Forward (and content Warnings)
So!
This little number has been kicking around the ol' noggin for quite some time! Since about Senior Year when CotL came out, as a matter of fact! I've attempted to write this again and again, and I could never quite get it right. Uncertain about the perspective, who to follow, where it should be uploaded, how far it should go, on and on like this.
Recently, my beautiful wonderfully intelligent wife @Texas Red showed me this wonderful story called WARHOUND. And it got me thinking:
"Hey, isn't this idea kinda ripe for that sorta angle?"
So it was! I set to work, finished this Prologue, made it a cover, and bam! I'm a writer at last! This is my first piece of published fiction.
That being said,
Big content warning for:
-Blood, guts, graphic depictions of violence, nudity.
-Graphic depictions of abuse.
-Persistent allusions to prior assault.
-Period-Appropriate bigotry in some sections.
This piece of fiction would not be possible without @Texas Red, @StoneSaint, and @chucanoris.
Special thanks to Kallidora Rho, Cormac McCarthy, the folks at Massive Monster, and YOU!
PROLOGUE
A swell encompassed the whole of the beast's chest. A sudden, overwhelming restoration of air, a push onto the bellows' pedal. Stained with the filth of war, a red tower grew where the beast once lay, as it moved from the pile of stinking corpses. The blood of beasts–both flesh and steel–danced in tidal pools carved in the barren mud.
It did not know how many times it had woken like this.
It did not need to.
It need only ensure that it did.
For what awaited it at Gottspyre's edge was neither fortune nor accolades,
But a single order, not spoken by word,
But carved into its flesh:
"Return to your den, Hound.
There is work to be done yet."
Its gaze moved to its tattered clothing, never once crossing the bodies it so casually held underfoot. Abrasions sang from beneath, stinging, screaming, knocking on the bars to its head.
It closed its weeping eyes, and for a moment, the cacophony was silent. It no longer felt the sting of steel in its flesh, nor the pit in its gut. It couldn't.
There was work to be done yet.
Death was a fitting odor to carry on the wind. It spoke the same tongue as weapons, one that left the lips tight and fused from the heat of that overwhelming anxiety. Not a question to it, not an answer from it. It preferred things this way.
And so the death march continued. Back to the gates of Gottspyre. The Hound's Face–untattered by the carnage its visage had left in its wake–remained. No matter the fog it brought to its eyes, or the discomfort wrought from each breath–a bellows, it thought. Too much in, too little out, in too long a time-span.
It hated its Face.
Through the red lenses of its Face, it spotted what it knew to be water. A stream slashed through the forest floor. The temptation to stop and drink, to bathe and breathe–the beast thought it might down it whole. It could not, however. As it did not speak, it needed a different tongue to tell of its deeds–blood, stench, a mouth so dry that someone may pity its sorry state. To drink now would bring about urine, and if it was pissing, surely it couldn't be thirsty. If it were to bathe now and keep its clothes, then surely the tattered rags and broken armor must be fit for its purposes. If it was to come back clean, dressed, and quenched–why, they may as well shoot the beast outright!
For that would be no hound. It was not told to do these things.
And a good Hound does as it's told.
Even still, if one were to narrow their register, to shut out the fading rush of water, the crow of vultures, and the buzz of cicada, one may just be able to make out a soft whine, as the march carried the Beast's body far from the stream.
Hours of the same footfall. A rhythmic thud that dulled its sense, and made its mind a smooth, rounded stone. Hammering. Driving what few thoughts crossed a beast's mind, such as its own, from its purview. They carried it, they followed their rhythm. They knew where it wanted to go.
Into the canyon, to the mountain, to the gate. Such as all returns went.
Through blurred lenses it caught sight of the gate. Wrought iron and brick, grafted into the very base of the mountain, which held Castle Gottspyre aloft. The sounds of a multitude of voices sang from the mountain's peak, all a different song. Its scent, so familiar to the Beast, always managed to confound it–scents of a multitude of beasts, all a different scent. If it wasn't for its face, it may just wrinkle its nose at the scent of other beasts–at least, those whom it'd never scented in its quarters.
A ten pace walk from the gate, and it stopped. Any further, it would be shot. It was not keen on adding another injury to its long list of aches, be they fresh or as old as its blade itself.
It raised its arms in a macabre display, showing its cape to the unseen guard. Even when black powder took spark, and sent lead straight towards the Beast–provided the odd instance of it stepping too far–it could never quite tell where the beast aiming the fire-lance was.
Silence succeeded the Beast's display. Before–
"..RUN..!" It was the ever-so-rare call of the unseen Lancer.
A command was a command. And a good Hound does as it's told.
The gate sputtered open with a thunderous series of sparks and crackles. In its mad dash, it could hear nothing but a mad howling from above. And yet, despite this sudden–though not uncommon outburst, the Beast did only as it was told. Its quickened footsteps were like lightning on the ground, throwing enough dust for the Lancer to choke and begin to cough. In lock-step, the gate began a sudden downward clamor, which forced the Beast into a slide. The sheer volume of the steel slamming was enough to rattle the Beast's bones, not unlike an opening cannonade preceding a battle. It winced, stood itself up, and simply continued deeper into the bowels of Gottspyre. Its domain. Even if it wasn't where it was needed, the path was important to take. After all, it's rare that dogs are let into the home.
