The whining of the wind disrupted the festive sounds from outside the gate. Rivulets of white mist rose from the fresh snow in the yard. Flags fluttered. The imposing banners flapped noisily, red with black and white wings, hanging from the keep’s stone wall. Little rats scurried from the frozen streets. The dancing clouds lit with lightning in the distance, so far thunder hadn’t reached Gilda’s ears. Gilda’s sense of direction was not the best, but it came from further north. A majestic white eagle roosted at the top of the keep, staring at Gilda with blue eyes. What kind of eagle was it? In the distance, the snowolves howled, and the prey remained silent. The maids started closing windows and curtains around the Manor. Groups of griffons chatted as the Loremasters guided them on their way. Gilda waited, sitting with Geena’s assistant, Gjarma who maintained a mysterious silence.

Gilda stopped for a moment. From the morning drama to the fun in the afternoon, her mind slowed. Her thoughts quieted and her attention turned to her growing magical senses. They screamed at her. The wind whispered to her, but it became loud as her old home crashed to the ground. The scurrying of the vermin, which usually remained unnoticed, quieted. They hid and their noises went missing. The prey grouped together and disappeared. Snowolves called to each other. A majestic beast basked in the unseen weather, as if it knew something. All of them knew something. Their irrational minds paid closer attention to the eddies of arcane energies than griffons busying themselves with a thousand distractions.

Magic was in the air. No. It always was. Magic had a distinct feeling to it that night. It was something difficult to put into words. It stirred. It was in movement, like a force of nature. A wind of its own, seeping into the world of normal senses. Usually a breeze, it had become a gale, seeping into the world of the mundane. Its magnitude lost itself in Gilda’s sense of scale. Like the wind was part of a major system which could encompass entire swaths of the world. Gilda understood that in rational terms, thanks to classes on weather systems and magic in school. Another part of her understood it in a simpler, guttural way. Same as the scared rodents and the wallowing eagle. It was a spell in the making. Mighty magic. Powerful magic given purpose. Magic like the Windigos’, whose claim encompassed an entire portion of the world. Magic not unlike the one which moved the heavens. The ‘deeper magic’, old as Creation itself.

But it didn’t smell of death and decay, nor of sugar and grass. Petrichor filled the air with a twang of caustic lightning. Thunder rolled, but Gilda didn’t hear it with her ears. Now and then, thunder clapped in the distance and with it came a distant ghostly voice. It sang a ghostly melody, full of shrill notes and distant ululating whoops. It spoke, and Gilda recognized the High Griffonese, but the words eluded the attentive griffoness.

The voice didn’t speak to Gilda, but to the world itself, and a part of Gilda responded. It filled Gilda’s chest with the fulgor of lightning. It burned through her eyes and her bones vibrated with it. Her feathers filled with magic, and she opened her wings to catch the magical wind hiding underneath the cool breeze. She looked at her paw and closed her fist like she could hold it. Her talons brimmed with magic, uncontainable, and itching to be released. It was a rallying cry, like untold eons ago, when her Mother first called her into being.

Gilda had experienced it before. It was the Allmother, not poking inside her head for amusement but doing something. A thing. Gilda frowned and groaned as the griffoness realized she lacked the proper language to describe. It wasn’t a ‘spell’. Yes, magic in motion, given purpose, yadda yadda. But not a ‘spell’. The pokeheads made spells. This was more. Something a single grassbreath couldn’t ever grasp.

Of course, speaking of grassbreaths… Their drama distracted Gilda from Her Mother’s mysterious singing. Histrionics followed them like the stink of manure. The blue thestral was throwing a fit. When Gilda looked, one of them gave her a reproaching stare and the other blocked her way with the shaft of his halberd.

“But I want to see the ceremony!” She neighed and stomped her hoof on the stone sill of the Manor’s heavy doors. “It’s important and I want to document it! So that griffons down south can respect your culture! They won’t if they don’t know it.”

“We don’t care what they think, grassbreath.” The Sky Sentry blocking her path shoved her inside to bump into Lost temple. Although thestrals had more of a fruity appetite, but whatever. The point was she was a damn pony doing pony things. “All you will do is sit your tail in your room and wait until you are let out again.”

Gilda approached from behind the guard as Moonbow sat on the wood floor. Bratty frown, pursed lips, and folded ears. The complete angry pony package. Lost Temple stood next to the thestral with a hoof of moral support on her back.

“Can you please not make a scene? Just wait and not make any trouble? I’ll tell you everything once we’re back.” Gilda put herself between the guards and the ponies. They were her responsibility, after all.

“But that is not the same!” The thestral responded with a long whine. Behaving like a foal.

“Tough.” Gilda made sure her deadpan stare communicated how little she cared for the pony’s opinion. She understood, given both ponies’ professions, but they were not on a pleasure trip. “You’re here to help us get dirt on Celestia because of Lost Temple’s expedition to the Hader that she shut down, remember? After we’re done with that, we’ll all get a reward. I’m sure Lady Gwendolen is going to share a lot with you two and answer every question you have. Until then, chill.”

