How fast could the Windigos claim a soul? How long before a dead griffon became a draugr? Gilda’s ancient memories offered no answers. Gia even less. Madam Gelinda might know the answer, but she was not there to tell them. Someone mentioned the infested griffons might know, but nobody could extract consistent answers from any surviving ‘Frostbound’. Gilda decided she would rather not know and ordered griffons to stop wasting time before they ended up finding out in a bad way. It was one of those ephemeral situations where all griffons agreed with something.’

Mother Harpy likely knew the answer, but She ignored Gilda when asked. She either didn’t bother or was too busy doing goddess stuff with all the dead griffons they were sending her way. And they had barely started.

“Always something to do.” Gilda sighed.

Her wounds during the fight would have killed a lesser griffon and surviving all that depleted her energies. Like smarter griffons had told her, her bling uses her body’s magic and will drain her of her stamina if it must. All she felt like doing was laying down and sleeping. Bath was optional, even with all the gunk on her.

“Let me take care of this mess.” Gevorg laid a gentle paw on her shoulder.

He fared little better than she did. Clotted blood was the least bad thing he had gotten stuck in his armor and himself, and that was after he had done some wiping. She could see cuts in his face, and a bloody beak, and damaged armor at a cursory glance. Not to mention that he smelled no better than the rest of town, and Gilda suspected she suffered from the same affliction.

“I’ll help!” Grunhilda blurted, raising her paw like a cub at school, but Gevorg shook his head at her.

“I appreciate it, Grunhilda, but this is not a noble griffon’s job.”

Her feathery ‘ears’ flattened, and she groaned an unintelligible response. Grunhilda even looked at Gilda for support, but her master was too tired to partake in additional drama.

“Just be there to wrap things up and give it your official touch of ‘it’s over’. Alright?” he asked Gilda before turning and leaving to join the others, also ignoring Grunhilda’s complaints.

As he walked away, Gilda surveyed the griffons on the main street from the porch. The strip of dirty frozen mud stretched past the main plaza before the longhouse, with its lines of dilapidated buildings. This place made her skin crawl. It was not just the worms and the horror the Windigos had wrought in that town. Everything seemed diseased, hazardous to the mere touch, as though an immaterial sickness could pass through one’s fingers.

The rising pillars of smoke and the gleaming brightness of fire illuminating them made her feel better. Like it consumed the disease, and any unseen remains of the magical parasites. Was that truly the case? She didn’t care. Watching griffons just getting started on the work made her feel better. The only ones not working were the ones entitled not to because of rank or injuries and the lazy ones.

“What do we do with the grassbreaths?” Gia asked, sitting next to Gilda.

Gilda shrunk her shoulders with a frown. “Just burn them too. I ain’t hauling dead ponies who tried to kill me to give them a proper pony burial. I don’t even know what ponies do to their dead.”

Gia shook her head as Gilda understood the actual issue at a second thought. She shrugged with a groan. “Right. The northerners won’t have any of that. Put them in a hole. I just don’t want them around for the Windigos to fuck me up later with undead ponies or some shit! Geez, Gia. You’re supposed to be the smart one! Figure it out!”

With one of her typical tired sighs, the green griffon removed herself from Gilda’s presence and her attention returned to the funeral works. One of them held a particular importance to the griffons, maybe because he had died in such an unfair way. They didn’t even let him defend himself. Gilda’s old memories agreed. It was a grim reminder not to underestimate the ponies.

A funeral was being prepared in the plaza before the longhouse. Griffons brought tinder and fresh logs from the forest, while others cleaned the debris from the area. The statue was gone, and Gilda didn’t even know what they had done to it. Volunteers cut the logs to proper size and shape before laying them on a platform of interlaced timbers. Heat-dried moss and branches filed the gaps. It was already half-completed, and the other half remained a neat pile of logs and branches standing by. A griffon lady was drying the moss in a campfire while others passed the logs along and set them in place or cut them neatly.

Saying the mood was grim would be an understatement. Several griffons had died among Gilda’s party, and all of them got their funeral. Their own funeral pyre, even if theirs were not as impressive. Their friends would not leave them without their rights as Children of the Harpy. The ones who had no friends had volunteers. One thing the northerner griffons would not experiment with was the funeral liturgy. Even enemies got funerals. Like Gavingkal. Just not a very impressive or respectful one.

