Sorry for not writing in you for so long but things have been pretty busy around here. So, Miss Harriet is living in the town now and spends most of her time at the bar. There’s not much waitressing to be done there but she said it was more a habit and she liked the familiarity. Plus, she can now balance a whole bunch of plates on her back with her tentacles. Griffons of Windy in general seem to have come to terms with Harriet being around and consider her new form more a novelty than a threat.

That said, Thirteen and I haven’t been as lucky so far. I’m sooo hungry all the time. Thirteen, at least, has been helping Miss Harriet and Mister Raymond at the tavern. She said she was hungry too but she felt some griffons watching her from behind and not in a hostile way. Well, she does seem to be one of the very few young mares around and the old griffons like something to look at. Come to think of it, a lot more griffons seem to be coming to the tavern to listen to the radio compared to when we first arrived. At least that little lust is helping Thirteen stave off the forced hibernation.

I myself am staying awake… I’m not even sure how. I’m hungry, I’m exhausted, but there’s just so much to do. Oh right, I haven’t told you yet, booksy. I’m helping doctor Fairfeather now that he can’t use his forelegs. He said he’d be out of action for at least a month and that he might not be able to do surgery ever again. His… fetlocks, or whatever griffons call it, got crushed and twisted in a really bad way that shattered his bones into so many pieces they might never heal properly. He told me there was a wheelchair in his house and now I’m in charge of pushing him around, taking care of him, and also taking basic care of the patients. The good news is that there were no more wounded in a Corrupted attack yesterday. Miss Harriet sensed the Hunter early, though, and kicked its butt super hard before it could even properly materialize.

Come to think of it, we still haven’t met Mister Hazaren - Miss Harriet’s dragon dad.

Mister Magpie said he felt stiff all over but doctor Fairfeather said it was a miracle he was still alive at all so lasting stiffness or some loss in overall mobility should be the least of his worries. He’s been teaching the local able-bodied griffons how to effectively fight using farming implements. He grumbles about them a lot but it’s been only three days since he himself woke up so it’s understandable that they have a long way to go.

Anyway, I wish I could write into you a bit longer but doctor Fairfeather is calling.

“Three, this isn’t serious but it’s going to need stitching,” frowns Fairfeather, examining one of the griffons who got hurt during Magpie’s training, “A pitchfork stab wound in the side of the barrel. Grab the disinfectant and the sewing kit.”

By now, Three knows what the doctor is talking about. However, when he puts the required items on the table, he realizes one rather problematic thing.

“Ummm… I can’t stitch,” he says after attempting to hold the needle in his mouth, “I think non-unicorns use these long holder thingies to hold the needle and I don’t see one around.”

“I’ve worked with a few earth pony doctors and they used their mouths without a problem,” comments Fairfeather.

“I don’t think I’m one of them, doctor,” objects Three, “And I don’t have enough love to shapeshift even my hooves into talons or claws.”

“Give it a shot,” nods Fairfeather, “Use that thing to hold the sides of the wound together,” he points with his beak to something Three can identify only as a pair of weirdly shaped blunt scissors.

Unfortunately, while the medical holder tongs keep the sides of the wound together well, after several jabs of the needle in Three’s mouth, the treated griffon pushes himself away and looks at Fairfeather.

“I think I’ll have my grandma sew it and then come back for inspection, doc,” he says, “No offense, but your... uhh, helper needs some practice on something that can’t feel pain first.”

Three spits the needle out.

“Sorry.”

“Fine,” Fairfeather frowns, “Three, bring the bandages and treat the wound how I taught you. It’ll take longer to heal and it will leave a scar but it’s nothing life-threatening.”

As Three trots over to the medicinal cabinet, an idea occurs to him.

“Can you hold on a few minutes?” he asks the griffon who gives him a puzzled look, “I think I know a way out of this predicament.”

Fairfeather raises an eyebrow.

“The wound won’t get worse so… do you have the time?” he looks at the treated griffon who shrugs.