Gilda doubted the Allmother, even under the guise of Lady Gwendolen, would have patience for a pony asking about things pertaining to griffons. It silenced the pony, though. Moonbow’s lips trembled with a willful hum, but Gilda chose not to dignify it. Instead, the griffoness walked away back to Gjarma and her serene smile.

Fortunately, the rest of Gilda’s group of friends soon joined. Gil came with her dad, Mister Gillian, and her mate, Guille. The toms were the most presentable. Nice, brushed coats and preened feathers always gave a griffon a good appearance.

Gertha joined too after some cold water washed the drunkenness off her face and Gia offered her some ‘magical loremaster’ tea. Geary had returned and kept pulling at a blue handkerchief he wore around his neck. Gilda supposed he didn’t need to be there, but since Gia needed, he would go with them. Gilda’s secretary, Gisele, joined too, with a nice red cape she must have bought at the fair. The two soldier guys also looked presentable, with some light cloaks for the cold. Fortunately, Garnet did not join them. Gilda didn’t even care if she would be at ‘the event’.

Gjarma took them to join the flow of chatty, excited griffons. The vast majority being southerners, they behaved like a group of kids going on a school trip. Nobody blamed them, though. They were at a fair. The whole thing was supposed to be fun, and the northerner younglings were excited, too. If Gilda was honest, she had trouble identifying either in their group.

They left the city, circling around to give the prisoners’ camp a wide berth, and walked up and down the soft white mounds for a long distance. Out of the city, the aroma of fresh snow became as pervasive as the cold. Their Sky Sentry escort provided light with torches for what seemed like at least a thousand griffons on a thick, long line. Most didn’t even mind the dusk, still so excited with the festivity, or just braver than the others. Gilda managed alright, barely inconvenienced, but some griffons seemed to take it much worse. They didn't give up, but they regretted not bringing better protection against the cold.

Worse than the dark, the windy haze prevented them from seeing much farther than their guides, but they soon reached a slope beyond a stone archway. The Harpy’s banners hung from either side, on the gray stone, which was the same as the rest of the city. Between the trees, rocks and torches marked a winding path sneaking beyond and into a forest. Their feet walked unimpeded on the snow, but griffons quieted their excitement. The guards needed not tell them not to stray from the path. Chatty voices silenced and eyes turned to the ruffling trees. The wind downed the snow from the trees, and they danced softly.

The barrier language, once again, became evident. That night, however, the northerners’ ill-will, grudgingly refusing to communicate in Common Equestrian was missing. They reassured insecure southerners, but whispered comments in uncertain tones told Gilda the others knew something different was happening. That something was in the air. The spooky atmosphere. The uneasiness of something they couldn’t identify. Something they didn’t understand, and that tickled their anxious curiosity.

Where they saw trees and rustling leaves, Gilda saw magical wisps in the mist between the cracking trees and rustling needle-like leaves. The breeze turned into untold magic to her senses. It gathered and rose to the skies like a whirlpool of magical mist circling around the entire area.

Gilda couldn’t pinpoint for how long they walked before they reached the archway, but they snaked up the incline amid the trees for quite a long time too. Clearing them, their procession came to the bare, snow-covered edge of a cliff. It overlooked the city and its lights in the distance, beyond the empty dark of the frozen lake. A sea of shade surrounded it all and above, the clouds danced in the dark, revealing themselves for the fleeting instants whenever lightning flashed inside.

Several stone pyres held bright flames which warmed the air enough to shield griffons from the constant chilly breeze in the altitude. Not enough to chase away the cold, but enough that nobody should suffer from it. A stone parapet kept griffons from coming too close to the edge but was low and close enough not to impede the sight. Iron torches lined the limit and illuminated fluttering red flags with the black and white wings of the Allmother.

The snow gave way to polished stone. Different textures and colors marked the area before stone steps rising into a dais under a stone pyre. Round, atop a cube of polished stone, it held gentle flames, burning logs of birch. A statue on the edge dwarfed it all. White marble reflected the light from the flames in the shapely form of a griffoness. Her wings, covered with clear silver and a black metal Gilda didn’t recognize, opened wide, bent forward to embrace the flames. The same black metal covered the marble, made into gray and then black images of feathers framing the white face with sharp lines. More silver for the eyes and a glorious crown of feathers made of the black metal. It was like a fan lesser creatures would adorn themselves with, never to reach a similar glory.

Lit by the flames, a black beak and a condescending frown watched over the assembly. Her forelegs were raised and Her paws open, turned to Her. She held something eyes couldn’t see but was there. She clung to it. It was Hers, whatever it was.

Gjarma left Gilda and her friends in a privileged position in the front before she joined Lady Geena. Pristine white, finally wearing the blue cape of the Loremasters instead of the cyan with a hem of swan feathers. She sat behind a pulpit. Not a simple thing, though. The lifelike shape of two stone griffon cubs made it, with their paws raised, holding a large tome finished in black leather.

Gjarma stood next to Lady Geena and a pair of her Loremasters came from the left. Another group stood out of the way, to the right, carrying musical instruments. Griffons in the crowd made a near absolute, expectant silence as Geena surveyed the assembled griffons from her raised position.

