Five months prior…

The Dark Wings flew against the greying sky, and with them came a tiny thunderbolt of light.

Well, technically, like their tribune, the majority of the Dark Wings, the Immunes Adversi Tenebras Magicas, actually had lighter-colored feathering on their heads, at least. If the Griffon Legions' elite counter-magical assault force had been on a stealth mission, they would have worn dark helmets (and dark armor) rather than their shining best. Indeed, the lone monochromatic figure among them was actually wearing a sort of dark bronze armor that was subdued amidst the finery of the griffons on wing around him.

But he was tiny. Sort of. At nine feet tall, Captain Bulk Biceps of Princess Fluttershy's Royal Guard was literally one of a small number of record-holders for "tallest non-divinity" among ponykind. As the name suggested, he was cut, too, with a powerful build well-balanced between bulging, sculpted muscles and a thick, sturdy core frame. Broad shoulders, gloriously massive arms, a hefty chest that the maker of his breastplate just hadn't been able to stylize in, and treetrunk legs to hold it all up. The total package, as it were.

Mostly. He had fairly puny wings, though. Even if he kept up, which he had to. The Dark Wings wouldn't wait for anyone. Not if they had simply been on patrol, and certainly not while hunting vampires on their own lands.

Tiny, ridiculous wings or no, he kept up, and he brought the storm behind them, dark grey against the overcast sky. Even griffons could appreciate having the storm fill their wings rather than smash against them. Cheating is always better when it's for you, after all.

Nevertheless, Bulk was surrounded by four hundred and eighty of the finest legionnaires, not a single soul of which was less than eleven feet tall. To griffons, any nine footer, no matter how Bulky he might be, would simply have been outclassed by virtually any other recruit. In fact, without special permission, anyone under ten feet would have been shunted into the auxiliaries of the reserve legions. There, they would be condemned to the least chance for social advancement, period. Unless they were useful to a corporation, perhaps.

These legionnaires were the best of the best. Sure, volume for volume, Bulk was more cut than all save their impossible tribune, but you did not rise to the Dark Wings without being the peak of physical fitness, personal discipline, and preternatural capability. You certainly didn't stay a member if you didn't view exercise to have the same importance as, say, breathing. Or perhaps more.

But fuckin' ponies cheat, grumbled the tribune in question. These are our skies. My skies! At twelve-foot-six, Gilda Griffon wasn't just the biggest Dark Wing. She was the largest griffon in living memory, and not just in height. From her vast span of wings, to her mighty eighty-inch biceps, down past a body that bore a resemblance to the roughest high-mountain country and straight into legs that not only looked like, but had been used as impromptu battering rams against steel fortress gates.

Speaking of mountains… She mentally blessed the invention of sports bras. G-cups had hit her hard during puberty, and they did not help her aerodynamics. Cheating pony has a benefit there, too; his oversized attachment follows leglines. She tried not to think about that quite so much before combat; the bloodthirst in her was horny enough already.

Unfortunately, that mostly left Gilda's paranoia free to fret.

Even after weeks of flying with the dweeb, part of her instincts were screaming, Why are you flying into battle with a kid at your back? As bait? No one interned with the Dark Wings. Your scores didn't matter shit here. You had to earn your way up. They were the ones you called in when dark magic and worse were on the line.

Like vampires. Vampires who had cut a deal with an insane necromancer to let their blasphemous strength survive in the light, and who were feeding his leyblood pools. Enhanced vampires who were squatting on an abandoned Legion outpost, which, from what her scouts told Gilda, had somehow managed to necromantically raise from whatever buildings considered 'dead.'

That was not where you took children. But it was where you sent the Dark Wings. The Griffon Tribes flew in sufficient numbers that the Dark Wings had their pick of both magically talented and physically superior soldiers. They had to be. Griffon mages had nothing on unicorns, in terms of power or intuitive mastery. Therefore, the accepted doctrine was that military mages were specialists. Which usually left them focused on siegework, intelligence, or logistics.