“Got nothing better to do right now. No clubs are open these days,” he jokes.

Three gallops out of the house as quickly as his stubby legs allow him. He returns some fifteen minutes later with Thirteen.

“She’s got some energy to do a little shapeshifting and a proper body that can move in all the ways ponies and you can,” explains Three while showing that with his stocky build he can’t properly wrap his foreleg around his barrel, “We drones aren’t naturally made for flexibility,” he gives somewhat confused Thirteen an encouraging smile, “Mister griffon here needs his wound stitched and I can’t do it.”

“I’m sorry but I’ve never stitched anything,” panics Thirteen.

“Neither did he, among other things, and he’s been doing a decent job so far with helping me,” Fairfeather joins in, “If you can grow something to hold the needle, you can stitch. Three, push me closer so that I can watch and give instructions.”

With a huff, Three pushes the wheelchair to the ‘operating’ table.

“You, here,” Fairfeather points his beak at Thirteen and then at the wound.

“Okaaaay...” Thirteen takes a deep breath and, with a flicker of green that makes several of the observing patients twitch, the fetlocks of her forelegs shift into talons. She blinks from the effort and wipes her forehead, “Oh dear, I think I’ll have to stay like this now.”

“Hey, if you do a good job here the griffons might get to like you,” Three nudges her encouragingly.

“Working with a really big if here...” mutters Thirteen and picks up the needle previously discarded by Three.

“Don’t worry, you can do it,” Three sits down by her side, softly tapping his hooves against the floor.

“I wish I could believe-” Thirteen’s mumbled complaint is interrupted by Fairfeather’s quiet but firm:

“Concentrate. Take a deep breath in and out. When you breathe out, your talons should stop shaking. Try a few times,” he leans close to watch Thirteen holding the needle under the spotlight.

To her own surprise, it also helps Thirteen filter out the inner voice saying she’s just going to hurt the griffon further.

“Three, alcohol swabs again.”

“On it!” Three salutes and handles the task of cleaning the area around the wound as well as the needle with recently acquired experience.

“Good,” says Fairfeather, “Now pierce the skin at the edge of the wound and start slowly sewing the edges together,” he watches Thirteen work the needle with utmost care, “It’s just a flesh wound so it doesn’t need any accurate stitching. Fixing internal organs, now that can be fun for a whole day.”

“I don’t think we share the same definition of fun...” mutters Thirteen while getting to business.

Seconds pass, interrupted only by Fairfeather’s patient instructions and short anecdotes from his own career to put Thirteen at ease. She takes longer than probably even a really inexperienced seamstress would but eventually it’s done and Three holds a magnifying glass over the wound so that Fairfeather can inspect it properly.

“Looks alright. Incredibly even stitching for someone’s first time. Heck, I’ve seen surgeons who couldn’t keep such an accurate distance between each loop.”

Thirteen breathes out in relief, closing her eyes.

“We changelings are really good with measurements and anything that needs photographic memory,” explains Three, tapping the side of his head.

“Good to know,” Fairfeather nods and looks at the griffon, “Use your other foreleg and don’t twist your torso around too much for three days and it’ll be okay. You’re going to have to survive with only one set of bandages, though.”

“Thanks, doc,” the griffon hops off of the table, “Aaaand to you too,” he adds reluctantly to both changelings.

“Wait! We forgot one thing,” Three turns around, followed by surprised glances from everyone. When he turns back, there’s a small glistening green chip held in his hoof, “At home, everyone got candy if they did well at the doctor’s,” he presents it to the griffon, “It’s minty.”

“That was just the foals, Three,” the corner of Thirteen’s mouth curls up.

“Really?” Three looks at her, “Should I make a bigger one then?”

“Make?” asks the griffon, watching his ‘reward’ for good behavior with suspicion.

“He makes candy in his spare time,” explains Thirteen hastily, adding to Three through their hive link, “Don’t tell them you puke candy goo or they won’t take it. And for the love of holes, don’t show it to them in real time.”

