Déjà vu. Two bodies brushed against Gilda while lying on her almost cloud-standard bed. Above the aroma of the last embers of burning oak, the smells of sex hanging in the air assaulted her nostrils. The soreness reminded her of their antics last night. A mischievous grin made it to her beak while she was still waking—she hadn’t had nearly as much sex her entire life as the past two nights.

She groaned softly, languidly, stretching her limbs and her neck with a luxurious moan. Her head raised lazily from the pillow, and a paw supported her to look over Gevorg’s shoulder while Grunhilda’s strong forelimbs held her. The weak, trembling light came from the candelabra and from the fireplace. The thin window on the stone wall showed only darkness outside. With the softest of moans, her head plopped back to the pillow and her paws reached for her captain’s chest. Fingers brushing over his plumage.

Grunhilda stirred behind her, holding her tighter. Her affection made Gilda smile, and speaking softly, letting her talons dig in between Gevorg’s feathers, she said, “We should get up. We got a job to do. It’s important.”

The charcoal and silvery griffon laying in front of her shifted on his back lazily before finally looking at her. Gilda lost herself in his purple eyes for a while and propped her weight on his chest. With no hesitation, she closed her eyes and clicked her beak against his before a slow and gentle lick on his cheek. In the next second, their beaks fit together and their tongues, tangy but ravenous, carried the vibrating moans of desiring lovers.

Seeking her attention, jealous as always, Grunhilda held Gilda’s shoulder and pecked at her nape. Chuckling, Gilda dropped herself back onto the bed and pulled Grunhilda over to her. A paw behind her neck, she pulled Big Girl’s head into a similarly passionate kiss, running her fingers over Grunhilda’s back, but stopping short of her rump.

The white griffoness mumbled once their beaks parted, and Gilda let her lift herself from her. Guilty blue eyes looked at her while her cute ear-like crests of fluffy white feathers flattened. “We were supposed to have rested…”

Gilda and their male friend laughed. Left with a confused frown, Grunhilda gave the former space to stand. Hopping off the bed, Gilda stretched her wings and popped her neck. “Come on. We’re supposed to leave before sunrise.”

Gunhilda hopped off the bed too. Flared wings, showing a huge grin, and doing her excited tap dance like a cub off to summer camp. “We got a mission!”

While Gilda would rather kill monsters,—the Windigos’ brand, particularly—bad griffons would do, too. It was a means to an end, as well as a part of both being young northerner ladies. Big birds had their place and the little birds had theirs. And also, the male birds, they had their place too. After kicking Gevorg out of their bedroom, she and Grunhilda worked on making themselves presentable.

For Gilda, that meant donning her cape, her magical jewelry, and the red scarf before making sure Mythical was with her. Some preening too, because the chosen of the Harpy had to look the part. Grunhilda donned her armor quickly, proving Gertha’s lessons served her well. She armed herself with her spear, the shield, her father’s hammer, and her mom’s Astrani Thunderbow. With her size and fancy gear, one could almost forget that Grunhilda had next to zero training.

Gilda ought to trust Mother Harpy and herself; it was what Grunhilda was doing. Even without Gilda’s supernatural ability to recall memories. Gilda grimaced at the sight of Grunhilda fangirling over her own image in the mirror. But another luxury she lacked was space for doubts.

It would be fine. Grunhilda would be fine. She was a northerner lady, supposed to fight and stuff. Everyone did that and they had to start somewhere. Grunhilda could do much worse. Besides, Big Girl, being so strong, was more likely to help Gilda.

It was pointless to stress over any of that. Gilda donned her confidence, throwing a leg of her scarf over her neck, and let Grunhilda open the door for her. Despite the early hour, the servantry offered a quick breakfast at the twin tables in the main hall. The hearth already held a tall fire and offered a comforting warmth along with roasted meat. The smell of roasting chicken brought water to Gilda’s mouth, but she felt like she was late already. Everyone was already there.

Gilda walked past and greeted the two Gunner guys. Both soldiers of fortune busied themselves checking their backpacks, and already wore their mail and plate armor. Their rifles, nothing fancy other than being expensive northerner weapons, rested nearby against the planks of the wall. They took the time to return Gilda’s greeting, and next to them, Gertha and her brother did the same.

Closer to the fire, Georgia glared and fumed at Glóra. The northerner lady mumbled and fiddled with the fastenings on her brother’s armor. The other two ladies that had shared the Meeting with Godwin were there too. Griska and Gloriann just sat there, watching. Maybe they wanted to wish Godwin good luck. Whatever was going on, Gilda decided Godwin didn’t need another hen getting involved. Little Giza was probably still in her bed.