As such, volunteers also piled up mangled bodies at the end of the main street. It grew to the size of a cart in no time and prompted someone to just light it on fire already. Some younger griffons, mostly the ones that didn’t have the stomach to drag the frozen-rotten bodies, sat around and sang the funeral rites. It was a nasty business, but Gilda’s griffons were taking care of it at her orders, one way or another.

Gilda found herself sitting on the sidelines with a very young and impressionable griffoness with too much energy to shed. Fortunately, the somber tone kept Grunhilda’s nervousness under control and her mind out of ideas on how to use the time and energy. Harpy only knew what was going on in her head with the things Gavingkal had told them. Gilda’s head, though, filled with ominous thoughts. It was the first time she understood what ‘morale’ meant.

They had won. They had captured and could help many of the peasants that Gavingkal’s weird cult turned into monsters. The griffon himself and the loremaster helping him were both Mother Harpy’s problem now. The little burg was still a disgusting, cold, and rotting wreck, but it had a future. Supposing they could clean the villagers, of course, but that should work out fine if the Harpy’s magic could fix them without killing them. It removed the thing from Gilda, after all. Gia, being a Loremaster, would find a way to heal them. With all that said, griffons didn’t look like they had won. Gilda didn’t feel like she had won.

It was a battle that should not have happened. It was a mess at every level. They killed commoners resting in the winter to work the land as soon as the snow and frost receded. Everyday common griffons, betrayed by their lord. No wonder it hurt. It was not a glorious fight to bring an end to the undead abominations in the ruins. Not even the loot was good with the execrable weapons the enemies used. It was a violation of all that the northerner griffons held dear.

“Damned Windigos knew exactly what they were doing,” Gilda murmured to herself, watching the works to build Gunner’s funeral pyre. “And damn ponies, too.”

That disgrace could have grown out of control, but ‘could have’ was a poor substitute for shiny Eagles and ancient magical gear. It didn’t help that Gilda’s griffons remained deeply distrusting of the infested griffons, as though they could turn at any moment. Even worse, the funeral duties plummeted what good spirits their victory had produced, and to top it all off, Gunner was dead.

The hole ‘that guy’ left gaping was more like a sore wound she tried not to think about. He’d been true during the brief time he spent with ‘the gang’, and yet she barely knew him. Did she even have the right to mourn him? Gilda let a sigh escape: she couldn’t let that happen again. Could not just keep them at an arm’s distance and then feel bad because they died and because she didn’t give them attention. It hurt a lot more than she ever imagined. ‘No matter’, she kept trying to tell herself, ‘it was not just about getting to Griffindell anymore’. The caravan and those griffons were not just an addendum. There would be no victory in arriving without her friends.

To think she could have lost Godwin and Gevorg, just like that, made it all worse. And then Grunhilda, and all the others too, because Tempest Shadow would not have let them go. It just got worse the more she thought about it. On the other paw, it almost made Gilda respect the mare, and turned her sadness to anger. She also understood Grunhilda: sitting there, doing nothing, filled her with a dreary sense of uselessness. Until Gia interrupted her brooding again.

She climbed up the stairs with an uncharacteristic fleetness, and a frown that replaced her usual tired expression. Gilda felt tired already, just watching her approach.

“You better come see this.”

“Didn’t I tell you to figure it out?”

“Gilda, please,” Gia’s frown worsened. “Just come. Please.”

“Fine. I’m not doing anything, anyway.”

She followed the green loremaster with Grunhilda in tow. They walked in hurried silence, soon reaching and following the road between the frozen fields where griffons still worked collecting corpses. She followed Gia all the way to the perimeter of the forest. The night still covered the dense foliage, but Gilda knew the trees swayed. The wind picked up speed and chill, and the trees wept.

Pickaxes, used to pick the frozen soil into submission, laid strewn about next to a messy pile of ice and dirt. Half a dozen griffons sat around the hole, holding idle shovels and staring expectantly at Gilda. She approached and craned her neck to look down at the hole. As expected, they had laid the bodies of the ponies to be buried.

“There is a lot less pony in there than there should be,” Gilda said casually before she looked back at Gia.

One of the northerners snorted at her words, but it was not a joke. Her voice had not a shred of humor. Someone had cleaned the carcasses, leaving behind only fleshy bones, discarded viscera, and some carcasses even had missing bones. Horns and manes, for example, were gone. A confusing range of emotions colored Gilda’s thoughts, and they manifested as a blank expression of deadpan, looking down yet again at the remains.

“Really?” Gia produced a novel sound, combining the whine of a nagging bitch—or molly—and the one from a distressed baby. “That is your reaction to this?”