Three closes his mouth and only smiles, presenting the coin-sized piece of ‘candy’. The griffon glances at Fairfeather who only shrugs in response. Seeing no harm in doing so, the griffon carefully licks the piece of candy, blinks, and immediately puts it in his beak.

“Daaaamn, it’s been a while since I had a beakbreaker,” he smiles and pats Three’s head, much to the surprise of everyone, “See you, doc. See you, bug- changelings.”

After he leaves, Fairfeather lowers his voice so that the other patients can’t hear and asks:

“So, do you really puke candy that griffons find delicious or was that some mind control trick?”

“Try for yourself,” Three sticks his tongue out with another, smaller green chip on it.

“Most changelings can work with their goop in various ways. Not everyone uses their mouths either,” says Thirteen, “My sister is so good at shapeshifting she can synthesize almost anything, dad can make explosives if he drinks alcohol, mom is big on restraints, Miss Comfort on acids, Three makes candy.”

“I tried other things,” Three frowns, “but it always comes out as candy.”

“Acidic or explosive candy?” Fairfeather takes the green chip, sniffs it, and eats it.

“Sour or bubbly,” pouts Three, blushing a little.

Fairfeather sucks the candy for a few moments with a thoughtful expression.

“Can you make another one?” he asks and Three’s eyes light up.

“Sure!” Three immediately presents another chip on the tip of his tongue.

“Good PEZ dispenser. Now get me a microscope.”

“You’re not going to eat it?” Three tilts his head.

“No, I’m not. This might be more important,” Fairfeather shakes head, “Microscope, Three,” he repeats.

Despite having no clue what’s going on, Thirteen doesn’t interrupt the ensuing examination followed by several chemistry experiments performed by Three under Fairfeather’s lead. Eventually, the controlled chaos is over and the doctor goes quiet.

“Mister Fairfeather?” asks Three, “What was that all about?”

“I’m going to need more of the… candy. How long does it last?”

Three shrugs.

“No idea. I’ve never had any left over for more than several days.”

“What’s going on?” asks Thirteen finally.

“This thing is filled with simple sugars,” he nods towards the latest candy sample. When his answer fails to evoke any reaction from the changelings, he adds, “We need sugar- carbohydrates technically to have the energy to go on with our daily lives. The supplies we have left are lasting food, heavy on vitamins and fiber. It’s good for our health but lacking in energy. Simple carbs like the sugar you find in fruit, not actual hard candy, are among the healthiest sources of energy you can have, even for us omnivores. We could use Three’s candy to safely augment our current diet, not to mention that it doesn’t taste half bad.”

“Yaaaaaay!” Three raises his forelegs into the air.

“Alright, this is going to need some planning.”

Twenty minutes later, Raymond, cleaning glasses at the bar and listening to the radio, looks at the entering changeling duo and rolls his eyes.

What in the Emperor’s talons?

Three is wearing a cardboard sign fastened around his neck with a string which says ‘Medically-certified good bug’ coupled with a stamp bearing Fairfeather’s name and grinning from ear to ear.

“Doctor Fairfeather said everyone’s supposed to take one of these,” Three jingles a pouch around his neck, previously hidden by the cardboard sign, “He said they’re full of simple carrots- carbines- carborundums- carrybums- sugars to give you energy. Also, they’re minty but if you have some fruit juice I can make other flavors.”

“...got my last bottle of Jack here...” Raymond snickers, pointing at a bottle on the counter, “Wait, WAIT!” he drops the glass when Three downs a good chunk of the liquid, “Aw crap!”

Three covers his face for a moment with the cardboard and then presents Raymond with a brown piece of candy this time. The tavern owner examines it with suspicion before shrugging and eating it.

His eyes go wide and he gasps for breath for a second.

“How many can you make from what you just drank?” he wheezes.

“Dunno,” Three shrugs.

“ALRIGHT!” Raymond raises his voice so that he’s heard all around the room, “EVERYONE GETS A FREE SHOT OF JACK IN PILL FORM IF THEY HUG THE BUG! YOU CAN PICK WHICH ONE.”