Gilda’s feathers bristled, and a slow, rippling tenseness hardened already implacable muscles from her proud pecs out. She forced herself to breath easy and smooth her flight. If only the real world was so logical as Legion Doctrine, she thought with a raised mental middle finger towards the dusty old craws writing this year’s manual. In the reality she dominated, you still had to find someone to fight off demons, dragons, and the other weirdness of Epona.

So her cohort trained their magic into their bodies. Into channelled flames and thunderstrike punches, into feathers and fur of iron. And when they faced dark sorcery, they locked enemy mages down until they could be slaughtered. The Dark Wings were the heroes of the Tribes, the terror of their foes, and privately, the Magistrates' best answers to if their pony neighbors ever turned militant. They hoped.

After all, there was a reason that Bulk hadn't just survived flying against Gilles de Raze and the bastard's Abomination-empowered forces. He'd wiped more than his weight of foes from sky and earth alike; more importantly to Gilda, he'd kept her Wings alive and flying through a combination of witchy pegasus weather shit… and a frankly hot level of fury and competence with his lightning javelins.

Because fucking earth ponies, not even hyper earth ponies, were as strong as your average griffon. Because unicorn mages really were that much better than the rare griffon innate sorcerers; and even more so griffon academic wizards. Because pegasi were faster, more agile fliers, and could turn the sky itself against their foes. But the griffons had numbers, packed onto discipline and a killing instinct that the vast majority of ponies simply couldn’t match.

Of which Gilda was the living symbol and incarnation. She flew at the head of her cohort, straight into the thick of things. She was the point and the fire, the steel in the Dark Wings' heart and the fury of their talons. Still...

She considered her "guest" without looking at him. Which was made easier-- the not looking part-- by the fact that he was flying behind her. The parts that weren't whining about his size were oddly comfortable with a pony at her back, her guard and assist for dives and charges and all sorts of other deadly fun. Not just comfortable, she realized. Comforted. Has he really done so much damage over a couple of weeks that you want him back there?

Honesty, self-honesty Gilda had managed to beat into herself, had an answer: Yes. Yes he has. They were counting on that 'damage' again to avoid costly siege or chancy infiltration. On a single pony to bring down such a thunder upon the undead fortress to nullify it as a factor entirely, and then to pull at least his own weight in undead griffon kills.

There was a certain point when stubbornness passed discipline and savagery both, and ended up as stupid. No one was good enough to stay in the Dark Wings if they fell into the stupid category. No one. If her own feelings might have been biased by her closer, if stormy relationship with ponies, she knew that her cohort agreed. Of the four hundred and seventy-nine other griffons flying beside them, all of them outweighed Bulk Biceps. None of them discounted him, nor begrudged his oddball place in the formation.

You used to think they were all soft, Gilda noted wryly. Soft in the brain, soft in the heart, and soft in the body. She wasn't too sure about the first when it came to their guest, but she had learned that any ally of Fluttershy would hide ruthlessness between gentleness. And as for what’s really behind door number three… Her beak dropped lower in a lascivious grin. Yum. Which she snapped back up before anyone noticed her. There was business to be done.

Deadly business. A town's worth of griffons, even the weakest of which was two or three times as strong as their living relatives. On average.

Dark Wings were never average before they got into the cohort. By the time Gilda and her centurions were done with them, they had left average so far behind you needed a mailgriff with extra postage to even write back. Presuming you wanted to. And while the griffons that had been infected and turned had once been legionnaires like any other griffon, they were about to learn the difference between "any other griffon" and the Dark Wings.

Hopefully, was her watchthought. Her mantra against the officer's curse: giving a damn about your troops. Done right, it meant they'd die for you. Done wrong, it would kill them as your hesitation cost you the initiative. As much as Gilda loved new challenges, she hated it when enemies got too clever. And de Raze had shown a positively infernal delight for finding unconventional solutions for conventional weaknesses in the undead. Often by literally involving demons, come to that.