Gilda couldn’t see a lot. She wouldn’t sit there, contorting and twisting, stretching her neck to count like a cub, but a small family caught her eyes. Tom and queen with a half-adult cub like Godwin and Georgia. Although Gilda didn’t think they’d be joining the Court of The Harpy. The father was tan and white, with softer facial traits than the usual in the fierce north. His mother’s fur and feathers were pale yellow with black dots, and she had a cute, short, stubby tail. Despite inheriting the father’s ‘proper’ long tail with a dark tan tuft, the tom also had his mother’s black spots and the father’s softer facial lines.

They sat close to another family. Another mother and father, both very Nartani-like, of powerful physique and pristine white. Three kids accompanied them. A young queen, a younger male cub and a cute, Giza-sized baby holding a plushie of a fish, of all things. Both parents spoke in soft, respectful tones and the dark tan tom, with the black spots, held the older daughter under his wing.

Other than that, from Gilda’s point of view, it seemed more than a thousand griffons had gathered, yet even the clueless among the southerners remained silent. The moaning of the wind and rustling of the leaves reigned supreme. Thunder trilled across the clouds and lightning flashed above them with a pointed boom.

As if on cue, Lady Geena stood on her hindlegs. She opened her forelegs and her wings flared. Her feathers and cape danced in the wind. Her formidable muscles evidenced the same supernatural beauty Gilda first noted when meeting her. Little nipples showed and athletic muscles tensed in her stomach as she rose her paws to the thundering skies.

“Ditty Harpyi!” Her voice echoed, filled with magic. It rippled through the air, same as thunder. She called them Children of The Harpy, through words not commonly used for griffon cubs, nor the colloquial possessive for something The Harpy owns.

Drums pounded like a heart and a chord instrument wailed like the wind. A trio of younger, blue-cape-wearing queens sat side-by-side and sang, their eyes closed in reverent joy. A slim white one, a medium-sized gray and another large and silvery, like The Harpy had made her of quicksilver. Their capes and their feathers fluttered while they joined the instruments, the wind, and the thunder in song. The three voices in different timbres, like three different instruments vocalizing joyful reverence more than words.

Geena held the leather cover and took her time opening the large tome before her. “They say the hooved ones like the green meadows and bright blue skies. Under the warm embrace of the sun and away from the dark and the cold. Distant from the hard rocks of the mountains and their snowy peaks. They delight in wide prairies covered with the sweet emerald of grass and juicy fruits of every color. It is said ponies were made to live together in harmony and to enjoy life. To prance and play in the warm grass, not a care in the world other than their own happiness.”

Was it magic that gave her voice such power? Gilda wasn’t sure. Geena had the practiced diction of a public speaker and the gravitas of a monarch. She read from the book, but the words came without fail to her.

“They say the griffons like tall mountains. That it is because they remind them of an ancient time when they found safety at the top. Far from everything and supported by the mighty roots of stone and earth. They say that the cold air is relaxing, and the clouds hide their perch from the dangers of the world.”

“Who could blame them for believing such things? Thus is the world where they live. The smarty ponies go to their universities and their schools, and they learn these things. But all they know is what they want to believe.”

Her tone shifted. It became more deferential, slower.

“I tell you, brethren of the North and of the South, there are older creatures. Older than their universities and their tales. Older than when the Sun and the Moon came down to the realm of the mortals or when the Lord of Chaos changed the blue sky to colors of madness. Older than the Windigos and the Three Tribes, or even the mountains themselves.”

A large raven griffon landed heavily on the snowed stone, only on his hindlegs. He too wore the blue silk cape of the loremasters and carried a tray covered with a dome in his jet paws. Expressive purple eyes aimed at Lady Geena as he raised the tray, offering it to Gjarma.

Gilda recognized the silver-gold alloy, electrum, in a flash and let escape a silent gasp as a bolt of lightning rode her spine. Remembrance screeched a flurry of emotions at her all at once. Gjarma took the tray from his paws on her own and he bowed at her, sitting where he had landed. He and everyone else watched as the salmon queen carried the tray on her wings with an elegance few griffons could manage with such an awkward burden. After crossing the distance with the elegance of a model, she sat next to Lady Geena, who had too sat and waited.

With calm, deliberate movements under the wind and the music, Gjarma pulled the dome to reveal a crimson and pale-yellow heart. The scent which escaped, so powerful, invaded Gilda’s nostrils and for an instant she found herself again before the mighty griffoness at the top of Her pyramid. Breathing in the dry desert air and hearing the countless griffons cheering outside. Around her though, griffons gasped, and someone whimpered at the sight.

Shocked comments, whispered in distressed tones, made Gilda roll her eyes. Lucky for them, she would not interrupt the ceremony to give them a quick reality check. How wimpy could a griffon get? Fortunately, the griffons with Gilda behaved. Georgia had her beak gaping and so did Gil, but they said nothing.

Ignoring all that, Geena grabbed the firm and fleshy organ, digging her talons into the muscle. It oozed blood on her paws, and she lifted it from the tray as the younger Loremaster retreated with her lowered head. The Amazonian and white griffoness again turned to the assembled griffons. Her voice rang loud as the clap of thunder.

