17th day of Rising Sun
455 Years after the Defeat of Discord by the Sisters

Pallas hit the ground and stumbled to a stop, tripping over her own hooves and landing in a heap with a sound like pots and pans falling down the stairs, coming to a stop flat on her back and looking up at a gray sky.

“That could have gone better,” Pallas mumbled.

She looked around, lowering her gaze from the sky to the peaks around her. “Mountains, check.”

She could feel the soft ground under her, and grabbed at it with a hoof, pulling bluish-green blades of grass free and looking at them before letting them fall across her face. “Grass, check.”

Pallas rolled over and got up. The grassy field was hidden in the mountain passes, only visible from above. She’d have never found it without actively looking, and even this close it didn’t seem very impressive. Just a tiny patch of forest and grass nestled between two sheer cliffs leading further up to the peaks of the mountains around her.

“And I’m supposed to find something to help here?” Pallas snorted, kicking one of the pines. “What a bunch of horseapples. Those shamans just wanted to get rid of me.” She paced in a circle, growling.

“Most assassins at least try to be quiet,” grumbled a voice from the treeline. Pallas jumped back, spreading her wings and arching her back like a cat.

‘Who’s there?!” Pallas demanded. “Show yourself!”

The brush parted, and a griffon walked out of the woods. He was old, old enough that his feathers were gray and ragged, his beak was chipped, and he walked with a wooden cane clutched in his talon to help support his weight.

“Hm. Not an assassin, then, or at least a very foolish one who doesn’t know what she’s doing.” He glanced over her. “And a pony! Figures that I can’t even get some damn peace in the middle of the mountains. Get the feather out of here before I shove your harmony and friendship where your Princess’ light don’t shine!”

“Shut up!” Pallas snapped. “I’m here-”

“I don’t give a flying feather why you’re here!” the griffon shouted, slamming the tip of his cane into the ground hard enough that the air split with a crack like thunder. “Leave! I don’t want a damn pony here!”

“Well I’m not leaving until-” Pallas growled, until she was cut short as the griffon got up in her face, poking her in the chest with his cane.

“I told you I don’t care! You see that over there?” He pointed off to the side. Pallas glanced over, and he smacked the side of her helm while she was distracted. “That’s the way out! Don’t let the door hit your butt-tattoo on the way out!”

“Oh that’s it!” Pallas screamed, lunging at the griffon. He was, very abruptly, not there at all. There was a heavy impact against the back of her helm, and Pallas fell forwards, seeing stars.

“Bit slow, in more ways than one,” the griffon muttered. Pallas got up and twisted around, leaning to keep all of her weight on her good legs, trying to catch him in a sweeping attack.

The griffon prodded her shoulder with his cane just so, and she fell over in a heap, knocked off balance.

“No grace at all. We can keep this up all day, if you want. You can try to kill me, and I can make you look like the idiot you are.”

“I’ll tear you in half!” Pallas screamed, charging him. This time, he didn’t get out of the way. His cane came up, and her wingblade was neatly deflected.

“You weren’t kidding about those anger issues,” the griffon noted. He twisted his cane, and Pallas stumbled again before he swung it up to meet her chin, sending the thestral to the ground, the world going dark around her.

Pallas woke up with a start, surging to full wakefulness from a slumber full of nightmares. She was dripping with cold sweat, her armor gone, and the sun had set long ago. A small fire crackled in the clearing, throwing uneven light onto the griffon sitting on the other side.

“Finally awake?” The griffon didn’t look at her, staring at a pot over the fire. “Good. I didn’t want to have to clean up a corpse.”

“Where’s my armor?!” Pallas demanded.

“It’s over there,” the griffon pointed with his cane. The black metal was in a heap on a blanket. “I had to get the damn plate off of you to make sure I hadn’t cracked your skull too hard. I’d say you were a soft little thing, but you were beaten to Tartarus and back even before you picked a fight with me.”

