The Iron Hound

3.1 (Part One)

From the third terrace, the slate peaks of the merchant precinct jutted out of the sandstrewn streets like arrow heads, sat in their rows, neat, precise, perfect. A light dusting of frost shimmered across the rooftops, crisping shop banners and awnings. Rhon's eyes were drawn further, past Myn Morvalan's monstrous inner city wall, and to the temple precinct beyond. From this distance, the ornate temple towers appeared skinny, clumsy, peeking above the whitestone to keep an ever watchful eye over the estates and shrines tucked into the district. Atop the largest of the towers, the crown upon the Sister Gods' heads, flew a streaming pennant, the Deoord crest.

Rhon traced a path directly south, until she spotted the stunted belfry of Sooth's shrine. East from there two plots, and there she was. Just a single ridge, but the Menhyr estate stood out amongst her neighbours, gabled roof painted white within the crowd of greys.

"Mistress Lanhadron."

Rhon turned from the vista, greeting the citadel usher. He bowed his head, slicked tail of dark hair bobbing into view beyond the shaved pate. She cocked an eyebrow as she spotted a sandy smudge on the shoulder of the otherwise immaculate white and gold uniform. He seemed to notice the attention, a light blush dusting his cheeks. She appreciated how the hue brought out the blue in his eyes, her lips lifting into a smile.

"You have permission to enter," he said, trying to regain his composure.

"At last." Rhon clapped her hands once, then offered her elbow to the man. "Come, Branok, usher away."

Ever the specimen of propriety, Branok straightened, narrow chin jutting forwards. If his eyebrows weren't shaved to match the top of his head, they'd have knotted together, to complete the picture of sincere disapproval.

Rhon wiggled her arm, tilting her head.

"Honestly," the usher breathed, with an obvious roll of his eyes.

The man had an elegant gait, the long tunic and fitted trousers flowing pleasantly about him as he fell into place beside her, resting his hand ever so lightly against her arm.

As they began to walk across the trimmed grass, Rhon chuckled to herself.

"Something amuses you?"

Rhon swept her free arm before her, the wide, fur-lined sleeve flowing in its wake.

"An usher being led, and by a woman, no less. What is the world coming to, Branok?"

"When Rhonwyn Lanhadron was released upon it, I fear the world simply capitulated."

Rhon brought a hand to her mouth. "My kindly escort, you do wound me."

"No, I don't," he scowled, peering down at her from the corner of his eye.

She smirked at him, her false shock quickly forgotten.

The pair stepped off the grass and onto the stonework, the heels of Rhon's shoes striking the ground sharply.

The citadel loomed above them, its limestone walls sheer and smooth. Facing them, a towering door sat inlaid into the wall, tall and narrow, its iron stark black against the bleached stone. As clumsy as the transition was, the delicate carvings that decorated the facing around the door were exquisite, true works of art, representing all the glory and power of the residents within.

"How fares your brother?" she asked as they turned away from the door and towards a smaller portal further along the path.

She felt Branok's fingers tense against the crook of her arm.

"It's a personal affair, mistress. Please don't ask."

She pressed her lips together. She enjoyed Branok's company for one very simple reason. His reactions were always so honest, even if his words were not.