In the evening, at least judging by the clock in Harriet’s new house, Magpie decides to visit the tavern to listen to the radio and have whatever dinner is left. He stops in front of the door as he hears loud voices and the noise of something beating against wood.

A lot rowdier than usual…

As he enters, his beak drops and his eye twitches.

Never in a million years would he expect twenty-or-so griffons sat around several tables smashed together into one long one, slamming their empty tankards against it, and singing:

“I AM A DRONE AND I’M DIGGING A HOLE!”

“DIGGY DIGGY HOLE! DIGGY DIGGY HOLE!”

And of course, the one standing on top of the table, leading the semi-coherent drunk screaming, and stomping out a tune…

...is Three, the runes on his legs flashing a bright pink light and his previously shot off ear completely fine.

Gem, I will never again doubt anything you say, no matter how crazy.

Also, did that griffon just slap Thirteen’s ass?

While Magpie sits at the corner table, the rowdy singing from the center of the bar completely drowns out a second griffon pulling up a chair and sitting down across the table from him. His coat is dark blue, his talons and feathers mossy green, all faded with age, and he’s watching Magpie through a pair of glasses with a soft smile.

“Heh,” the elderly griffon chuckles, “So they weren’t lying and it wasn’t just a matching name, Magpie. Good to see you’ve managed to return home after your tragic disappearance, even though it looks like it cost you a lot of scars.”

“Tasheed,” Magpie nods.

“Not the greeting I was expecting,” Tasheed relaxes in the chair, “Are you still angry about the time I had you repeat the history test for which you got grounded?”

“What are you doing here?” Magpie doesn’t bother with pleasantries, although his expression is far away from hostile, “I would have expected you to stay in Bloodstone.”

Tasheed shrugs.

“I was born here, Magpie, in case you don’t remember the backwater hole I came from that I told you about. Oof, has it really been seventy years?”

“If it was me, I wouldn’t have come back just for the nostalgia.”

“Heh, you got me there,” Tasheed sighs, “Bloodstone isn’t what it used to be, or maybe it’s the Imperials who aren’t too happy about an old history teacher who used to work with many members of the Redtalon family.”

“Redtalons are gone, deal with it. All Cassius is doing with the sanctions is making sure there will be another rebellion. Common griffons don’t care who rules them as long as they’re not choking under bullshit laws. If whoever the appointed Imperial regent of Bloodstone is could arrange disaster relief for the citizens, no one would even remember any Redtalons ever existed,” says Magpie noncommittally.

“You’re not giving griffons around here enough credit, I think. Redtalon land was always a bit different from the heartland, same with the southern states. There is pride in being a Redtalon.”

“Really?” Magpie sneers, “Then how come Bloodstone is under Irongrip rule? How come my father is dead?”

Tasheed leans across the table and whispers:

“Lord Altberg is alive and held in Bloodstone dungeons. Don’t trust the rumors about poison,” he relaxes in his chair again, “After Veronica’s failed uprising, Imperial forces came en-masse and took over all major outposts. That was before the corrupted territory swallowed all the easy access routes. The Legion obeys the Emperor in the end and a lot of them died during the uprising, leaving only bleached bones in the desert where the final encounter happened. There was very little resistance to the takeover from the local GIL outposts in the wake of Veronica’s loss, even if most of the griffons came from these lands- your lands.”

“I have no claim to this land nor do I care to have it,” Magpie rolls his eyes.

“You’re the last Redtalon, Magpie. Other than Altberg, that is, and he is too old to have any more heirs.”

“So what? Griffons here had their chance to fight for their home and they didn’t take it.”

Tasheed shakes his head with a weary sigh.

“Still taking the easy way out and avoiding responsibility. Maybe you haven’t changed as much here,” he taps his head, “as here,” he mirrors one of many of Magpie’s scars on his own body.