Gia and Gil met Gilda together. The former wore her Loremaster cape and a brigandine in shades of blue. Her tomfriend and thrall sat next to her in full battle gear, like the Gunner duo. An impressive chain mail, complete with a beak-protecting helmet, an ax and a shield with Gia’s profile painted on it. Ignoring Gilda’s raised eyebrow, she yawned with a greeting. Gil had a mask of sleepiness on her face and yawned even wider but smiled at Gilda. She said everyone had at least a decent meal ready to eat for their trip. Being the quartermaster and daughter of her caravan master, Gilda trusted Gil intrinsically. Especially when she also said she had packed extra supplies and medicinal stuff for whatever they found at their destination. Gia said nothing, but never corrected Gil either.

Several griffons Gilda didn’t know had also gathered there. Most clad in Frozenlake’s city guard hardened leather armor, sitting by a pile of backpacks and supplies waiting to be picked up. Others had their own more eclectic sets of armor. A collection of griffons interested in getting stuff done. Seeking glory. Seeking revenge. Who cares? To each their own reasons, as Gilda had her own. She greeted them, too.

Her caravan’s guest blue thestral was there for reasons Gilda ignored. The archeologist, or whatever he did for a living, wasn’t. Sitting alone, Moonbow had an apprehensive frown above her cyan eyes and the pursed lips of things to say. Gilda simply nodded at her. As annoying as the pony could be, it warmed Gilda’s heart that she truly worried for her.

“There is something about this situation that feels… Wrong.” She finally said, and Gilda nodded she had understood, but kept walking.

Before she knew it, Gilda was at the center of the hall, in the middle of all those griffons. Even with all eyes upon her again, it was easier than the first time. The only problem was that she just had very little idea of what to tell them. She coughed into her fist. The northerners liked honesty, and she supposed she was good at that. Determined, and so that all could see her, she climbed the steps to sit before the chair.

Wrapping her tail around and kicking herself over sitting in front of the damn thing, and not on it, she spoke plainly. “Thank you all for coming.”

“Lady Geena asked me to look into what is going on at Feathertip. For those of you that don’t know, it was supposed to be a farming town, but they started raiding nearby hamlets and it got pretty bad. She spoke of the usual things that villainous scum do to helpless creatures, things you can imagine. What I expect is going there, killing some bad griffons, and helping however we can.”

“And that really is it.” Gilda shrugged. “Now you know about as much as I do, but does anyone have any questions?”

“What about loot?” A yellow paw raised among Frozenlake’s guards.

Gilda’s beak twisted. She had no idea, and the notion had not even passed through her thoughts. But she supposed it was a reasonable question. Fortunately, Gevorg came to her rescue.

“There is nothing out of the ordinary.” The captain spoke with all his trained confidence, walking in front of the steps. “Let’s just be reasonable. You can take from the raiders, but not from the decent inhabitants of the town. It’s just… we don’t really know what is going on. You get first claim, but any surplus goes to Lord Graham and Lady Geena. They’ll probably leave it with Feathertip or trade it, anyway. Feathertip is likely going to need help. Don’t go expecting much of a fortune. This is not a raid on a ruin.”

Gilda raised an eyebrow and her paw holding her beak hid a smile. That was an idea for later. They were sure to stumble upon some ruins like the roc’s nest the further north they went, but that was for later. There were no further questions.

With Gertha’s help, definitely Gilda’s second-in-command, and Captain Gevorg’s too, she got everyone moving. They carried their own stuff, except for Grunhilda. She carried her own and Gilda’s share of the supplies like it was nothing, and that was on top of her armor and weapons.

The company of thirty-or-so griffons spoke in respectful tones, waiting while Gilda led them out of the Manor. The majordomo and the headmistress flanked the doors with a professional air about them. It was awkward at first, but Gilda had become good at pretending she knew what she was doing. Outside, dozens more had gathered despite the biting cold and they stood to follow.

Lady Geena watched them cross the yard from the top of the keep. The torches on the battlements illuminated her, but her expression was unreadable. Blank. The little feathery crests fluttered in the wind like the high neck of her cloak. Gilda simply kept walking with crunchy steps on the snow. Through the gatehouse and then into the wide street, still covered by frozen mud and snow. Dark windows spoke of still sleeping griffons. The few sitting outside, Gilda supposed, had friends or relatives following her.

Outside of the keep’s walls the wind rushed even colder past Gilda, and still griffons had gathered. They gave her party a restrained and silent farewell. Young queens and a couple of cubs, more asleep than awake in parent’s forelimbs. Fathers, mothers, lovers, brothers, sisters. The entire spectrum. The on-duty city’s guards joined further down the street, giving their send off to their colleagues.

Even the blacksmith siblings had attended. Groffi hid under a mountain of furry pelts, and her brother kept his cape closed around him. The female sibling emerged and waved her charcoal paw enthusiastically when they approached. Almost jumping out of her blanket carapace, shouting her wishes of good luck to Godwin. Maybe she thought he looked nice, or just liked him. Godwin seemed to attract the goodwill of griffons wherever he went. Gilda, too, had fallen for his charms, after all.