“That goes with being a soldier,” Pallas snapped, trotting over to make sure he hadn’t damaged the straps.

“A poor one, maybe,” the griffon noted. “A decent soldier can avoid getting hurt, and a smart one avoids a fight when they’re injured.”

“Great, so I’m stupid and awful at fighting,” Pallas shrugged. “Whatever. I don’t care if I get hurt.”

“Good, because that’s about all you’re good for. I haven’t seen such sloppy swordplay in decades. I’m amazed you ponies win any wars at all with how awful you are at fighting. You were just throwing yourself around like a wild animal.”

“I was angry!” Pallas snapped.

“Then you fight like a blind cow when you’re angry,” the griffon snorted. “Now, I’ve had a chance to get properly drunk and a little embarrassed that I went and beat a mare like she owed me money, so you’ve got one chance to explain yourself before I throw you out. And by out I mean over the damn cliff.”

Pallas glared at him. “I’m here because some stupid feathering Zebrican shaman told me I had to come here if I wanted to learn to stop losing control when I fight.”

“Wonderful,” the griffon sighed. “Bloody shamans. I should have expected I’d get caught up in some kind of destiny horseapples. Well, here’s my advice - stop being an idiot. Problem solved.”

“Great advice,” Pallas rolled her eyes.

“Wish it was enough.” The griffon reached behind himself and grabbed a bottle, uncapping it and taking a long drag. “Fine. These shamans want to throw you at me? I’ll teach you a bloody thing or two. Your lessons start in the morning.”

“What lessons?!” Pallas demanded, taken aback.

“Your problem is that you get frustrated when you can’t kill someone. You get sloppy and even stupider than you are right now. We’re going to work on that, and maybe drill some basic sword skills into you until you stop being an idiot.”

“I’m not staying here,” Pallas frowned. “I was supposed to go one some kind of a journey to… find myself. Not to get berated by a sodding griffon!”

“You can’t leave until you can beat me,” the griffon said, taking another drag from the bottle. “Simple as that. You need to learn yourself something, and I have my own reasons anyway.”

“I’ll take you right now-” Pallas started, before the griffon was suddenly at her side, tripping her with his wooden cane and sending her to the ground, cane’s tip at her throat.

“In your condition?” The old griffon shook his head. “Being strong doesn’t mean anything if you don’t have skill to back it up. You can either try taking some advice, or you can learn things the hard way.”

“I… fine.” Pallas sighed. “If I can learn to put up with you, you old bird, I can keep my cool no matter what.”

“How the buck is this supposed to teach me about not being mad?!” Pallas shouted, trying to be heard over the waterfall crashing down around her shoulders. She shivered under the cold water, worse now that she’d gotten used to the heat of the desert.

“It’s tradition!” the old bird yelled. He was sitting on the side of the stream, cooking fish he’d plucked from the stream.

“I’m just getting wet and cold!” Pallas growled.

“Good! Maybe it’ll cool down that hot head of yours!” The old bird rummaged around in a bag he’d carried out to the stream and sprinkled a packet of something over the cooking fish. “You need to meditate, not just complain like a foal!”

“I don’t know how to meditate!”

“I thought you said you were taught by the best!” the griffon snorted. “And you can’t even meditate? It’s a good thing you don’t know much, because it’s pretty damn clear I have to start at the bare basics!”

“You could try teaching me instead of just making me take a shower while you slack off!” Pallas snapped, opening her eyes and glaring at the griffon.

“You’re worse than my useless son,” the griffon grumbled. “Fine! Just close your eyes and clear your mind. Just listen to the water flowing around you. Don’t think about it. Don’t let your mind wander to unimportant things. Just listen. And don’t fall asleep, you lazy ass.”

Pallas grumbled, trying to calm down. It was soothing for her burns, at least, even if the rest of her was freezing solid. She was starting to shiver from the cold. The discomfort was worst where her metal leg rested against her stump, the lunar titanium like ice after spending time in the cold water.

