Rowdy the Hellhound
Inktober, Day 24 – "Rowdy". He was bred for hellfire. Raised on biscuits. His name was Rowdy—and he was. But sometimes, the loudest bark hides the bravest heart.
The Witch and the Hound
Leoric Coolwater was a bard of middling fame, less for his music than his habit of collecting rumors like other men collected wine. Villages welcomed him, not for his lute, but for the tales he carried: news of far-off capitals, gossip from neighboring villages, and updates on whose goat had wandered where.
One autumn evening, he found himself nudged by a baker’s wife toward the edge of the forest.
“She’s not well,” she said, handing him a honey bun. “Go cheer her up. Poor thing’s been alone too long. And mind her dog.”
“Dog?” Leoric blinked. He still remembered the time a village set their hounds on him after a particularly experimental ballad. “There’s a reason I’m a cat person.”
He followed a narrow path to a leaning cottage wrapped in vines. Before he could knock, a deafening BARK split the silence. Out from behind the woodpile leapt something massive and black, its eyes glowing like twin embers.
Leoric froze.
A hellhound.
Soot-black fur. Smoke curling from its nostrils. Paws the size of his head. It lunged—
And bit his sleeve.
“Oh, Rowdy!” a voice called from inside. “Leave the poor man alone, you little soul-nibbler.”
The beast backed off—barely—still growling.
The door creaked open. A wrinkled woman with wild silver hair and a robe full of stitched runes smiled at him with three teeth.
“He’s young,” she said cheerfully. “Still learning the difference between devouring and playing.”
Leoric wasn’t sure hellhounds understood play. They were the snarling gatekeepers of the underworld, after all. Designed to terrify sinners into marching willingly into damnation.
Still, he stepped inside.
The cottage smelled of dried thyme, woodsmoke, overcooked blackberry jam—and unmistakably, wet dog. As they sipped tea, the witch—who introduced herself as Aunt Gwynna—explained how Rowdy came to be hers.
“Demon cousin of mine dropped him off,” she said, pouring more tea. “Said he had a few days of fire brigade duty—the demon kind. ‘He’s a bit unruly,’ he warned me. That was an understatement. Anyway… he never came back. Ambushed by water angels, the poor fool.”
Gwynna scratched Rowdy’s ears fondly. “So now it’s just me and the pup. He barks at strangers, but I think he’s trying to protect me. No one visits, though.”
“Well,” Leoric said, “you do now.”
From then on, every time he passed through, he stopped by. Told her of young witches earning their enchantment licenses. Werewolves who hired him for full-moon parties. And, once, about a home for retired witches in the capital.
“Minions do your laundry,” he said.
She sniffed. “Minions can’t bake you soulbread. I’ve got Rowdy. He keeps me safe.”
Leoric smiled. “And everyone else away.”
Bard in the Doghouse
The next time he came, something was wrong.
Rowdy didn’t bark—he whined. Thin. Desperate. He tugged Leoric’s cloak and led him inside.
Gwynna lay pale and still in her bed, the fire down to coals. She opened one eye.
“Take care of my Rowdy,” she whispered. “He likes you. He’ll protect you.”
Then she closed her eyes for good.
Leoric buried her beneath the hawthorn tree behind the house. Rowdy sat beside him the entire time, tail still, eyes dim.
Back in the town square, Leoric tried to move on.
“Tonight!” he cried, strumming a hopeful chord. “Songs and stories! Love and murder! Laughter and—”
BARK.
Rowdy launched at a group of startled villagers. They scattered like pigeons. Windows slammed. Doors locked. Shops closed early.
Evening came. The square was emptier than a troll’s prefrontal cortex.
Leoric sighed. “You’re killing my career.”
Rowdy wagged his tail and gnawed on the lute case.
Obedience is Next to Holiness
So Leoric took him to the only place that might help: a monastery tucked high in the snow-laced mountains. They trained dogs to herd sheep. Maybe they could teach Rowdy to herd his audience instead of scattering it.
The gate opened. A monk in a pale robe appeared.
Rowdy barked once, twice, ready to lunge.
The monk didn’t blink. He pulled a tiny flask from his sleeve, flicked a few drops onto Rowdy’s snout.
Holy water.
Rowdy sneezed—and then, astonishingly, sat down and licked the monk’s hand.
Leoric stared. “What was that?”
The monk smiled. “Faith. And a touch of basil.”
They stayed for three weeks.
Rowdy was trained with bells, hymns, hand signals, and chew biscuits baked with blessed dough.
The monk—Brother Felinus—could calm Rowdy with a whistle or a look.
“Remarkable,” Leoric admitted. “You’ve tamed him.”
“No,” said Brother Felinus. “We’ve calmed him. The real question is—does he still know when to be rowdy?”
Leoric frowned. “Why would I want him to be rowdy?”
The monk only smiled.
“You will.”
A Taste for Trolls
One night, weeks later, Leoric camped under stars, a healthy crowd and a heavy purse behind him. The fire cracked low. Rowdy snored gently, feet twitching mid-dream—probably chasing a flaming squirrel.
All was well.
Until he heard scuffling.
A troll—warty, wild-haired, and grumbling—was rummaging through Leoric’s packs. Bread, cheese, dried fruit—gone in seconds.
Rowdy blinked. Yawned.
“You let him?” Leoric hissed. “You’re a hellhound! You’re supposed to guard me!”
Rowdy gave him a look that said: No treats, no service.
Leoric handed him a monastery biscuit in defeat.
Then came the second troll. And a third.
Leoric barely had time to shout before rough hands grabbed him. He was stuffed into a rusted cage. The trolls debated whether to cook him or keep him as a snack.
Rowdy wagged his tail.
Sniffed their feet.
One troll found the bag of monk biscuits.
“These smell tasty.”
Rowdy growled. A low, rising rumble.
The troll took a bite.
Rowdy snapped.
The hellhound flared—eyes blazing red, teeth flashing. He lunged. The startled troll stumbled—right into Leoric’s cage.
CLANG.
Darkness.
Leoric woke to warm licks and a headache. The trolls were gone.
The clearing was filled with fresh piles of dirt.
Rowdy was digging—not to unearth, but to bury. One by one, he dragged bones to the pit, dropped them in, and covered them with dirt, tail wagging like he’d found his calling.
Leoric sat up slowly.
“Oh no,” he muttered. “You ate them.”
Rowdy gave him a big, wet grin.
Leoric watched him bury the last bone.
“He protects me,” Gwynna had said.
She wasn’t wrong.
Epilogue – The Ballad of the Hellhound’s Heart
Months later, the square was packed. Children up front, parents behind, villagers laughing and clapping as Leoric walked on stage—with Rowdy at his heel.
And five fuzzy black hellhound pups bounding after them.
“Our first song tonight,” Leoric announced, “is about a good dog with a bad reputation.”
“It’s called The Witch, the Monk, and the Hellhound,” he said, strumming his lute.
The children squealed with joy as he opened the treat bag.
“Who wants to feed a hellpuppy? Don’t worry—he’s more bark than bite. Unless you’re a troll.”
Nice one! When I saw the picture, I thought it was going to turn out like the Hound of the Baskerville’s. I was wrong! Also, you put Bruma when she was introduced as Gwynna. Was a little confused, but figured it was her. Just wanted to let you know :)