Some followed them to the city’s limits, easily identifiable by the faux stone gate. A small parade that stopped for a last farewell. Beyond the stone arch was only looming darkness, cold wind, and unending snow.

With only the essentials, they could travel fast. After a few purposeful steps, Gilda leaped and flapped her wings to fly, and the others followed. At the front, nobody saw the self-important grin she gave herself. Even if the sooner they were done, the sooner they could be back, and she could leave for Brokenhorn, she was playing the northerner noble lady. Just because it was required of her, it never meant she couldn’t enjoy her place in the political machinations and adventuring. It was all part of her journey, after all.

Nightly clouds hid the stars, and the dark obscured the soft white mounds of the open snowfield approach to Frozenlake. It seemed the fishergriffons woke up early, and the lights over the ice provided enough of a reference. Flying instincts took over, and it quickly became a pleasant exercise. The liberating feeling of flying clashed with the apprehensive anticipation. They would soon engage to death with evil griffons. Every part of Gilda’s mind, from the memories of the past to the scared little griffon inside her head that just wanted to survive, warned her to be careful. The things Geena told her about what those griffons had done… Those were the things evil creatures did.

Sunrise soon came and banished away the ominous shades as best as it could through the ever-present revolving storm clouds. The dreary night turned into an anxious morning. It shifted into an eventless morning. It breezed past them, dotted with sightings of the occasional hut or house. Isolated griffons that cared little about whatever a group of busy griffons meant to do. A ruin, here or there, probably filled with draugar. An opportunity for some scavenging later those were. Sometimes a small forest dotted the terrain. It barely changed, and few animals allowed a glimpse before scampering away. Deer, rabbits, birds.

The cold remained and did little to Gilda, but the dreary passing of time bothered her more. Her thoughts roamed freely, and a familiar ember burned in her chest with them. Geena had said she asked the Harpy to deal with the problem, and Mother Harpy responded by setting Gilda’s trip so that she would be the one to deal with it. Those were griffons hurting the Ditty Harpyi. The Children of the Harpy. Aya Harpyia had passed her judgment, and Gilda was going to deliver it. Before she knew it, Gilda couldn’t wait to arrive. And those evil monsters better be prepared to suffer her wrath.

The ever-present storm clouds made judging the sun’s height difficult, but her stomach complained. Her wings soon felt heavy against the wind and reminded her she still needed training. Flying over a white stream amid the rocks and dark soil, Gilda looked back at Gertha. She pointed at the stream and prompted the pink griffoness to nod. Finally, Gilda banked to the left, letting go of her altitude for speed and the others followed. Flaring her wings brought her to land on the pebbles and yellow moss nestled in the loose black soil. Cold and wet, refreshing after a morning of hurried flight.

The griffons landed in the immediate area, stretching wings and folding them. Different degrees of yawning and relieved groans followed. The smells of wet soil and the running water were wholly pleasant and so was the chilly air as a breeze rather than wind flowing past them. Gertha with her brother, and Gevorg and Godwin trotted closer to Gilda, while the others simply paid attention.

“We’ll stay here for some food and rest.” The tan griffoness told the pink one as much as she told the others.

“Refill canteens and grab a bite.” Gertha yelled. “We fly again in a jiffy!”

Griffons nodded and minded their lunches, chatting among themselves or taking care of their necessities. It was a good thing Gertha mentioned canteens, because Gilda was parched. Soon, she shared a meal with Grunhilda and their closest friends. Gevorg, Gertha and her brother, the two Gunner Guys, and Godwin, too, all sat together with Gilda. Gia and Geary too, but while the others talked in reserved tones, their loremaster pretended not to like anyone.

Someone had packed a lot of chicken sandwiches, and the consensus was that they were exquisite. It had Gil’s special touch, for sure. But the conversation was dull and spiceless in contrast to their food. Gilda understood that the fact they were going to fight soon weighed on everyone’s heads as it did on hers. Before long, Gevorg and Gertha started talking to each other over a map and agreed on something before including Gilda.

“We’re right on path,” the Captain said, smiling at her while Gertha dug another sandwich out of her backpack. He pointed at the horizon, guiding Gilda’s eyes to a small hill crowned by a dead tree, and poked the map with a talon. “We gotta go left by it. We’ll find a wide river after a while. Follow it until some ruins and then we go due west again until we see the Triplets.”

“How was our speed?” Gilda asked after swallowing another chunk of her food.

“It was good.” He sat next to her, reaching into his backpack for more food, then he raised his head from the leather and pelt thing. “I mean… We have to time our arrival with sun fall. I rather we entered the woods under the dark. Then we navigate our way through and attack already. The more we wait there, the more we risk an ambush and attacking them at night, or right before dawn would be great. But we must be mindful of traps or patrols.”

“I just realized I don’t really know what I’m doing.” She sighed and rubbed her head.