They were closing on Snowpay Keep. Speakin' of uses for the dweeb, she thought, and made a talon-signal underwing and to her right. He caught it, just like he had the last nine times they'd brought de Raze's forces to ground… and burned them all down. She felt his pegasus magic behind her. Felt the fury of the storm as clouds crashed into clouds, charging lightning and spiritual energy that her Flyer-blessed cohort could tap into…

And Bulk Biceps could, and did, channel into an opening barrage against Snowpay. In moments, they were there; in seconds, Life-blessed lightning roared above and past the Dark Wings to shatter whatever dark magic de Raze had revived the fortress with; to shear into the defensive dome and leave the vamps exposed to her Wings' assault.

Which neatly encompassed the two primary reasons Bulk had her full respect. Why she had jumped at the offer to have him even before she'd seen his effectiveness firstclaw.

The first was he was a Wonderbolt. Any Griffon Legion worth its salt considered time in a Wonderbolts associated training camp to be at least equal to top quartile acceptance in legion academies. That went from the bottom up, whether in their reserves, or programs like the Junior Fliers. Despite those tiny, funky little wings of his, he flew like a champ: fast, strong, and agile. It also meant he thought like a team player but had the closest most ponies had to a killer instinct for aggression. And he was a flat-out master of pegasus weather-magic turned to battle. Nice.

That mastery didn't just let them break into the fortress from above. It followed them, speeding their dive. Her Dark Wings knew how to ride it now, fanning out with the gusts to crush the spawn while Gilda, her elites, and Bulk crashed into the older, fouler beasts in the center. With sword and shield, with pila and power, they ripped through the undead before them like they were little more than open-prairie prey.

And they had no fear of contagion. After all, Kindness ruled Life and Necromancy both, and Kindness' fist was with them.

The second, and most important, was why he was really with them here, charging into the fangs of these monsters. Although there was some weird, stupid pony trick that made most people forget it, Gilda and the Dark Wings knew very well that Fluttershy was the Princess of Necromancy.

Knew it, and knew how she handled the responsibility. No matter what her goofy Caretakers were like, she dealt with the dark with near-griffon discipline. Her bright necromancers and necromancer-hunters were in the slim category that the Dark Wings would call, "Almost as good as we are, in their chosen specialty," and Gilda knew that was mostly just a face-saver. When it came to taking out necromancers specifically, Fluttershy's personal guards were the best in the business.

This particular guard had shown, and once again proved to the holdouts in her cohort how true that was. Then as now, he was a hammer. Vampiric griffons were terrifyingly strong; he was stronger. They were fast; he was faster. While she tore out the heart of their hulking champion, he smashed through the master vamp's bodyguards. Lightning joined her Dark Wing's fire, and they pressed deep and hard.

Just the way she liked it.

She kinda liked his flexibility, too. That was fun, in a partner. He was big stuff among his own kind, so he would have been the solid core with ponies. But while he was-- stupid cheating pony powers!-- still far stronger than her griffons, he was the small, agile flyer here. So he whirled around her with those fancy Wonderbolt moves, slipping into the tight spots and breaking counterattack after counterattack.

Mm, thought as she separated a particularly noxious vamp's head from its shoulders. Slipping into tight places.

Bulk brought the thunder in more than weather magic and lightning javelins. He pounded through the worst of it, and she found herself wishing she could get away with poaching him. For the Dark Wings, of course; he'd proven his use again and again.

Like now. One of the quieter freaks pounced out of the darkness, taking one of her evocati down and out of position. Before she could growl the order, much less tear Gerant a new one for getting tunnel vision-- again-- Bulk was there. That taut, chiseled body under dim bronze moved like a thunderbolt all his own. His left gauntlet smashed the beast away from Gerant; his right brought literal lightning through its chest.

Fried vamp heart worked even better than staked.

Bulk had fought at Gilda's wingside before, going into the thick of deathblots and rotflare where the fighting was thickest. Had held formation, not just longer than they'd expect a pony to, but where the rest of them save Gilda herself were starting to flag under the relentless assault of anti-life. So it had been… so it was now.