“Born far from Her glory, you are still worthy of the Allmother’s love, for even the children of traitors are still Ditty Harpyi. She recognizes you, spawn of the loyal guardians of the North and you who return to the embrace of Her mighty wings. Welcome Her gifts! Set free the raptor in your soul to fly as She made you to fly among the snowed mountains.”

With an instant of silence, filled only with the rustling leaves and crackling birch on the fire, Geena stood on her hindlegs and raised the heart further. It bled crimson where her talons pierced its heavy flesh, down her fingers as she held it above her head, looking up at it. Her beak moved with silent words meant for none in the crowd.

Some griffons around Gilda grimaced. It sounded like one or two in the congregated mass fainted when Geena brought the heart down. Her beak tore a chunk of the meaty apex, spilling the ichor all over herself. The oozing red tinted her alabastrine leather and feathers, over her chest and her exposed nipples, all the way down her stomach to her nethers. The sight left Gilda with an excited sense of familiarity. She could smell it. Almost taste the coppery flavor. Feel the slippery stickiness in her paws and the glowing in between her hindlegs at the sight.

Not everyone reacted the same, though. Some griffons shifted, eyes fixed on the powerful queen, some tongues licked their beaks, and others even blushed. The bright red drew their eyes, and the smells tugged at their thoughts the same as they did to Gilda.

A strange and electrifying stillness filled the air. The larger feathers on Gilda’s wings itched, and some griffons shuffled their wings. Ruffled feathers gave griffons a wild, rustic semblant even with the ones with none or less impressive crests. The rustling leaves silenced and the only sound remaining was the fire. The banners folded and flames rose straight. A chain of lightning traveled the sky, lighting the inside of the clouds above.

Geena’s eyes glinted, and her chest heaved. The mass of muscle and the blood still steamed in the cold as she eagerly tore another chunk of the heart with her beak. Her firm body turned around. She was like a ballerina from the Hoofway Theater, with her cape and wings following her graceful movement. Paws raising, she lifted the heart into the air before the grand statue and she cried, a long, shrill screech echoing like the clouds responded. Wings flared open, wider; her feathers lit with electric magic. It arched between her large primary feathers and spilled over the stone, like will-o’-the-wisps turning liquid lightning, filling the spaces between the stones, and evanescing the snow away. The whole cliff, holding thousands of griffons, radiated magical light, like lightning, trapped inside the stone beneath them. Its warmth washed over Gilda and burned at her chest like it had lit something in there.

Some griffons screamed, others around her retreated, but Gilda closed her eyes and breathed in. The magically charged air burned her nostrils but filled her with vigor. She let it flow through her like it was the only thing in existence. The wind was not the wind. It was a maelstrom of lightning and hail crashing at Gilda’s body with enough force to tear flesh from bone. Contradictorily, it passed through her. It filled every fiber of her being with the tense anticipation of magic about to rip reality apart and do… Something. Something impossible. Something for which Gilda had no words to describe.

Around her, griffons cried and laughed. Others wept and screeched babbling incoherent nonsense. Gilda never thought, much less could explain what she was doing, but she stood on her hindlegs and opened her wings and her forelegs. In her mind’s eye, thick rain pelted her deeper than her physical body would allow. The notion made no sense, but those were the words she found to describe it in her mildly insane mind. It caressed her body like the most thorough of lovers as it had done eons ago when Creation was still young. Her Mother’s magic filled her soul and made her as powerful as Herself as if they were one.

Outside Gilda’s mind, all the tension in the air snapped and thunder cracked in the sky. Lightning filled Gilda’s senses with its immense power, a presence none could ignore. The heart on Geena’s paws burst into flames and the blood which dripped from it rolled like liquid fire along her paws and down her body. Flames exploded from the pyre above in a magical blue, consuming the birch in a flash. A blazing pillar consumed the heart, radiating an impossible light over the statue and all the assembled griffons. On the stand, the book fluttered by its pages, surrounded by a halo of white magic.

The unreal storm engulfing the gathering of griffons subdued. Geena’s shoulders and her paws remained covered in blood, and it even stained her adorable ear-like double crest of small feathers like Grunhilda’s. But when she turned, with the same grace as before, her alabaster wings had changed to striped black and white. She had grown and her white paws were now sable, crowned with terrible talons like black steel. A glorious crown of black feathers fluttered behind her head and her blue eyes now held the terrible gray of the storms.

Griffons cried, and some even jumped with fear. Some came to a talon’s width of fleeing, wide-eyed and trembling as the green branches on the trees. Gertha gasped and retreated a step. Gia dropped to the ground and covered herself with her trembling wings. Someone somewhere pissed themselves, judging by the tang.

Privy to the secrets of The Harpy’s magic and Loremaster’s powers, Gilda knew the trick. There was no trick. The Harpy spoke to them through Lady Geena. Their eyes saw the white griffoness covered in blood and their ears heard her sharp voice. Their souls saw the Mother of Storms and heard the deafening thunder in her words. The sheer power of her ancient voice weakened their limbs and forced them low on the snow.

I saw all. I remember all, and I do not forget.