And what a house it was. Behind the walls of Gottspyre lay a city, so expansive that it is said to be the most populous in the whole of the Medieraum. And at its center lay a pale, enormous palace, grazing the heavens at its tallest tower. To have this lowly Beast enter anywhere but the bowels would bring an outrage to its sacred archway.
Its walk was unyielding–gaze never breaking. It had a message to deliver, deeds to tell of.
Ascending many stairs, in spiral and in straight shot, it found its way to level ground. A secluded walkway, lined with the plushest of sofas and the shiniest of trinkets perched atop pedestals, all overtaken by dust and cobwebs. Not a soul was permitted to dwell here. Not even the Beast itself. Walk. It was here only to tread.
It whined again. This time, audibly.
Its eyes were transfixed on the tall oak doors before it, ready to blow them off the hinges if it meant delivering its message quicker. Yet, it was not granted even this satisfaction. They opened for it. They always opened for it.
Holding the doors were two guards, and they wore their faces as well. If it hated its own face, it could only feel pity for these beasts–they had not been gifted mouths, nor any color to their eyes. Only noses. Not a shred of fur left on their tanned leather faces. They did not meet the Beast's gaze.
Stepping past, the Beast found itself in a room it was all too familiar with–a circular table, a map, shelves of tomes, and the Oberfehlter's desk.
It kneeled. The Oberfehlter had been waiting.
"..I see you've done as instructed then." The Oberfehlter said flatly, staring down at the beaten Beast as one does an injured animal. Even still, his posture was as straight as ever, his white and gold dress uniform as spotless as it had been the last time the Beast had seen him.
"You may show me the Beast's face. I have no need for the Hound, for this next assignment."
..What?
That couldn't be right. Its breathing ceased as it looked up to the Oberfehlter shakily. It was belted with the back of his palm almost instantly.
"Do not meet my gaze." The Oberfehlter hissed. "You have done what you were asked in spite of the odds, do not squander your reward so easily!"
It dropped its head. With bloodied hands, it carefully manipulated the straps of its face, tugging it free with great effort. A vile mixture pooled in the leather, a mix of sweat, mucus, and blood–and yet, it revealed the Beast's face. A lamb, no older than 25 years. Its lips, dry and cracked, its cheeks bearing the scars of a multitude of clashes, its wool drenched in sweat, the white yellowed by its own coagulated sebum.
It did not meet the Oberfehlter's gaze.
"Good." The word–more a purr than a word–was pushed forth from the Oberfehlter's thin lips.
"As stated, I feel your great effort here has proven you worthy of a reward. It is not an assignment for The Hound. This assignment is one of words. I know you can speak in more than just blood.. Can't you?"
It tried to respond. In doing, it choked on its own dried tongue, which produced but a hideous, wheezing cough.
This brought a hue of red to the Oberfehlter's face, who seized the Beast by its collar. It lifted the Beast with little effort, and the Beast began to whine freely. It strained, a horrid, breathy bleat, its tongue poking out as though it was seeking to expel the source of this anger to please the Oberfehlter.
"Of course you would-" The Oberfehlter's voice broke into a shrill cry of frustration, far outclassing the pathetic bleating from the Beast in his hand. "You stupid mutt! If you were not told to eat and shit, you would either be nothing but bone, or your stomach would pop like a boil!"
It tossed the Beast and spat at the base of its crumpled form. The Beast lay there, limply. It was staring into the eyes of the Hound's face.
"Rise!"
It pushed upward, its whole form shook with a violent energy, its vision blurred. It could only bring its head to attention. Its mouth lolled open once more, a silent pant begging for a drop to quench its thirst. It was a small mercy that the Oberfehlter obliged, as he brought forth a glass that had been perched upon his desk. A thick, brown liquid, viscous, stinking of alcohol. He delicately tipped the glass into the Beast's short maw, much of it spilling out and onto the floor.
Scotch and water. It lessened the burn.
The Oberfehlter smiled as the Beast gulped the meager offering down. It rose to its feet, cleared its throat, and spoke.
"Yes, Oberfehlter." Its voice was ill-suited. A soft, dull tone, irritated by the alcohol and dehydration–yet, as indescribable as an angel. Neither hoarse enough for manhood, nor fit for a woman.
"..Never gets any less unsettling. Just- stand there and listen, why don't you?"
A good hound does as it's told.
"You are to be the Emissary of the Impratum for this assignment. Your current wounds shall be mended, your body be cleaned, and your mind be instructed on the specifics. But first, the broad strokes: You are to be shuttled south, towards the ancient staatshafen of Sanova. A violent revolt swept the state, and deposed the crown–in its place, a peculiar woman-hating Prophet, calling himself "Dolya", took the throne. I want you to attempt to reestablish our foothold there."
"Yes, Oberfehlter."
"Remember, Beast: You may not wear the face of the Hound, but there are few peacemakers of the Impratum who don robes of red. You carry a threat-one of violence, in the case their words fail to satisfy. Make full use of that threat. It is one you need not speak."
"Yes, Oberfehlter."
"You are dismissed. They will see you to the infirmary." The Oberfehlter gestured, and the two mouthless beasts gave their silent salute and brandished their repeating-lances. Slung over their shoulders, they opened the heavy oak doors for the Beast. It retrieved its face from the floor and departed at a brisk pace.
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