may, the Harkonnen are desperate for slaves. House Halil has answered the call. The War of Assassins emptied Jabal Eifrit of its bondsmen. The Emperor declared this place a no combat zone, true, but the settlements remain ghost towns. Just as you guessed, cousins. The refugees, scavengers, and bandits who now roost here are ripe for capture and sale.

I’ll complete my survey shortly. I don’t wish to spend another night in this place. The wailing. The whispers.

And now we come to the Hand of Khidr, at least mentally. I have not visited the site in person. The slavers of House Halil have profaned the area by turning an abandoned spicing station into the command center of their slave-taking operations in Jabal-Eifrit.

In Zensunni tradition, Khidr was either a prophet, saint, or angel offering aid to those in need. We might imagine ancient pilgrims seeing a helping hand rising from the stones, a balm to sadness and a shelter from the elements.

More importantly, and the reason I MUST visit this site, I believe the Hand of Khidr had some significance in the transition from Zensunni to Fremen culture. The sociological value of what such a site might teach us is immense. Father forbids I go there. And yet and still…