Part of her wanted to grab the griffon and drag him into the stream until he was as waterlogged as she was. It was a tempting, burning ember of anger that warmed her from within until a rock bounced painfully from her forehead.

“And stop thinking about trying to kill me!” The old bird shook his cane at Pallas. “I said clear your mind, not think up stupid revenge fantasies!”

Pallas growled, resisting the urge to rub the spot where he’d hit her, and tried to relax, letting the water flow around her.

Pallas sneezed, shaking and shivering uncontrollably under the rough blanket that had been thrown at her. She stared into the fire, edging a little closer to it in an effort to warm up.

“Stop overacting,” the griffon said, not looking at her. “It wasn’t that long.”

“It was six hours!” Pallas shouted. “Six feathering hours sitting under a waterfall that’s all glacier runoff!”

“Was it six hours?” the griffon frowned. “I didn’t think I was asleep that long.”

“You fell asleep?!” Pallas roared, standing up and looming over him. “You threw rocks at me when I started to fall asleep!”

“Well unlike you, I’m old and I already know how to meditate,” the old bird countered. “A teacher doesn’t do homework with his students.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Pallas mumbled.

“Shut up and eat a fish,” the griffon said, shoving a cooked trout in her face.

Pallas reared up, away from the meat. “That’s meat! Ponies don’t-”

“Ponies are perfectly capable of eating meat,” the old bird said, cutting her off. “You just don’t like it because it reminds you of how many of your ancestors were prey animals. Well, that’s done with now! Prey animals, they get cornered and go crazy. They start thrashing around without thinking, and they hurt everything around them. Tartarus, some will kill themselves just trying to get away. Happens all the
time when I hunt rabbits. They get snared, then they panic and snap their own spines.”

Pallas frowned and tried to settle down, looking at the fish in front of her.

“Predators are different. Prey animals, they don’t know how to handle a fight, because if they actually get into one, it’s usually right at the end of their life. A predator has to do it for every meal. It’s a constant struggle of life and death. The wind blows, the sun shines, and the strong eat the weak.”

“So what, you’re having me eat meat because… you want me to be a predator?”

“No, I’m having you eat meat because it’s all protein, and you need to eat protein while you’re training.” The old bird snapped up a fish in his beak, pulling it apart and eating it in just a few bites. “Taking a few lessons from predators might not be a bad idea, though. It’d be better if you fought without putting your life on the line.” He looked to the side, picking the fish’s spine out of his mouth and tossing it aside. “You do that, and eventually someone comes to collect.”

The old bird glared as Pallas balanced on the rim of a barrel of water, her hooves barely keeping her balance. The edge was uneven, slippery, and narrow. Below her, icy water drawn from the mountain stream. In her mouth, a long-handled ladle.

“Faster!” The griffon tapped the side of the barrel for emphasis. “Use the ladle to empty the barrel back into the stream!”

Pallas growled, biting down on the ladle hard enough to bend the metal. He’d had her fill it up while hanging upside-down from a branch over the stream.

“This is teaching you about balance,” the griffon said, catching her look. “You clearly didn’t lose that leg very long ago, because you keep stumbling when you try to use the replacement.”

Pallas rolled her eyes and dipped down to ladle more water out. As she did, the barrel got lighter and lighter, her weight on top unbalancing it. She’d been adjusting her stance as she worked, and when she felt the wood shift under her, she reacted the wrong way.

The barrel started to tip, the sloshing water throwing off Pallas’ expectations of how it would react. She spread her wings to jump free at the same moment the spur-blade of her metal limb sank into the wood to try and keep her steady.

She fell over, taking the barrel with her, pitching backwards into the stream.

“Well, when I said to empty the barrel that ain’t quite what I intended,” the griffon muttered.

Pallas picked up the barrel and threw it, over the trees and into a ravine, where it bounced between two rock walls. The old bird sighed as the mountain pass was filled with the crashing sounds of shattering wood and falling stone.

“We’ve got a lot of work to do,” he muttered.