That, honestly, was really hot. As was the… reliableness of him. The fact that whatever she needed him to do, he could. Like a senior centurion. She'd had a thing for centurions ever since she'd graduated from claw camp and tracked her drill down. For drilling on equal terms.

Gilda was there, anyway; it was her job to shore up the line when it was needed. The vamps swarmed, trying to press what they thought was a weak point. But between the best griffon and an at least mildly tolerable pony, that proved a rather fatal mistake. Fun for her; and it seemed pretty fun for the not-quite-so-prissy pony, too.

Shared hobbies, and all that.

He seemed to be glad to work with them, which was either a compliment, or confirmation of griffon prejudices about ponies in general. Bulk Biceps was the captain of Princess Fluttershy's guard force, after all. He lead both her bodyguards, and those warriors she trained and imbued to handle the worst excesses of necromancy or life gone cancerous.

The freak he'd caught was gone, and he was already hauling Gerant up and into position. The bigger griffon gave a hesitant thanks, and then took his place at Gilda's side again. Neither of them commented; that was just, apparently, what Bulk Biceps did best without asking. Just like one of their own. He made them stronger.

In short: buffer than any griffon, possibly including her; faster and more agile; and ultimately, the expert. Given that their prey was a madhawk who'd stolen and imprisoned several of Fluttershy's white necromancers' souls and horns before being revealed and hunted, Gilda was glad to have an expert around. Gladder, more and more, that it was specifically him.

As the two of them shattered the rune-reinforced final barrier to the master's lair, she wondered just why she was even hornier than usual. Battle got her hot, but she didn't usually start thinking about a good dicking until after the objective was achieved. It wasn't distracting her; she made sure of that. Bulk wasn't, either. She was a bit less certain in that regard.

Her prey was here. "Ugly little fuck," she hissed. He started ranting; the usual blah blah dark powers blah blah true destiny to feed blah blah. She ignored it, ordering her troops to fan out and start pouring on the anti-magic. The vamp master didn't seem to have any minions left, but it paid to be careful

Gilda wasn't sure whether or not the master was more offended by her ignoring his drivel, calling him ugly, or calling him small. Sure, even to the Wings, twelve feet tall wasn't little, usually, but she was willing to press her six inch advantage for all it was worth. Press a lot of things, come to that; the sneer on her beak grew wider as the vamp master started hurling pure necro-whatsit bolts at her.

Like the last nine of de Raze's pawns didn't try the same thing! she thought with contempt. Bulk was being flexible again; in the enclosed space, with her Dark Wings forming ranks, he'd pulled back a bit and was praying to Fluttershy. She rolled her eyes, getting an outraged squawk from the vamp master, and it wasn't even at him. It's 'cause Bulk Biceps, Captain of the Royal Guard of Kindness, ain't praying, oh no, that would offend their sunbutt primo goddess. I mean, alicorn. He's channelling. That's totally different.

Eventually, the final vamp stopped his useless barrage and charged. This was worse; this one was old enough to be tougher, stronger, and faster than even she was. With millennia of experience perfecting the griffon arts of combat, come to that.

"Shoulda tried that earlier, dumbass," Gilda spat at him as he sent her flying. Blahblahblah how DARE she blahblahBLAH whine. She tanked it easily enough; he was too pissed to think. Too pissed to notice the lightning crackling for his back. "Such a fuckin' pity you didn't try that when you had, you know, numbers. This mighta been a contest!"

She took the ancient idiot's head at the same time Bulk charred his heart.

Hmm, Gilda thought as she looked over the rather delicious suggestion of muscularity under the pegasus' armor. Rising and falling as the adrenaline rode him, the same battle thrill that made his gear that much tighter against a sudden swell of strength.

The same battle thrill that was sending her breastplate shaking back at him. Yeah, she thought as she kicked the broken corpse away. Shared hobbies, after all. Maybe it was worth investigating why she was feeling so horny so much earlier in battle. And why it was centering around one Bulk Biceps: stupid-sexy pony.