Was she simply too tired and hurting all over too much to care, or was it that memory of the taste of pony meat wetted her tongue? Old and new. The ponies often said, half-jokingly, that chocolate was better than sex. Gilda’s old memories filled her thoughts with the luxurious and debauched banquets fueled by exotic foods and wanton sex of the past, and she decided that not chocolate, but pony meat was a close contender to sex for the first place.

“What do you want me to do? I can’t tell the others to put them back together. Ponies are food, anyway. I’m only gonna be angry if I don’t get a good cut. Heck, I want some prime cut preserved, so I can offer it to Lady Gwendolen when we get to Griffindell.”

The green griffoness opened her beak, making her usual impatient expression when the others just resumed the work, shoveling dirt inside the hole and one of them even said ‘yes ma’am’.

“Are we done here?” Gilda started on her way back to the longhouse. “I’m more worried about Gunner’s funeral. As far as I know, these plotholes may already be in a better place than I am right now. We still got this dumb sidequest to finish before we’re back on track and on our way to Brokenhorn. I am not going to cry over some ponies that wanted to kill me for defending myself. Their friends ambushed me when I was already half-dead. It’s only because of Grunhilda that I’m alive.”

Gilda cast one last glance back at the hole and the working griffons. “It’s not like they’re alive to feel anything, anyway.”

“I thought you used to have a pony marefriend.”

Gilda turned around and held Gia by her leather armor. “And I’ll probably kill her when I see her again. And you… we have got injured to help. We have griffons to cleanse from those fucking nightmarish abominations, and you are our Loremaster.”

“Yeah, the noble griffon thing suits you well, doesn’t it? Giving orders, being all high and mighty…” Gia glared at Gilda, holding her forelimb, but could never make the former let go.

“Less whining, more working!” Gilda shoved Gia to sit on her haunches before starting on her way back to the longhouse.

Grunhilda stood behind Gilda with an unfriendly glare over the other and followed her master, walking off to the sound of working shovels. Sunlight had just started to creep above the treetops, peeking among the higher leaves like a kaleidoscope. Or a headache waiting to happen after a tumultuous and sleepless night. A refreshing sight, Godwin was sitting by the line of houses, waiting for them. Approaching, Gilda smiled at him. Godwin had done alright by her accounts: he was not dead.

“Hey, how are you doing?” she smiled warmly at him, and he responded in kind. The young tom too was tired and dirty, but his face lit up at Gilda’s smile for him, and at Grunhilda’s peppy greeting.

He said he was alright, his tired eyes and distant stare said otherwise, but Gilda knew he would be. As soon as they went back to the routine of traveling and he had his cute young mate again. It would be even better once they arrived at Griffindell and whatever the Harpy’s designs occupied his mind. The same was true to Gilda, so she didn’t blame the likable tom.

Godwin let the pair lead and Gilda had the distinct impression he was skipping his job of burying the dead, but she didn’t blame him and let it go unmentioned. He was noble too, after all. Back in the main street, the pyre was almost ready, but Gertha and a pair of gruff griffons waited for her under the porch of the longhouse. The mercenary glared at Godwin, and when Gilda looked back, he had a sheepish stare on his face. Gilda didn’t have the time to inquire what was going on, though. Gertha had something to drop on her shoulders, so she said.

“What’s up, Gertha?” Gilda greeted her mercenary friend with a tired smile. The other said they had an issue and to that, Gilda said that water was wet.

After a short chortle, the mercenary finally spit it out, gesturing with a paw to the griffon on her left. “This guy handles the others guarding the prisoners. He wants to kill all the infested griffons and give them the funeral rites already.”

“No. Unless they become a problem, we’re keeping them alive and helping them.” Gilda said but let the griffon, a burly guy under a chain mail and a neat helmet that covered his beak make his case to her.

“If they escape, we cannot bury them properly.”

“Well, don’t let them escape.”

He nodded to her words, satisfied, and Gilda appreciated the lack of complaints as she looked at the other.

“We searched the ruins, Lady Gilda.” The white and gray griffon with a combined armor of plates, chain mail and ragged, muddy silk said. “Master Godwin can attest to that. No one found the white tom, Gavingkal’s thrall. We did find the Loremaster, though. And all the worms, dead and dissolving, I guess. The entire room thawed and inundated the corridor. It was a disgusting mess. Now the ruins are mostly safe after we killed the remaining monsters. But we’re still finding villagers hiding everywhere.”

