Rhone walked silently beside the two females, his head kept down and his pace slightly behind theirs. He was just barely trailing after them, like the servant he was raised to be. He couldn't remember much of freedom, from when he was a boy, so he didn't try very hard to obtain it. Rhone had gotten used to doing other people's bidding without complaint, despite his own thoughts.

His feet were like leather on the bottom. The gravel on the road hardly bothered him at all. Rhone walked with a smooth but strong stride; he was masculine, but had a certain grace about him. His cloth blow gently in the wind, reminding him that he was barely dressed and that this wasn't his desert homelands. This country was rather chilly compared to where he had been born. But Rhone was too stoic to shiver and wrap his arms around himself. 

He felt the gnome fall back to his side and poke him in the arm. She commented on his life story, what little he had. 
"There's not much to tell," He said, his voice soft. Rhone left it at that. His eyes fell to the mark on his chest, the very same that the gnome had been eyeing. It was the mark of his old master; all of the slaves at the plantation had one. Soon, it would have to be marked out. Rhone only assumed that Lucien would brand him with his own crest. He didn't particularly look forward to that.