The sound of baying came to Asphodel very faintly at first — a strange dream-sound muffled beneath the roar of the dungeon, the grinding away of stone in the eternal churn of the Furnace.

They flicked one ear around.  Pulled back their lips to scent the air. 

Beside them, clutching their leather bag, Leonard’s teeth clicked in his skull.  His empty eye sockets stared blankly towards the sound, and fixated there while his master’s long tail swayed in thought. 

“Are you frightened, Leonard?” 

The skeleton clacked bone fingers.  Fidgeted. 

Asphodel’s ears moved.  The baying was closer now — the frenzied chiming of a hunt.  Last time they had come down to the Furnace, it had been with Logue; they had merely been passing through, descending towards the Moor.  They had heard the hounds then, too, and Logue had swiftly turned them away down a corridor, quickening his pace until the baying faded and vanished, swallowed by stone. 

Asphodel had followed.  They had hired Logue for safety, after all.  For a purpose. 

Now…

“I think we will have a little fun instead,” they said softly. 

---

It was easy to find the hellhounds.  They howled to be found — demanded it. 

Asphodel cornered around the mouth of a cavern and saw them at the center of the cistern, long dehydrated to dry heat by the Furnace.  Their long bodies rippled with muscle, with the glow of internal flame.  When they moved, Asphodel could count the ribs backlit beneath their skin. 

They saw him, too. 

“Well?” he said.

The baying became a screaming. 

Asphodel lowered his head, flattened his ears.  Bared his teeth, and let them close the distance.