The Firstborn of Creation, I took the storms to make the souls of My Children. From me, they were born, and all that I Am, in my perfection, they have inherited. Anger. Cruelty. Vengeance. I have bestowed upon My Children. I have granted the Gift of Wrath so that My Children would herald My Commandment upon the world. I demanded that they love their own infinitely and that they hate their enemy infinitely. That they take everything and give nothing. That is the Raptorial Creed. That is my Commandment to My Children.

The world bowed and marveled at their glory! No animals dared face them. I saw My Children conquer everything under the sky. From the roaming beasts of the deserts to the barbaric zebras in the savannahs. From the foolish yaks to the dangerous dragons of the badlands. We hunted them for sport, and they knew their place.

When My Children met the Children of the Sun, their large eyes filled with terror. Horror struck the equines when My Children devoured meat while they grazed on the ground like animals. When scared, they cried and cowered amongst themselves. And when they ran from danger, My Children saw they were prey. For only prey fears danger. My Children offered me their meat in sacrifice, and I found it appetizing.

But they dared resist the natural order of the world. They filled our prey with hubris and dreams of ruling the land for themselves. They dared challenge My Children! The earth ponies brought forward their prodigal strength and shaped the earth and flora as weapons. They recruited even the unthinking beasts to fight. The cowardly unicorns hid behind their shields and hurled spells of lightning and fire while the pegasi stole the clouds from us. They turned them into weapons with which to harm My Children.

They fought for ten thousand days until they saw they could not take from us our hallowed land, so they unleashed their most powerful magic on us. The Unicorn Kings joined in a conclave of wickedness and summoned the powerful arcane energies of Creation. Their birthright as wardens of nature, they turned to a weapon. Most unholy of magic, they turned their powers, the heirloom of Creation, into a weapon with which to destroy all my proud Stormborn had made. Jealous and filled with hubris, they brought the Eternal Winter to the North when they summoned the Windigos.

The Harpy closed her eyes and shut her wings. Gjarma led the other Loremasters in a song Gilda recognized. They put a lot more pomp into it, though. The male with the black pelt put a powerful bass into it and the others backed it with their contraltos and sopranos, following the wailing, wind-like instrument. Not a funeral chant this time around, but a warning of something never to be forgotten.

Generosity was broken,

Kindness merely a token.

Forsworn they had Loyalty,

No Laughter in their halls of royalty.

For lies they have traded Honesty,

Their Gift of Magic but a travesty.

The Ancient Pact broken,

An Oath jestly spoken.

Cursed our land in hatred untold,

Did the great Unicorn Kings of Old.

Sun and Moon for themselves they wanted,

All the land under the heavens daunted.

A storm in the sky,

The heart never shy.

Our blood to the field,

This land never to yield.

The chord instrument carried its windy whine for a couple of heartbeats as the words sunk in. As The Harpy opened her forelegs, the night was gone, changed for the day. The black void and the shimmering lights from the city vanished. A grand valley stood below the cliff, nestling a vast, luxuriant forest of conifers, cradled within white peaks and gray stone. Stormy clouds covered the sky, and the rock faces of the mountains had been carved into vast mansions. A city like a mountain had the heart of the valley. A broad road of stone reached all the way from the entrance of the valley, flanked by stone statues of griffons. It was a collection of unimaginable palaces of stone, silver and marble topped by a gleaming black tower. Bolts of lightning crossed the air behind it and hammers thundered. Behind the mountain turned into mansions was a pool of molten lava and a wide balcony where griffons sang and danced before a throne.

Griffons flew to and from elegant balconies, all over the valley in games of aerial combat or lounged on the grass. Others ran, carrying long colorful banners or shared meals in giant banquets. A group ran out of the trees, bringing a large caribou they had hunted. Their voices sang hymns to the storm and ran Gilda’s heart through with a sword of sorrow. It was gone. Buried in snow. No griffons sang, no hammers clanged. The tower had broken, and the forest was dead.

All that remained were the husks of mighty trees and the scornful laughter of the frost monstrosities. The snickering of old unicorns and all their jealousy. Gilda’s fist closed before she even realized. Her blood screamed righteous wrath as sobs, growls and weeping reached her ears.

The Harpy opened her stormy eyes and her wings again, resuming her speech with a scorching note of wrath.

My Children scattered and fled from the place where they were born, and the North Wind took them to the south in the wake of the pony nation. The mighty Astrani sacrificed their lives and their blessed souls to protect their brethren in retreat. Only when they reached Holy Griffindell’s Black Gates did the abominations cease their advance. Their magic couldn’t break the Nartani’s battle lines, and My Children weathered the blizzard in the Valley of Griffons. My Children reached far, and only in the warm climate of the South the crafty Shaddani found solace. Even further went the resilient Haderani, deep into the sands, east past their brethren.

A million nights passed, and My Children didn’t remember me anymore. They forgot their glory. The mountains of their ancestors were forgotten, and so were their tales. They mingled with the hooved ones and treated prey as friends. Most abominable of sins, they joined their blood with that of the prey. They were like orphaned cubs, motherless infants, lost in the world and at the mercy of our sacrilegious enemy. Few of their hearts still burned with the hatred I instilled into them and remained to protect the land of their ancestors.