He gasps when Magpie shoots across the table, grabs Tasheed by a tuft of his chest fur, violently pulls him up to his eye level, and hisses in a voice full of fury and venom:

“The easy way?! I WAS FUCKING RIPPED APART BY MINOTAURS, TORTURED BY SLAVERS, I STARVED, OVERDOSED, WAS BEATEN TO A BLOODY PULP BY CORRUPTED. I STARE DEATH IN THE FACE ON DAILY BASIS. I’M NOT AFRAID TO DIE. Don’t talk to me about any easy way when you have no idea what the hard way is!“ he pushes Tasheed away, who slumps back to his chair, and returns to his own as well.

Tasheed rubs his neck, shaken by the almost feral response from Magpie. To his credit, he gathers himself enough to say:

“Dying is easy, young griffon. Living is harder.”

“You haven’t been through a thousandth of things I have. Don’t lecture me.”

Tasheed crosses his forelegs on his chest, facing Magpie without fear.

“I’ve lived long enough to know that it’s much easier making decisions without fearing for anyone else, without responsibility. It’s much easier knowing you’re risking only your own life. No one depends on you, no one will mourn or miss you. On the other talon, living for a family, land-”

“I CAN’T have a family, the minotaurs made sure of that. I’m being hunted in both Equestria and the Empire, and I get too sick from chineighese food to move there, too much fried shit plus a crazy language. Zebrica is a dead continent, so tell me - what land or family-?”

“Bloodstone. Let me repeat myself - you’re the only Redtalon heir left, Magpie. Veronica did all she could to secure her path to the throne of Bloodstone, killed all the other heirs, but when her uprising failed the Irongrips captured her and ruined YOUR land. No one knows if she’s dead or imprisoned-”

“And it can damn well stay that way,” Magpie lets out a mirthless laugh, “If she really killed everyone in the line of succession, she definitely wouldn’t have stopped for me, so she can rot, either in prison or in a grave.”

“Don’t you think she might have been behind your expedition getting captured, that instead of getting ‘lucky’ to avoid her assassination attempt you were one of her first targets? Wouldn’t you like to know the truth?”

“Not particularly. After all, it doesn’t matter anymore, really, does it?” Magpie shrugs.

“It might. As I said before, griffons might rally behind a Redtalon-”

“And as I said before, common griffons didn’t do anything when they heard about Altberg’s poisoning or about Irongrip takeover of Bloodstone, did they?” is Magpie’s interruption dripping with sarcasm.

“They need someone to inspire and lead them.”

“Then they can rot and starve! No one will fight their fights for them. No one did for me!”

“That’s not a leader’s job. They need to be shown how to fight, that’s all.”

“I’m doing that here,” replies Magpie, “The griffons here are fighting for their lives against Corrupted, not for some stupid political chess game their own fear brought on themselves.”

“Well,” Tasheed stands up, “As much as it pains me to see that my old student really did die in the north I, of course, can’t force you to change your mind. Still, if there is something left of the young griffon who possessed an unusual combination of common sense and noble intentions then I’ll be happy to show him a secret way into Bloodstone fortress. My old bones might still make the trip.”

Followed by Magpie’s scowl, Tasheed leaves the tavern. When he’s gone, Magpie puts his chin into his talons and sighs, staring into nowhere. He’s so lost in memories he doesn’t register Harriet sitting down in the empty chair and waving a tentacle in front of his face.

“Hmm, Harriet?”

“You know, I recognized who you were the day we first met,” she taps her claw against his foreleg.

Magpie shrugs.

“It didn’t matter in Equestria. I really didn’t want to come back here and if I didn’t give Gem my word that I’d get you home I wouldn’t.”

