(Don't mind? You're doing me a favor :) I need to flesh out his character a little bit. Hope the post's okay; I just assumed that Hyacinthe had just killed somebody and is now running away from the guards, but correct me if I'm wrong.)
The boy would not otherwise have in him the potential for tragedy, had circumstance not enfolded in him certain openness, a wideness that did not bode well for him or for any man with whom Fate seems to have a particular bone to pick; he was sweet, and bad people have been known to take advantage of sweetness. Already the goodness was worn down some with what little time he’d had, that is, with frustration, and with loneliness; for loneliness is proven poison for superior-minded boys of such devastating openness. He’d developed an inclination to be brutish at times, and had become determinedly philistine. He already had features too strong to be handsome, and that, certainly, was a step in the right direction if one’s direction was being decidedly common-place. He had heavy brows and a bold, slightly hooked nose that was vaguely disjointed (he had an older brother, and three younger ones that had to be put in their place unquestionably and often). His eyes were asymmetrical and were gray, or green; one couldn’t always tell, for at times they were quite green and yet often were much the color of pond-water. He was brown from being outside so often, and had ugly, calloused hands from work. He had corn-colored hair and was quite tall, and these in and of themselves were attractive traits; however, when paired with a slouch and infrequent care (he washed, but did nothing beyond; he had never seen himself in a mirror before) lent him the distinctive air of a rogue. And yet he was still sweet, and shy, and a good hand with horse-flesh, for above all the boy was unlearned, and afraid, and self-hating, and so any turmoil that surrounded him was directed decidedly inwards.
So he appeared to Tharan Edassi. Mold grew in the pockets of his sheepskin coat, which was soaked through, the mud of the road crusted to his boot, and he was thoroughly wet. He smelled like a great green tree, for there was a sharpness to his smell, as of sap, but an underlying, mouldering tincture, as if the boy himself were locked in death, would disintegrate very soon into gray-green dust, would be caught up in the little wind bearing to the Northwest and would land somewhere on the broad haunches of some old carthorse in foal, in somebody’s garden, between the pages of Yeats. The boy loosened his hood so it fell to his shoulders, heavy with water, and raked his hand through his hair. Corb was still a little stuck in his natural awkwardness, breaking through the barrier of quiet only with great difficulty and strength of will (the woman was pretty and kind-seeming, wasn’t she? What, then?). He didn’t know quite what to do when she bowed, except nod his head (strong face shadowy, uncertain).
“God-touched, eh?â€? He remarked, with a low, shaky chuckle. “Funny you should say it, for Father Carmichael always hated the damned dog. Said it was too loud, and too rough. He was right, I guess.â€? The boy hesitated, thumbed the dog’s ear (Dagda having long since crept up on his belly, knowing he was being talked about, hungry for companionship). “And yet,â€? he hesitated, and then said, finally, “I like him. And I’m glad you like him too, though you seem the kind who could find reason enough to like anybody, even a dumb pup.â€? It was more than Corb had said in any length of time, possibly ever (and yet, winter nights, shivery with cold, whispering poetry to Malcolm as the little boy sucked on his thumb comfortably, curled his tiny right fist, enjoyed the dim peace of being four years old and protected by somebody). He was still a little weary, for if anything Tharan was too peaceful, too nice, and he knew well the dangers of the religious extremistâ€"he resorted to inner monologue (You’d be scared of your own mother if you met her out in the wilds with nothing much to defend you but a bow and arrow that you aren’t much good with. Stop projecting all that superstitious foolishness onto this character.) He smiled blearily, realizing belatedly what he had actually said to Tharan, and tried to pretend to himself that he hadn’t just pulled that string of nonsense about Dagda, who really was a dumb pup, out of his ass.
After all, how could Corb, who could undoubtedly look after himself and (arguably) follow a train of thought to its conclusion, identify himself with the hound who was currently occupying himself by probing Corb’s dirty fingers with his mouth, wreathing the boy’s ruined knuckles with big, silvery globules of spit? The boy looked about him for something with which to wipe them before realizing that he had left his gelding on the road, had, in fact, nothing but the clothes on his back, not even the sodden rag which he used to wipe down his saddle; it was as he thought this, ponderously rubbing his hands against the thighs of his trousers, that he saw the stranger.
There was a rapid intake of breath, and a brief, unclear expletive. It only makes sense that the most inarticulate mind known to man, one that has difficulty even fleshing out simple thoughts, possibly the most socially handicapped of the Connlaoth nobility, should, in the wilderness, in the dead middle of rain season, happen to run into more people then he’d ever talked to at a time (true, he was the third of nine, but he’d never actually talked to more then two of them, and of those two one was but four years old). He thought to himself, you are crazy, Corban dub Sainglend; you are most certainly crazy. Thinking that, he relaxed, somewhat.
Meanwhile, Dagda had run and found the stranger, blinking at him owlishly, wheezing, and generally crowding him in the unbridled joy that dogs exhale, having found somebody who might, possibly, love them. Yet Dagda was perplexed with this man, and with his smell, which reminded Dag’ of the chicken carcasses that the dub Sainglend dogs sometimes fought over, and of the henhouse when there had been a fox. It was not an unpleasant smell, to Dagda’s mind, for he liked meat as dogs do; and yet it was not suiting, and he was uneasy, and finally, having sniffed the man’s pockets (he was a tall dog, and wasn’t tall for nothing), he retreated to his master and his succoring green smell.