The Wheel of Time turned. History became legend, and legend became myth. Myth was forgotten along with oaths old as the world. The hooved ones built their proud empire, and My Children were as pigs shuffling in the dirt where the equines would eat. Then the Lord of Chaos descended unto the world, and he wreaked havoc upon Creation. The Mad God laid siege to reality and brought it to the brink of destruction. All races of the world were brought to their knees.

The hooved ones were broken. Their fat and sluggish nation fragmented; their magic failed them. Destitute and corrupt, the Heavens refused to listen. Inefficient and corrupt rulers prospered within the ruins of the Old World. The Wheel of Time had turned again.

My Children prospered in the adversity, but they had forgotten me and my Commandment. They sought long, dull, and uninteresting lives with soft beds and winds. The passions of the hunt and of lust were distractions in their search for comfort. They found the same false safety the prey fooled itself with, wearing titles of warlords and patriarchs without understanding of war or statesmanship. They lacked the fury I weaved into their flesh and blood in the times primeval. Warlords of the meek, patriarchs of a failing family. Destitute kings and queens of piles of dust. They disgusted me, and I relinquished them. And I waited.

When the Sun raged in the sky and burned the land, one of My Children rose among the ranks of the slaves. He slayed his master and took the city for himself. Then he conquered another city, and another, and all the cities which would not lay down their weapons at his feet. Slave to king, he was Gaven the Nameless, and he let my fury burn in his veins as did his ancestors!

The independent griffon cities herded together like scared prey and his enemies flocked against him. They smashed against his power, but none bested his warriors or himself in combat. The tall ponies of the desert and the blasphemous hippogriffs in the sea joined against him, but none stood to meet his might. He conquered them and took their cities, and their lives were his to do as he pleased. King to Emperor, he became Grigor, First of his Name, and earth, sea and sky trembled before the name of The Emperor!

Never indolent, he remembered what was of his ancestors and he remembered the ancient pride of his race. Intelligent and knowing that legends were better believed, he saw what his ancestors failed to see. He believed the myths and sought the Mother of all griffons. No monstrosity spawned from the Windigos or the Lord of Chaos, ages past, could stop him. Neither could the cold or the deadly blizzards. He sought in the snowed lands of the Nartani until he found me in the Stormy Eyrie. Deep within the realm of the Windigos, where no mapmaker would dare scout.

He spoke to me of the hatred he harbored within his heart against our old enemy. Not a fool, he knew their magic would be powerful once again. If the world was to be ours again, the Children of the Sun were to be tamed. The Emperor sought my counsel, most wise and humble.

I spoke to him of things older than the memories of all living things and of the mountains themselves. He understood, and he raged against the weakness that cursed even the mightiest of the living. He wanted the power to overcome death and mortality, and he demanded it of Me to vanquish our most hated enemy. And I gave it to the proudest of my sons. I taught him the ancient magic in his blood and in the voice of the mountains. I made him a crown of iron to wear so that the world would know he was the first of my sons.

Stone walls crumbled before his might and cities collapsed at his command. Ponies hiding beyond the seas dreaded him, and their failing magic gave them no sojourn. The kirin in the forest paid tribute, the zebras in the savanna scared misbehaving foals with his visage. Yaks trembled, and dragons dared not whisper his name. Emperor to god, he was The Conqueror.

He built me a city of iron and enshrined me to bathe in the fresh blood of our prey. He made me a mountain in the desert and called it Aen Hader, and there I lived with him. We feasted, and we celebrated our greatness once again. My chosen mothered him the greatest of our warriors, and dread shook the world before our might.

One day the Sun relented, and our old enemies were whole again. The time for preparation was done and armies larger than cities clashed. But my favorite son had failed Me already. He suffered the weak to live, and they rallied in the dark. Cowardly whispered betrayal in the corners of their mansions and followed the Traitor King. They cried for the Matriarch of the Great Herd to hide them from me under her wings.

When The Conqueror understood, he begged me for the power to destroy the Dawnbringer and to save his traitor brother. He refused my command to slay the Traitor King of Griffonstone and I struck him in anger for his failure and left my city. It had become tainted with his disobedience, and it disgusted Me.

He vowed to destroy the Matriarch of the Sun and regain my favor, but his spoiled devotion bore no fruits. Battle after battle, she bested him until they fought before the gates of Holy Griffindell. All fates met at the Valley of Griffons and the blood of all races stained the snow. He fought with all his might under the eternal mountains as witnesses, but she struck down the Conqueror, despite his skillful and furious fighting.

A false king raised. Wallowing at her hooves, he gave her my children. The Dawnbringer lied and hid me from them. She forged history and hid the betrayal of her own children. She has painted them as perfect and united the world under her wings as if it was hers to take. My children became sluggish and frail. They gorged on the sugar the ponies gave them, and they smoothed their talons. They forgot me, and again they laughed at the myths told by their grandmothers. Only the proud Nartani remained unblemished. The mighty desert lords laid their blood to waste during the war and the Shaddani tainted theirs with that of the enemy.