“Eh… Most nobles don’t.” Gevorg calmly folded the map and tore a piece of his new chicken sandwich. After swallowing, he noticed her smoldering stare and frowned. “What?”

“Just keep me from killing everyone and you can sleep with me and Grunhilda again.” She muttered and glowered at him.

Confused, he tilted his head with a perplexed frown. “What? What did I do?”

Gilda didn’t answer. She simply turned her back to him and minded her food.

Soon after, they were ready to depart again. Only a quarter of an hour passed, and the entire company had finished. Gilda yelled at the others to get back in the air and took off. Instants later, they were cruising over the modest vegetation and dark soil again. A bank to the left, after passing the small hill with the dead tree, and they picked up the pace again.

The hours had merged into an unexciting morning, and then it turned into a whole day of apathy. More drab terrain zoomed beneath her. Mounds covered in snow, rocky outcrops wide river, ruins, and a pair of mountains ahead. Nothing worthwhile presented itself, and the thing which kept Gilda going was that she had a mission to fulfill. The afternoon breezed past them and was it not for the slightly hillier terrain and full stomach, Gilda would wonder if the morning had indeed ended.

The highlight of their journey was eating a sandwich, but Gilda’s imagination went wild with ancient memories. What did that dull scenery look like before the Windigos were done with it? Timid forests spoke of lush greens filled with prey without the eternal winter. Crystal streams, maybe even a river, full of life. What about the rocks? Could the Windigos have brought them up, marring an otherwise bountiful, harmless scenery?

You might yet live to see it restored, Gilda.

Mother’s voice wouldn’t even surprise her anymore. The flying griffoness chuckled to herself before whispering back. “You called me by my name instead of ‘child’.”

I did. Well, good for you. You will find that closeness to me is in your interest.

Cryptic much? Gilda raised an eyebrow, but before she could say anything, Gevorg broke formation and flew closer to her.

“We’re getting there.” He shouted above the wind.

Gilda blinked; her eyes followed his finger, and a curtain unveiled. The pair of mountains she had been seeing off in the distance were precisely the mountains she ought to be looking for; the perspective hid the third mountain. She might as well have flown past their destination. The good news was that the clouds indeed veiled the peaks, and it didn’t appear that lookouts could sit on the steep mountain face. She could see the forest that was supposed to hide their incursion into the valley. A dense pack of conifers, but it would take them some flying around south to come at it from the right direction and under the cover of the nearby hills.

She groaned and shook her head before talking to him. Stopping and hovering in the air, so she didn’t need to shout. She also touched her forehead with a pained frown. “I promise I’m gonna get better at this.”

He either didn’t catch her jocose manner or chose to keep a serious, no-nonsense tone in his reply. “We should fly lower and approach from the south side. Walk into the woodland from those hills. They’ll cover our approach, because Gavingkal certainly has sentries in the forest. I’d even send someone reliable to skulk around and find them before we ingress. Maybe even put them down because I don’t want to take chances with whatever is going on here.”

“Got it.” Gilda said, swallowed her pride and sense of humor, donning a proper, serious expression. “I’ll get Gertha on it.”

Gevorg shook his head. “You want Gertha with you and the others. I’ll send one of my cats that has done this before. We should slow our pace, approach carefully, and give her time to do her job.”

Gilda nodded her consent, and he signaled to one particular griffoness at the front of the hovering griffons. An older griffoness, wearing a reindeer adorned set of leather armor and carrying none of the stereotypical shield and ax or spear on her back. In fact, she seemed disarmed. Pristine white, barely touched by the silver of aging, despite the hard gray eyes of a killer. Once Gevorg relayed to her ‘Gilda’s orders’, she left with no spectacle.

The details of their approach dealt with, Gilda resumed their flight with a gradual gliding descent, but never landed. She kept their swift flight a few cubits above the snow. Traversal became dangerous and thus slower. The company broke formation and flew around outstanding rocks and trees, but she remained convinced it was better like that. The image of a sentry watching them fly by wouldn’t leave her alone. Details jumped at her while her eyes scrutinized every blade of grass and leaf. Like the Hunter had awakened inside of her. A white rabbit dashed across the riverside pebbles. The tan blur of a herd of deer hid inside a paltry group of yellow trees, fearful of the predators. A hawk watched them from the branches of a dead, twisted tree, alone and with an air of respect. No griffons to be seen, and still the feeling of being watched refused to leave her in peace.

The fleeting hours, dashing with the terrain, turned to slogging minutes. The running water and flapping wings replaced the shrilling wind. At the back of her mind the Hunter worried someone might hear them, but she silenced its voice. All she heard was the clinking metal, flying armored griffons following her, no cries or horns.

Gliding around the soft hills, Gilda finally saw the forest creeping out of the valley again. A small, condensed army of conifers spilling out to take over the field under the mountains. Unfortunately, they did a poor job. An infuriatingly plain field of black, shades of green, and white stood before her.

