He doesn't like the city, but it's all he knows.
He doesn't like the people, and for that he feels a little guilty. They work hard at their trades, smiths and millers and sawyers alike, and they haven't done anything to earn his ire, but he dislikes them nonetheless. They are tainted, like everything in the city seems to be.
And, blasphemous, he doesn't think he likes his job. It's a crazy notion, because what else could he possibly do? Just like the city, it's all he knows, and it's all he ever will know until his death. There's a small amount of comfort in this, having this certainty, but... not much.
Not enough.
The market is winding down from peak sales, and many of the merchants will be packing up their wares within the next hour or so. They have families to tend when when dusk begins to encroach.
All Rickard Conall has to tend to is his partner. This, like the rest of his duties, is an obligation. He undertakes it with the same methodical dogged determination that he does any given task.
At his side pads a beast of questionable temperament and size. The bitch is large for a dog, her shaggy fur colored in various shades of greys and blacks, giving her coat an ugly mottled appearance. Her eyes are dark, pits of pitch lost in the sea of black fur masking her face. Her pointed ears tip and swivel, and her lips curl into a half snarl any time something catches her attention.
He is a houndsmaster, and he does like the dogs.
That's something, at least.
He is polite enough to make his patrol on the outskirts of the market, not so intrusive as to parade his animal betwixt the stalls where people still milled and bartered. Still, his companion draws a fair share of uneasy looks, and even the man claims a few. He is older than his partner by a small handful of years, and where Septus' hair is light, his is dark, beginning to grey at the temples. His appearance is almost nondescript, if not for the ruined and disfigured flesh along the right side of his face. His eyes were surely handsome before, green the shade of fresh spring grass, yet the right is clouded now, milky, like the surface of a stagnant pond that has bloomed dying algae. The flesh around the eye is stripped, scarred, where the tendrils of some immense heat had cooked the meat until it blackened and charred and split. It's another reason he enjoys commanding the hounds: the animals are groomed to be mean, to attack on command... but they are also alert, prepared, always watching. Throughout the years there has been more than one occasion where Rickard would have been caught unawares, from his blind side, if not for one of his beasts.
This one is his favorite. She is a large bitch, three years of age, and she is ugly and mean, but smart. She listens well, not only to his orders, but to her surroundings. Rickard calls her Kerr, named for one of the three black dogs who legend says guards the gates of purgatory.
He finally spies Septus lurking further down the cobbled street, or more accurately, Kerr sees him. She adopts an aggressive posture, head low, tail high, indicating she has found prey. Only Septus isn't really prey, not outside of hunting him down only for the sake of finding him, and she knows this. The dog straightens when she's made certain her master has spotted their quarry as well. She pads calmly alongside Rickard as he catches up to his partner dutifully.
"Septus." It's all he says to catch the man's attention, pausing his stride as two fishermen pass between himself and Septus, poles resting at their shoulders. Kerr turns her head to sniff after them, her attention caught momentarily by the scent of blood and raw meat wafting from their fishing baskets, but she makes no move to follow them.
He doesn't like the people, and for that he feels a little guilty. They work hard at their trades, smiths and millers and sawyers alike, and they haven't done anything to earn his ire, but he dislikes them nonetheless. They are tainted, like everything in the city seems to be.
And, blasphemous, he doesn't think he likes his job. It's a crazy notion, because what else could he possibly do? Just like the city, it's all he knows, and it's all he ever will know until his death. There's a small amount of comfort in this, having this certainty, but... not much.
Not enough.
The market is winding down from peak sales, and many of the merchants will be packing up their wares within the next hour or so. They have families to tend when when dusk begins to encroach.
All Rickard Conall has to tend to is his partner. This, like the rest of his duties, is an obligation. He undertakes it with the same methodical dogged determination that he does any given task.
At his side pads a beast of questionable temperament and size. The bitch is large for a dog, her shaggy fur colored in various shades of greys and blacks, giving her coat an ugly mottled appearance. Her eyes are dark, pits of pitch lost in the sea of black fur masking her face. Her pointed ears tip and swivel, and her lips curl into a half snarl any time something catches her attention.
He is a houndsmaster, and he does like the dogs.
That's something, at least.
He is polite enough to make his patrol on the outskirts of the market, not so intrusive as to parade his animal betwixt the stalls where people still milled and bartered. Still, his companion draws a fair share of uneasy looks, and even the man claims a few. He is older than his partner by a small handful of years, and where Septus' hair is light, his is dark, beginning to grey at the temples. His appearance is almost nondescript, if not for the ruined and disfigured flesh along the right side of his face. His eyes were surely handsome before, green the shade of fresh spring grass, yet the right is clouded now, milky, like the surface of a stagnant pond that has bloomed dying algae. The flesh around the eye is stripped, scarred, where the tendrils of some immense heat had cooked the meat until it blackened and charred and split. It's another reason he enjoys commanding the hounds: the animals are groomed to be mean, to attack on command... but they are also alert, prepared, always watching. Throughout the years there has been more than one occasion where Rickard would have been caught unawares, from his blind side, if not for one of his beasts.
This one is his favorite. She is a large bitch, three years of age, and she is ugly and mean, but smart. She listens well, not only to his orders, but to her surroundings. Rickard calls her Kerr, named for one of the three black dogs who legend says guards the gates of purgatory.
He finally spies Septus lurking further down the cobbled street, or more accurately, Kerr sees him. She adopts an aggressive posture, head low, tail high, indicating she has found prey. Only Septus isn't really prey, not outside of hunting him down only for the sake of finding him, and she knows this. The dog straightens when she's made certain her master has spotted their quarry as well. She pads calmly alongside Rickard as he catches up to his partner dutifully.
"Septus." It's all he says to catch the man's attention, pausing his stride as two fishermen pass between himself and Septus, poles resting at their shoulders. Kerr turns her head to sniff after them, her attention caught momentarily by the scent of blood and raw meat wafting from their fishing baskets, but she makes no move to follow them.