Once again, they lived long, dull, and uninteresting lives where the passions of the hunt and of lust were mere distractions. They sought comfort and the same false safety the prey finds in their ignorance. Disgusted with violence, and retching at the sight of warm blood, they squirmed at the luxurious surrender of bodily passions and relinquished My Gifts. Calling themselves Kings and Lords, they oversaw their brothers and sisters in the stead of the Dawnbringer. They lacked the fury that turned slave to king, to emperor, and they have forgotten My Commandment.

Unstopping, the Wheel of Time turned and still found the Children of the Harpy wallowing in filthy grass, fattened, and slowed of mind. They disgust me, calling themselves senators and chancellors. Ruling my children in the stead of the grass-eating Matriarch of the Sun. They enshrined the soft voice of the enemy and relinquished the pleasure of the hunt and of carnal release in their search for golden coins with equine faces!

But the Wheel of Time spins unending and lifetime after lifetime, my children still brought forth the ones who shunned their proud ancestors defiled and forgotten. My fury still burned in their veins and my wrath made them indocile to the legacy of the Traitor King. It brought them turmoil, but I made my children to thrive in adversity. At the borders of the world, where it is unforgiving, the threat of vile monsters spawned by the Eternal Winter kept the Nartani sharp.

The cold air of the mountains stirs within memories of existences past. Of when the long and wide road up the Roost filled with their ancestors to gaze upon the Conqueror on his way to his mansion; undefiled to this day she waited for another worthy of sitting on her throne.

Even in the poisoned lands, more and more of my children open their eyes and see the corrupted legacy of the Traitor King. Hearing tales of one who would unite them. They called him The Lion, for his strength is honorable and just. My cry in the storm, calls my foreign children back home, it reaches them deep within the domain of the Sun. They leave their houses and their friends to travel north. Never to return for those lost find themselves in this land where the most loyal of griffons held the corruption of the Windigos at bay. Where blood and honor hold ancient memories alive. Where my children seek glory with shield and spear, duty, and honor. But most of all… Remembrance and duty.

At the edge of a new age, heed, Ditty Harpyi! Heed ye of unfortunate pasts and perfidious ancestors. Hear my cry in the storm! Reckoning comes with the true warlord, pureblooded patriarch of your race. Let go of the fear and insecurities, cover yourselves in the ashes of birch and return, o prodigal sons and daughters. My Law is older than the mountains and sin is not forgotten. For all that I am. Anger. Cruelty. Vengeance. I have bestowed upon you. I have granted you the Gift of Wrath so that you would herald My Commandment upon the world. That the Children of The Harpy will wash the sin off their souls in the blood of their foes. That servitude is rewarded with gratitude, and indolence is hated without end!

It ended as abruptly as it had begun. The flames consumed the logs of birch and only the torches illuminated the cliff. The air brought a chill again, and a breeze waved around Gilda, bringing reprise to her hot and stuffy feathers and fur. It was Geena behind the pulpit again, as she collapsed over the book. It had closed and behaved now. Gjarma and the black male with the cape held her bloodied body. For an instant, Gilda worried about her, and Grunhilda gasped next to Gilda.

But Geena recovered herself, supporting her weight with her paws on the stand. She straightened her back and flared her very normal griffon wings again, throwing her voice with anger. Ire like a thunderstorm.

“Jagged summits to verdant plains! In the fjords, now hidden under the ice, and the white fields the North Wind burdened us with. She remembers them all! The gale and the rain will see you free! Hammers clank with the crash of thunder. Echoes of Eternity pluck at the strings of destiny! Blood, iron, and glory; shields shatter and spears rise.” Geena's voice raised higher and higher to the thundering clouds above and cheering griffons below. Somewhere after the Allmother returned Geena to them, Gilda had started cheering with the others and never noticed. A throng of fierce Children of The Harpy exalting praises.

“Pride of the eagle! Might of the lion!” Geena screamed. “A thousand-thousand voices cry in choir. The Stormy Eyrie calls to you! Our Mother sings your name; it is Her belonging and your birthright!”

“The Harpy demands it!” Gilda let her voice reach for the skies, not a forethought before. But she didn’t do it alone. Grunhilda and Gertha cried with her. Gil, Gia, and Georgia with Godwin. Even Giselle and Gil’s dad, as well as Gertha’s brother. Gia and Geary. Every single griffon which had given their ears the Allmother’s cry in the storm. All of them cried with Gilda as Lady Geena threw her forelegs up at the sky in one exultant cry of joy.

All over the northerner griffon cities. In their hidey-holes in the south, where community leaders like Madam Gladys, sacrificed for Celestia’s coins, would gather them. The griffons who helped Gilda back at Baltimare jumped to her thoughts. They would gather somewhere in that place where they lived by the warehouses and their Loremaster would take their young. To meet the Allmother, away from the light of the sun, united with all griffons who heard Her cry.

The tan griffoness stood restless on her feet, with her wings raised up high. A wide grin in her beak, she panted, and her chest pounded like she had thunder inside. Her blood held a bolt of lightning, and she couldn’t keep still for a second. All that excitement and… Gilda didn’t know what to call it. All the magical stuff did strange things to griffons. Some cried, sitting on the snow and others danced and laughed.