She landed by the protruding rocks, watching the tree line and the open field. Two-hundred cubits of partially melted snow, black soil, and sturdy low vegetation, hardly any cover at all. Gevorg said nothing, but came closer to her. Gilda trusted their scout and quieted down. The wet, cold grass was less aggravating than she expected, and moist smells filled the damp air. Nothing sounded any bells inside her head, but she never truly put herself at ease.

She prowled forward, seeking a better view, slow as a cat, watchful like an eagle. Lowered body over the grass and dirt, the cold on her belly helped, but not by much. Her eyes scoured the edges of the open field and the tree line. Behind her, the others did the same, but remained hidden. Every instinct in her head told her it was too big a group. Someone would see them, especially from the air. Again, she quieted those thoughts; her griffons were so silent she could hear her heart beating. It could not be helped that they were a large group.

Their wait lasted not too long, Gilda supposed. It felt like an eternity, though, until the grass-reeking alicorn princesses fancied changing the day for the night. The transition was soft, but swift, and barely with any fanfare other than a dramatic shift in lighting. The storm clouds hid the stars and the moon, anyway. Gilda wasted no more time, pouncing into a gallop that the others followed.

Gilda’s company finally reached the trees after an agonizingly long rush, albeit no less quiet and careful than before. The notion that the stupid Alicorn of the Night could have afforded to start the night a touch earlier poked her mood from between thoughts. The situation was more important, and she noted her new surroundings as her griffons settled under the cover of trees.

Conifers filled the air with their citrusy scent, but a tangy smell hung like an afterthought. Heavy snow had fallen to the ground, and the trees whispered amongst themselves while Gilda approached the scout. She was there, sitting by a small fire, waiting for them. Gevorg, Grunhilda, Gertha and Godwin followed her while the others took the occasion to rest for a bit. Silence reigned, softly disturbed by clinking metal here or there.

“They were expecting us.” The older griffoness spoke softly, barely a whisper above the rustling of the leaves while dumping snow on the fire. “I killed a small squad of strange ferals. They didn’t seem entirely gone… deranged, but not mindless. I don’t know how to explain. I better show you something.”

The scout drew a leather-bound bundle from under her wing. Telling them to be careful, she revealed a dried and burnt femur of a deer with the animal’s teeth added to it. Dry sinew and leather made for a handle and secured the severed jaw to the grizzly weapon. But the worst was the frosted ‘quality’ it had. Like they had kept it under the snow for too long. Like it had become impregnated with a magical frost much like the land itself.

It shimmered to Gilda’s eyes with a cold light. When she noticed, she had approached Gevorg and frowned. Brushing her body against his even through his armor warmed her.

“Well, that is something.” Gilda kept her voice low. The aggravating smell from the unsightly weapon didn’t wash away like the cold. “Ferals are like… An urban myth. Right?”

She rolled her eyes at her own words. Nothing should surprise her anymore.

“There are stories of griffons that became wild.” Gevorg said. “Distant from the others, they forgot what it is like to love and to talk. They lost the capacity to think and became like animals.”

“Miss Gilda, this is creeping me out!” Grunhilda frowned with an alarmed mewl.

On cue, the scout showed the damage the weapon had done to her cured leather. A bloody tear on the properly tanned, cut, and reinforced leather would be reasonable. Beneath it, Gilda expected to see at the worst case, a bloody gash in need of some cleaning and suturing.

When she removed the improvised dressing from her leg, an overwhelming stench of putrefaction hit Gilda like a punch. The wound beneath seeped blood from the deep of the gash. Her feathers fell and left behind discolored flesh. Where it should be red and moist, the wound carried a sickly collection of terrible greens, blacks, and yellows. It smelled of griffon blood but with an overwhelming stink of rotten meat. The damaged leather had a paw’s worth of material missing and what remained was dark and flaky, slowly undoing itself like the frost carried rot with it.

“It worsened quicker than I imagined.” The griffoness said with a frown.

“I would’ve thought this is some psychological warfare bullshit.” Godwin told Gilda, keeping his composure, but his eyes remained on the wound.

“Let Gia have a look at your wound. And lose the armor. I don’t like this. I’ll get you another set.” Gilda told the scout, shaking her head. The stench remained, and almost brought her lunch out of her.

The scout nodded in silent agreement and Grunhilda helped her remove the vest, careful not to touch the affected area. Gilda watched, making sure Grunhilda didn’t get herself hurt with that thing. Suddenly Godwin yelped and Gilda jumped with every hair in her body standing, heart pounding and wide eyes.

She turned in time to see the young tom desperately rubbing his paw on the snow with the ghastly club before him. Her brow twisted into a scowl and her voice raised more than she wanted.

“Why do you think she was holding it with something, Darkwing Cluck?!” She scolded him like an angry mother, berating her stupid cub for doing stupid things.

