(294 words.)
There was a wolfhound staring at Daud while he ate, sitting across the fire from him with its mouth hanging open and its tongue lolling out the side. He did his best to ignore it, focusing on the finicky task of picking out the edible bits of meat from between tiny rat bones.
One of his men had brought a couple of the beasts home a few months back, promising that with a little training they would forget their old commands and come to serve as excellent guards for the Whaler base. He was an Abbey run away and claimed to have been good with the creatures before he left.
Daud had been skeptical. "You're responsible for keeping them fed and making sure they don't attack any of us," he'd said, "and if it goes wrong, you're the one putting them down."
There were times when he felt more like the father to a few dozen unruly children instead of the leader of a band of highly skilled assassins.
But the wolfhounds had more than proved their worth since then. They were quick to learn to recognize the familiar scents of all the Whalers and now regularly tracked down and dispatched intruders before anyone on sentry duty had even raised an alarm. They were valuable assets.
The one in front of him now lay down and put its head on its paws. It inhaled deeply and let out a long, low whine.
With a sigh, Daud gave up on the rat meat and tossed the rest of his skewer to the beast, which quickly snapped it out of the air and began crunching away at what was left. "I suppose you've earned your cut," he muttered.
The hound's tail thumped happily against the ground.