The barking is normal. Nobody thinks twice of it when it's heard; the houndmaster's dog would always run ahead of their group when they returned from the ruins. In time, it had even become a welcome sound, the fifth member signaling the safe return of one of their parties.
This time is different. This time, the barking doesn't stop.
When the dog's run breaks into the Hamlet, she doesn't slow, and her howling doesn't quiet. When a few free of work move to see her, she doesn't let them touch her, turning her head and rearing up before running about, unsure what to do with herself as she continues making noise. For a moment, they think her injured due to her constant whimpers, and try desperately to calm her before she worsens any potential injuries.
It's only when a shout is heard from beyond the Hamlet's gates that they understand. The mutt's head spins towards to the noise, and she takes off running once more, barking still, to a group of three.
The funeral was quiet. The houndmaster wasn't the first to fall, but he is the first case of there being no body to bury (the rest of the group claims it was too dangerous, and they had to leave it behind). The stone that now marks his death is emblazoned simply with his name, for they knew little else about him. All that remains of his time is now curled before the stone, resting against it forlornly, refusing to leave its side even as the rest retire to their rooms for the night.
And yet time moves on, as it must. The heir sends off another team to complete the mission the houndmaster's group failed to, and days go by quickly. Still, the dog's constant presence in the graveyard remains a reminder of what's been lost.
The Vestal tries desperately to get her to eat; nearly crying after the second day she goes without food, thinking the dog was simply going to waste away without her owner. A few others try to coax some response from her, offering small treats and bits of meat, but none of them can entice her to move.
Eventually, they leave her to it, laying out a small bowl of water just in case. Still, she doesn't move from the grave marker, mourning the only way she can.
It's the third day when something finally changes.
The team sent to the ruins returns, everyone alive and intact. The mission was completed without trouble, and Reynauld carries back with him a torn line of red cloth. After their welcome home, he makes his way to the graveyard, cloth carried gently in a tidy bundle, torn and ragged as it is.
When he settles beside the dog, the cloth is unfurled, now recognizable as a sizable piece of the scarf the houndmaster once wore. He reaches out, gently lifting her head and smiles when she accepts the contact, sniffing the scarf with an obvious recognition. He carefully wraps it around her neck, tucking it into place, and leaves her with a soft pet to the fur of her neck.
And it's fitting, they think, that she now at least carries something of him physically as well.
The whole Hamlet breathes a sigh of relief when she's found the next day, nibbling at some of the food scraps left for her.
Most days now, the dog still rests on the dirt of the graveyard, curled and sleeping alongside her master. However, whenever a team departs, she always runs to meet them at the Hamlet's edge to see them off. And always, she's met with a pat on the head a promise of a safe return, before they leave for the ruins with smiles just a bit wider. And when a team finds their way back, she runs to welcome them, licking their wounds and brushing alongside them, giving whatever comfort she can.
And when a team is gone just a bit too long, she waits in the courtyard, looking up to the Manor. Only when ample time has passed, and another group departs, does she slink back to her master's side.
More than once, a new recruit has questioned her place in the Hamlet.
"Are resources not scarce? Does it go on missions any longer? Why keep it here?"
And it's difficult to explain why it simply is this way, and why none would trade it for the world, as the dog offers something no gold can.
After their first forays into the depths of the Manor, they tend to understand, and the mutt holds no grudges against them.
The dog is tired more often than not these days, but she still soothes the Hamlet however she can. Her head tends to be rested in another's lap now, rather than the dirt of the graveyard, yet her eyes still linger on the gravestones whenever she passes by, and touching the scarf she wears is strictly forbidden unless it's come loose.
In a way, she's become a symbol of the Hamlet itself; a sort of unofficial mascot that all who pass through take comfort in.
Dismas has found quite a bit of solace in the mutt, eagerly seeking her out whenever he returns, and cooing to her when he believes no one's around to hear.
Baldwin, wary of touch as he is, basks in the dog's attention, making her one of the few he'll willingly walk alongside.
And Junia, the Vestal, has become a form of caretaker, always volunteering to check up on the dogs health, and putting out food and water for her.
The dog has gone through troubles of her own, and offers her attention wherever aid is needed to the Hamlet's adventurers, assisting them in their own recoveries.
They've all lost something in this dark crusade. But, at the very least, their lights can shine just a little brighter with her around.
AN: For Maxter_Of_Disaster on the DD subreddit, who put forward the idea.