Despite Godwin’s childish mewl, she held his paw and examined it. Not seeing any outward signs or magical evidence that he had been hurt, she let him go but her eyes told him he better not do anything stupid like that again.

With the drama resolved, Gevorg picked up the weapon, holding it with the piece of leather. Even the leather slowly deteriorated where it touched the object’s bony shaft. Gilda reached, and after a quizzical look at the weapon, Gevorg gave it to her.

“Be careful, Miss Gilda.” Godwin urged.

The bone hissed when her fingers closed around it. It burned, but not like the Harpy’s magic, sizzling and barely contained as light, heat, and hair-raising anticipation. Instead of living magic, it was an icicle, frigid as the very idea of cold made into freezing magic and stuffed into the bone. And yet, it didn’t hurt her; something inside Gilda fought back. The walls of a city that resisted assault time and again, allowing her to hold the weapon with impunity, raising it to better see the details.

Gevorg and Godwin took a careful step away as Gilda frowned at the weapon. The others watched from further back, like they were peeking at their lord dealing with stately matters too complicated for them. Gilda shoved the distractions away from her mind.

The shoddy weapon pulsated with a cold emanation, and the odor which Gilda could only register as ‘cold rot’ grew stronger, but it never bothered her. It was a worm, wiggling, helpless to harm her and trying futilely to escape. Gilda’s mind’s eye filled with visions of a frozen city by a lake, but not like Frozenlake. Larger, colder. Dead. No fishing huts raised from the ice and a layer of frost rested over streets, houses, and abandoned, destroyed carts and pottery. Dilapidated husks of boats had frozen into the ice. No griffons worked or walked among the frozen stone houses. A white mist clouded all in the still air and filled her with a melancholy like when her little house crumbled before her eyes.

Frowning and frustrated she didn’t understand what it all meant, Gilda put down the weapon. “I’m not sure what it is, but there is some bleak shit going on here.”

“Well, that is why we are here.” Gevorg told her grimly, but confidently enough. “Let’s sort this stuff out. We want to reach Feathertip and attack before dawn.”

“I have a better idea.” The darkness past the trees spoke to them in the voice of a male High Griffonese-speaking griffon.

The entire company jumped. They stood on guard, weapons drawn, but they had already surrounded Gilda’s griffons. Shapes moved in the shade among the trees, with the creaking of bows being pulled. Gilda never had the time to count properly, but more griffons than she would have liked appeared out of the woodwork. Enough to surround her company. Who knew how many more would be in the dark?

“Nobody move!” Gevorg barked before anyone did anything hasty. Including Gilda, because she was ready to draw her sword and split open the closest... What was wrong with those griffons?

They mostly wore cheap leather for armor, but it didn’t look like any Gilda had seen used for armor, even in Griffonstone and its local militia. The hardening process seemed to have gone wrong and left folds and a patchy finish. Reddish-yellow leaves and bones tied together made up pieces of armor. Elk antlers, animal pelts and feathers served as adornments. In all of it, an unsophisticated craft and dirty pelts replaced the careful dedication of the northerners with their attire. More like hoodlums than griffons living off the land. Only a couple had actual armor or weapons made of steel but even to Gilda’s barely trained eyes, those seemed poorly maintained.

Inside Gilda’s head, her company could deal with the ambush. The quality of her fighters was much more inspiring, but she supposed Gevorg knew what he was doing. Probably thinking about hostages back at Feathertip. But neither that nor their garments bothered her. If she didn’t know better, Gilda might have disregarded them as not worthy of the worry, but out of the dark also came muskets and crossbows. Even poorly maintained, those worried her.

Yet that was still not what raised Gilda’s feathers and made her skin crawl. Their eyes were yellow and sickly. Pale, unfocused, unlike the usually vivid griffon eyes. One of them had a white eye with a festering wound beneath it. No Loremaster would ever allow a griffon to get to that point. No normal griffon would allow themselves to get like that.

It was their leader that unsettled Gilda. Not because he seemed deranged, with the wrong garments, or filthy like a motherless stray. In the north’s dark night, lit by the torches brought by the strange griffons, Gilda thought Lady Geena had betrayed them. The griffon was built like a beast, even larger than Gertha’s brother. Covered in the same snowy fur and feathers as Grunhilda and Geena and also sharing their big, expressive blue eyes. He looked at Gilda with a cocky grin and barely contained anger. His feathers flared with his telling little crests of ear-like feathers, just like Grunhilda and her aunt.

First and foremost, Gilda realized she was exhausted from the bullshit. She frowned and sighed.

“I don’t pretend to be smart like Shirelock Holmes, but I’m willing to hazard a guess you are Goving,” she said dryly.

“I am truly sorry, Miss Gilda, but I don’t have your background of cultural references. Growing up here in the frozen end of the world and groveling before the almighty Mother of Storms has a tendency of sucking the fun out of life. Especially when you are born a failure. A broken little cub.”

