The Iron Hound

1.1

"There are things certain in this life, death being chief among them, but I am not one to linger on the morbid. No, I speak of the pre-ordained, the given, the certainties, that might have become something else entirely, if we'd simply imagined. 

Even before my birth, my role in life was mapped out. I was born into a prestigious line of scholars, and as the first daughter, I would become a chronicler. Not for even a moment, did it occur to me that there was something else I could do, might want to do. 

And so it was, when I later left my homeland to take an assignment given, if the native belief was to be observed, by a divine being. It was an honour, and certainly one I wouldn't reconsider taking now, but there were many different paths that might have been, and probably some that should have been, and I do often wonder what might have happened if I'd just thought to imagine something else." - First Loreholder Nen-Shek Ahn, Letters of the Dincroft Dynasty

---

The shuffle of booted feet on the hard-packed mud outside was not the first hint that he had a visitor. Even the perpetual camp buzz couldn't hide the prominent thud of impatient hooves. Straightening, Tutelar Menhyr pushed himself away from the terrain map unfurled on the tabletop before him. He shifted a stone back to the corner of the curling parchment.

The pavillion did much to shield him from winter bearing winds, but stray gusts had a habit of finding their way through the entrance. As if on cue, the harsh breath of morning air brushed the Tutelar's cheek, rustling strands of thick, brown hair about his ears. Sliding his gaze towards the entryway, he spotted the source. The tent flap, pulled aside by the hand of one of two men-at-arms guarding the front of the pavillion, allowed a stocky, muck-splattered messenger to duck below the canvas. The scarlet and cobalt livery of the Council of Kings was hard to miss, even with the modest caking of dirt.

A peremptory bow followed as the messenger spied the Tutelar. Stepping into the candlelight flickering from the tabletop, the man's groomed moustache, bristling as words began to form, glistened with remnants of a sweaty journey.

"Tutelar Idris Menhyr," he breathed, voice coarse, harsh.

The Tutelar didn't miss the absence of proper greeting.

Dipping into a leather-bound compartment sewed onto the man's outfit, the messenger slid out a scroll case.

"I bring a missive on behalf of Their August Majesties, the Council of Kings."

The ground beneath his booted feet crunched as he stepped forwards. The Tutelar stared at the messenger for a good, long moment, his weathered features as expressive as a rock. The Council's proxy looked ready to reiterate the announcement, pushing the scroll case towards the taller man.

"Set it on the table and leave," Tutelar Menhyr directed, returning his attention to the unfurled map, crossing arms over his chest, wrinkling the surcoat.

The messenger did as instructed, straightening after he placed the case on the tabletop, next to the map.

"Their Majesties expect a response."

Idris worked a knot out of his jaw, grinding teeth as he did so. "I'm certain they do."

Clearly the Council's man was unused to anything but complete compliance. His cheeks puffed as his mind worked a retort to his lips.

"Did you mishear me, emissary?" The Tutelar glanced up from the map, irritation drawing furrows into his brow. "Leave."

The local blackram, famed for its curling, sturdy horns, were eager to butt heads, often to the point of exhaustion. Like a grizzled old tup, the Tutelar's will soon overcame the runt's and the Council's proxy shuffled back towards the entryway, indignation flaring behind his eyes.