The heavy canvas flap is lifted aside. Without announcement or preamble the bulk of my Hound appears inside my great tent. I permit this honour to no other than him.
The night enters briefly, before the drop of the tent flap severs the chill and night-sounds. I tip the lithe-limbed girl from my bed with a push of my foot. She half-wakes, slithers to the floor before she realises her curt dismissal. He takes no interest in her, focussed on his report, as she scrambles to gather meagre clothing. Cowering bent - backed and barely clad she slips as unseen as she can from the tent. As she emerges shivering from the warmth into the cold night air I hear the cat-calls and enthusiastic offers from the guardsmen. But she is safe from molestation - for now - whilst she is mine.
I stand, walk unashamedly unclad in the half-light of the low lamplight, the dim light flattering the dark tones of my skin. I know it; my flesh as wonderous as silk or velvet amongst the drab pale slabs of northerners.
In the part-shadows my poppinjay wakes at the movement, immediately as alert as a lidless eye to what I require. He brings a loose robe and hangs it over my shoulders. I see him run the thick fur of the collar through his fingers, luxuriating in its touch as he arranges it perfectly.
'Report' I command, as I turn to sit in my chair.
My Hound stands capable, proud, as he informs me of the urgent news.
'Sir. The filth have brought in a toy, poor bastard is still alive. Whipped them off him - put him to question.They'll not hang back long, something is into them and they want their flesh. I got this out of him...'
He hands me a rough-written record of the questioning. I read quickly, my Hound already moving as I look up, anticipating my response.
'Bring him in.'