Gilda spent the overly dramatic pause he provided echoing his words inside her head. Before she could reach any useful conclusion other than that they had dragged her into a family drama, the griffon approached Grunhilda. He touched her face, soft like her feathers on his touch. Her typical frown of confusion would have made Gilda smile and chuckle if the situation was not so daunting.

Flanking him came the strangest of those griffons. Unlike the filthy ones who surrounded Gilda’s company, he was more a monster than a griffon. Gilda took a step back, grimacing at the creature that followed Goving like a bodyguard and carried the cold of a night without shelter in his wake.

Foremost, Goving’s bodyguard reminded Gilda of a draugr. He radiated cold, a bizarre living statue who had once been a griffon and had been frozen, only to be brought back to a monstrous unlife. White orbs filled with an impenetrable fog replaced his eyes. Bony fingers ended in talons with no shine. His fur and feathers had no sheen or fluff. Not even the frost holding on to him sparkled, grimy as it was. His desiccated flesh seemed more alive than that of any draugr Gilda had seen, but not by much. Even the filthy strays that had surrounded her company seemed healthier by comparison. He was breathing, but never puffed out of his nares with the same white mist Gilda’s breath produced. Something horribly messed up happened to that griffon, and the biggest sign was the icy spikes growing out of his skull, neck, and shoulders. Along his feathers, like they were part of him, quivering like the feathers did. If there was a name for whatever made that monstrosity, it was Necromancy.

Gilda’s eyes locked on the icy spikes, and something squirmed inside. She almost jumped back. A disgusting flat worm, long like a party streamer, coiled inside it. She shared a distressed stare with Grunhilda and saw her thrall had seen it too. That it aggravated her just as much. But the white griffon that looked like he could be Grunhilda’s brother spoke again. He had none of that, but his posture was no less threatening with that thing by his side.

He held Grunhilda’s jaw so she would stare at him. Their white beaks almost touched, while Grunhilda was so shocked she didn’t even pull away. “They never told you that you had a cousin, did they? Not the griffons in the south. I doubt they knew or cared.”

“Alright, dude.” Gilda frowned and spoke calmly, still eyeing his ‘ice-infested’ bodyguard. “You got us. Now what?”

“Now you and Grunhilda will be coming with me to Feathertip. Your friends are going to die!”

"Cool story, bro." Guille said. Still speaking like a hooflicker. Next to him, his sister also had a contemptuous stare. Godwin stood on his four legs and showed a grim scowl of his own. The wine-colored griffon challenged the nearest stray with his eyes. “You’re not going anywhere with Miss Gilda, nor Grunhilda, and we’re taking you and these guys down.”

Gilda did note his loyalty, though.

At his words, the entire company tensed again. Griffons readied for a fight, all of them agreeing with Guille: nobody was taking Gilda or Grunhilda from them. Godwin reached for his fancy firearm, as did the two Gunner guys. Eyes shifted one way and another; griffons sized up their opponents. The filthy griffons hiding behind trees and on top of rocks backed down not even a step. The surrounding griffons grinned with their grimy and chipped beaks, holding their weapons with purpose, itching for bloodshed.

“Let’s not do anything stupid.” The white griffon made a calming gesture with a mocking grin. “Let’s not forget there are innocent, Allmother-fearing griffons at Feathertip and it would be a disaster if anything bad was to happen to them.”

He raised a couple of chuckles from his band while others seemed unamused when he concluded. His blue eyes gleamed with spite and an arrogant stare down his beak at Gilda.

Gilda's company was still better equipped and filled with actual warriors; they had the advantage, despite being surrounded. Yet the little loremaster inside Gilda’s head told her to thread carefully. To take command and use the situation to her advantage. She saw Grunhilda in that young tom, so she made use of it.

It was the tone, more than the words, that almost made Gilda grin. He talked like one of the angry, dumb pegasi that used to bully her in Cloudsdale. Like he had issues at home and needed some poor soul to unleash it on. Gilda herself, being one of those twisted, hurt griffons, might have felt too much pity for a griffon that had just threatened her, but she saw much in those words, his tone. In his eyes. Gullible, hiding his fear and awkwardness behind an angry stare and a monstrous bodyguard.

“Don’t be stupid, guys.” She filled her voice with confidence and made calming gestures. “I’ll go with Goving here.”

It was like fighting, except with words in the place of an enchanted blade. And much like she did when she dueled with Mythical, Gilda let those ancient memories guide her. Through all the nasty stuff Loremasters could do, understanding the minds of griffons was the most important thing. To understand, to teach. To manipulate when the Allmother needed them to. As one who had made it all, She had taught her Loremasters just the right intonation, the perfect pitch, the precise words. She had given them the key to open the minds of her children and plant just the exact idea they needed inside their heads. Like running a poor bastard with a magical sword, but cutting through reason. Piercing to the most basic pieces of the griffon mind, which would submit to her authority.