Georgia and Godwin hugged and Grunhilda just straight up threw herself at Gilda and kissed her. Had Gilda not become bigger and stronger, Grunhilda would have brought her to the ground. Instead, she held Grunhilda and they spun together. Gilda fitted her beak with Grunhilda’s before they toppled each other to the ground, anyway. Although Gilda didn’t know where they would have stopped were they not in the middle of all those griffons.

“Wow. Uh.” Gertha, chuckled and rubbed the raised feathers behind her neck, surrounded with all that excitement of crying, wailing, and laughing griffons around them. “I mean, uh-huh. Yeah…”

“I think we chose our side a long time ago, Miss Gertha.” One of the tan soldiers called Gunner kept his voice low. Why was he so sneaky? Why was she so insecure? Couldn’t Gertha feel it too?

“True that.” Gertha nodded, while Grunhilda and Gilda stood. The latter smiled and bumped her hind with Gertha’s, smiling.

“Ah, you guys are feeling overwhelmed. I had it worse in the beginning. It’s gonna be alright.” Gilda winked. “Hey! I can’t wait to see you in action at the meeting since you really wanted to go! Gotta enjoy those gifts, right?”

Geez! It was like she was drunk! What a thing to say! No regrets, though. Gilda was just too giddy for regrets.

“It is time, then, to confirm that choice, Miss Gertha. Mister Gunner.” Lady Geena had approached them. It almost made Gilda laugh, the way the others distanced themselves. Except for herself, Gertha, Grunhilda and Gunner. “You have heard Her, and She has offered you your birthright. Will you accept, mercenary? And you, ex-soldier. Will you return to the Allmother’s hearth?”

Geena stood there, tall as she was, her blue cape dancing in the breeze, staring at Gertha’s red eyes. Gjarma was right next, waiting and holding a marble bowl filled with a goop of ash and animal grease. Geena’s blood-stained feathers and fur gave her a wild, unrestrained look. The smell, and the images returning made Gilda stop and reign in her thoughts before she started thinking of things better thought about Grunhilda.

“Will you commend your soul to the Allmother?” Geena still stared at her, speaking with utmost reverence. Gertha’s feet shuffled and her wings fluttered. “Will you reject the gold and the soft voice of the Matriarch of the Sun for our Mother’s storms?”

“I will…” Gertha whispered. And she coughed, with an anxious grin. “I’m not sure what to do, though. I never did this sort of thing before.”

“Be sincere and dutiful.” Geena dipped a talon on the ash and grease, then raised her paw over Gertha’s forehead. The mercenary lowered her head and remained stoic while Geena drew two slashes of gray ash into the feathers on her forehead. Like a pair of wings. “Accept Her Gifts. Her Children, once back to Her domain, find it easy. And worry not. Griffindell was not built in a night. It’s the result that matters.”

Whatever was that conversation about? Gilda frowned for an instant of confusion. Then Geena turned to her. It was not something Gilda was used to, much less did without violating herself, but she lowered her head too and closed her eyes. The Loremaster drew the pair of wings on her forehead too, and Gilda felt nothing special. No fervent ember in her chest, nor burning where Geena’s talons marked her. Gilda had already chosen her side. Although… The ceremony was a symbol. The real deal. Then she felt it. She put her paw on her chest while Geena marked Grunhilda’s forehead and smiled at her. It was another step. Another landmark in her journey back home.

The Harpy didn’t appear to her. Didn’t speak to her. Gilda supposed she was busy doing whatever she must. It was not like Gilda understood magic, much less of the kind which happened there. It was something she had never seen the unicorns do. There must be some special name for that kind of magic, but Gilda didn’t know. All she knew was that something stirred in her chest again. That she had a lot of happy, excited energy and the Meeting would be perfect now. Anything else could wait at the back of her mind until she was done.

There. The third part of the chapter.
My notes on it said simply 'The Gathering Storm. Festival and ceremony'.
It grew much bigger than the original idea, but I like the way it turned out. The whole part about the feast was going to be a new mentions of Gilda's thoughts about it, but I didn't like and decided it was worth fleshing the whole thing. It would have been even bigger, with Gilda messing up at the shooting range and would include Captain Gevorg teaching her (all memey, with the holding her from behind thing and Godwin seething from afar) and also Georgia trying the flyting competition. But those things I decided to leave for the following chapters, as the caravan travels to Brokenhorn and then, finally, Griffindell.

My editor said the ceremony, with The Harpy's speech ended up being a lore-dump, and I don't disagree, much less blame anyone that thinks that. I apologize. The intention was to show the ceremony that gives griffons that final tug to join The Lion. I felt that having her do the full speech, especially with the parts griffons have turned into prayers and songs came out more legitimate. Even more given the final results under Gilda's point of view and in Gertha and Gunner's reactions, and in the final 'crossing the Ts and dotting the Is' with Geena ending the ceremony marking griffons with the ash and grease.

I just couldn't go 'And then The Harpy appeared and told them all those things Gilda already knew.'

In conclusion, I hope you liked it, and if nothing goes wrong, next chapter should be up in around 14 days because Piece of Parchment is next.