“And now?” Harriet raises an eyebrow, “I’ve never been too big on politics but even I used to feel kinda… proud for being born in the Redtalon lands, even if it’s just Windy. You know, the old - Irongrips are heartland idealists, Redtalons are eastern warriors, Vash are the scary southern nomad raiders, northern Xayeed are-”

“Tree huggers and rock worshippers who live in monasteries and meditate all day, yes,” Magpie rolls his eyes, “Look, collective pride is bullshit for those who have done nothing to be proud of themselves. You’ve done enough to be proud of, Harriet. Don’t mix being born in the land of some particular noble whose only achievement was being the most bloodthirsty bastard around thousand years ago into it. Irongrips, Redtalons, Vash… blue blood has no more value than any other.”

“Wooo,” Three interrupts, arriving with a wide smile, “My throat is sore but it turns out that griffons really enjoy singing!”

“Do I even want to know how you managed that?” asks Magpie, taking any opportunity to steer the conversation away from the topic of Redtalons.

“He got them drunk with candy!” Thirteen pulls up two chairs, one for herself and one for Three, and they both sit down at the table, “He mixed some drink called Jack with his goo and made alcoholic candy. Somehow it made the alcohol super strong.”

“Great… you changelings seem to have a talent at working with illegal substances. Wanna try your hoof with cigars, Thirteen?” Magpie snickers in an unusually friendly manner, “I think that with Gem being the expert on drugs and Three doing alcohol it’s the last branch left. With the right marketing you could rule the world.”

“Not really,” she shakes her head, “I’d like to know what’s the whole Redtalon thing, though. Are they your family or something?”

“How could you have heard anything over the screaming of twenty wasted griffons?” Magpie rolls his eyes.

“Come on,” Harriet’s tentacle nudges Magpie’s chest, “We’re here, we got through the whole Empire. You can tell them now if they promise they won’t tell anyone.”

“Promise!” Three and Thirteen say at once, exchanging glances.

“You’re really not going to let it go even if it doesn’t concern you at all?” Magpie sighs.

“Nope!” Thirteen shakes her head with vigor.

“Just a short version then,” Magpie looks around. There’s still enough noise around to prevent anyone without changeling ears from overhearing him, “I’m from the Redtalon family. Easily recognizable by this,” he taps his blood-red foreleg and talons, “Ever since the old Redtalons the family used to hunt down and kill any griffons who were born with forelegs colored like this even if they were members of other noble families, hence the name. These days, there’s like a ninety-nine percent chance that anyone like me is of Redtalon blood. In the same way, any Redtalons who weren’t born with the right color of talons were immediately disowned. A bit of an unnatural selection in action. The seat of Redtalon power is a metropolis called Bloodstone south of here. It’s not as massive as the Holy City but still bigger than Manehattan.”

“So you’re like the boss of this part of the Griffon Empire?” Three’s eyes go wide.

“I’m no one’s boss,” replies Magpie quickly, “Other than your right now because of Gem,” he points at Three and Thirteen.

“But if the situation at your home is as bad as the griffon at the tavern in Wilbur’s Pass said the griffons there might need help, be scared, and need someone who would care for them-” Three’s voice grows urgent.

“Let me stop you right there,” Magpie flicks his healed ear, “I already said it - I’m no boss or leader or anything. We’re staying here and waiting either until Gem comes for us or someone turns on the big light upstairs.”

One week later, Three’s done helping doctor Fairfeather for the day and decides to finish the day by listening to the radio. Thirteen is still at the doctor’s, busy doing some precision work which Three isn’t the best suited for and Harriet decided to spend the evening with her dad. When he enters the tavern, Raymond immediately waves at him, beckoning him to come to the counter.

“Good evening, Mister Raymond,” Three smiles.

“I’ve got a message for you here,” Raymond gives Three a folded piece of paper.

“Me?”

“You, Harriet, or Thirteen. It’s from Magpie.”

“Really?” Three unfolds the paper and as he reads the short message his curious expression turns into a toothy grin.

I’ve left with Tasheed and the supply caravan from Chineigha to see how things are in Bloodstone. I should be back in two weeks at most. Stay here and if you need anything tell Harriet.

SERIOUSLY, STAY IN WINDY!

I MEAN IT!!!

Author's Notes:

This can only go well.