“There is no need for violence.” The little loremaster in her head prodded her onward. Encouraged. Calmly, Gilda controlled her voice. Soft as to not invite alarm. Precise as to allow no ambiguity. Doubtless, as to leave no question of her authority. “Just take us and let my guys go. You don’t need to lose your griffons; you already won. Everyone can see it.”

What had she done? Something like touching the mind of an irrational animal. Not unlike what Geena had taught her with the roc. Instead of a soft and comforting touch, her voice carried the magic. With a soft smile hidden behind Gilda’s stoic façade, the little Loremaster in her head laughed. That little trick filled her with glee every time, like whenever Ghadah danced to an audience of enthralled griffons. Gilda smiled too; she could practically hear the clicking lock and whirring gears inside that poor simpleton’s head.

She was actually growing!

The tom nodded and relaxed. Like she had just told him the most obvious of facts. The others didn’t, but nobody seemed ready to raise their weapons and attack just yet. Gilda kept her stare at Goving, watching his almost naïve grin.

“Come on.” Gilda ordered Grunhilda firmly, with a nod towards the griffon.

One of the filthy griffons with Goving let his jaw drop and nervously patted his paw at an outgrowing root. “Ah, boss… You sure?”

“Yes!” the white griffon snapped like a twig and silenced the murmurs among the others. “I’m sure! Why else do you think Master Gavingkal put me in charge? I’m taking the Swordmaiden and my cousin to the town. Your filthy mug is going to escort these griffons to the hills! It’s not that hard!”

Before anyone thought too much about it, Gilda walked from her friends. Past a couple of growling, filthy griffons still holding their crossbows at the others. Nobody bothered her, but without warning, Goving grabbed Mythical and yanked it from under her white cloak, scabbard, and all. Magic pulled and resisted, as though the weapon refused to leave her, but he overpowered it. The brightness of lightning escaped by the locket, and the acrid smell of burnt flesh filled the air. Goving screamed and dropped the sword to the thick snow on the forest floor, holding his paw and swearing. A dark impression remained on the scabbard, in the shape of a griffon paw, slowly burning away.

Furious, blushing, he tore a piece of rotting leather from one of his filthy minions and wrapped it around the scabbard. Then, holding the weapon again, he showed it to Gilda with a mocking grin. “A piece of rotting leather is more powerful than your precious Allmother.”

“Dude, do you need to talk about something?” She replied nonchalantly. “I mean, I get that you have some mommy issues going on, but...”

Despite her jest, Gilda saw the impregnated magic in the piece of leather. Like the cold had claimed it. Like a festering mold intertwined with the material.

“Shut up! You understand nothing!” Goving yelled. His face contorted into a scowl and tinted with red. Then he shoved his ice-taken monster-griffon toward Grunhilda. “Relieve my cousin of her weapons.”

When the white griffon pointed his finger at Grunhilda, Gilda saw it. A delicate iron chain bracelet. It tinkled and danced for her eyes before Goving pulled back his foreleg. But instead of inquiring about it, Gilda paid attention to his bodyguard moving towards Grunhilda.

It would be a northerner gray griffon were it not for his frosted pelt and plumage, deathly appearance, and icy spikes. The freaky worms inside those still made her squirm. Still, Gilda’s stare directed her griffons not to interfere.

For all his jerkiness and bizarre movements, the monster moved as fast as a normal griffon, reaching for Grunhilda’s thunderbow. He said something Gilda couldn’t understand, half gurgling, half belching and letting a disgusting black foam out of his beak. Big Girl hissed and slapped his paw away. Her wings flared and she tensed to attack him.

“It’s okay, Grunhilda. Trust me, it’s gonna be alright.” Gilda acted quickly and spoke firmly before she did anything or the others intervened. Thank the Harpy, the monstrous griffon never reacted to Grunhilda’s defiance, and everyone trusted her.

The situation defused like a deflating balloon, but the white queen still pouted and mumbled. Her big blue eyes didn’t mesh well with the anger she tried to convey and Gilda ignored that stare. She could forgive Grunhilda for being stubborn in that situation.

Finally, she obeyed, surrendering her mother’s thunderbow and the spear and shield she had looted out of the roc’s nest. Not her father’s hammer, though. It remained on her armor’s belt, but the other weapons satisfied the bizarre monster. Gilda suppressed a ‘clever girl’ smile as the monster walked away.

With Goving satisfied too, the pair followed him right after he gave Mythical to the frost monster-griffon. Nobody crying and no metals clashing with their departure helped ease Gilda’s mind.

Goving’s feathery crests flattened, mimicking the ears of an angry cat as he led the way into the dark. With his back to them, Gilda saw long stripes of unevenness in the feathers and fur covering his back. She kept her beak shut and followed him diligently.

Next Chapter: Battle on the Fields of Sorrow, Pt. II Estimated time remaining: 2 Hours, 3 Minutes