“Ask them to surrender once, and if they don’t, put them down. And find Goving. I don’t want to wake up one night with that creep leering over me.”

“Can we try to help Goving, Miss Gilda?” Grunhilda mewled, sitting next to Godwin and pulling her wing like an infant. Once eyes were on her, she joined her paws and begged. “Please?”

Gilda kicked herself for not ending that smarmy little dweeb properly. Then she wouldn’t have had to deal with Grunhilda. There was also the fact that Lady Geena had asked her to kill him and solve her family issues for her. She should have told Grunhilda ‘no’. That it was dangerous, and that Goving was probably too much of a lost cause. But then again, so was she, and so was Grunhilda.

Gilda massaged her brow and sighed, again donning the mantle of Mother Hen of Lost Griffon Causes. “He has one chance. If they find him and can capture him. The moment I feel he is dangerous to me, you, or anyone, I am sending him through the Stormy Eyrie express.”

Grunhilda’s happy squeal didn’t match the lugubrious morning in that cursed village, the other griffons' somber acknowledgement of Gilda’s orders, or the funeral rites. Nobody complained, though, of just a little happiness and hope. Truth be told, Gilda wondered what the Harpy thought of the whole situation with Goving, his mother and the fact that Grunhilda was his cousin, also a thrall. It lent some credence to Gavingkal’s dying words, but Gilda had little time to ponder.

Grunhilda’s whining groan distracted Gilda from her lordly vibrations while she watched the others leaving to follow her commands. “I don’t like not doing anything while everyone is working, Miss Gilda.”

That sounded right. Grunhilda enjoyed doing things, even if it was because it made her feel useful to her master. However, Gilda didn’t want Grunhilda running around, focused on something and putting herself in danger in that place. Fortunately, she was also very naïve and prone to being persuaded.

“I understand, Grunhilda, but you’re not doing nothing. You’re escorting me. This is a dangerous place. You don’t want some random malcontent to jump at me when I’m busy talking to griffons, do you?”

Grunhilda gasped loudly, comically shocked, and then shook her head eagerly. “No! I’ll keep all the bad griffons away from you!”

“Great.” Gilda grinned at her, even if she was so tired. “Let’s see how Gia is doing.”

The pair went about the place, doing their best to look like they knew what they were doing, on an inspecting tour of the works, walking past burning piles of deceased monstrosities or dead locals. Some griffons, usually the younger ones, kept to singing the funeral rites and left the dirty work for the more callous ones. On and on, with no end in sight, the funeral works didn’t seem to stop. Gilda’s cats took care of business with efficiency and a good measure of fear of what might happen if they dallied. Good enough for Gilda: the sooner they left that place, the better.

Gevorg—a griffon who knew what he was doing—had set up a reasonably clean and safe spot for the injured to rest inside one of the less dilapidated houses. Gilda went there to make sure things proceeded without incident. It was a mansion by the fields. It had a grand but rustic entry hall on the other side of a battered door, barely left standing on its hinges. Inside, the hearth burned with fresh wood from the forest and several griffons occupied leather beddings, barely leaving any uncovered floor. Someone had boarded up the access to the connecting rooms and wings, a precaution Gilda considered smart, but the access to the cellar was open with a pair of griffons standing guard.

Injuries ranged from punctures to bruises, cuts and lacerations. It was the usual stuff Gilda had already gotten used to seeing when griffons swung around metal sticks and balls with murderous intent. The freeze-rot was the worst, leaving behind gangrenous wounds surrounded by black-greenish tissue covered in foul-smelling frost.

It was not the permeating smell, though. That was burning ash, smokey and unobtrusive, burning in the hearth like the fire radiated a cleansing heat. To Gilda’s senses, Mother Harpy’s magic filled the air, not only in the burning ash, but in the greasy bandages laid on their wounds. Like the land itself had begun healing, the hall was an isle of salubrity amid the sickness. Most of the griffons in there slept deeply, while the others worked bandaging, setting bones, cleaning wounds. A young lady performed surgery on someone’s chest with minimal help, but things were getting better.

One of the caretaking griffons told Gilda the ‘Frostbound’ in need of healing were down below, where it was easier to control them if necessary. Considering the precaution wise, Gilda took the steps down, as she could not find Gia among the griffons from her company. She supposed their loremaster was busy with the near hopeless cases. She was almost proud. Walking down the stairs, the cold and stench of rot assaulted her, but it was not as bad as she had expected. Grunhilda gagged and twisted her beak, though.

It was a cellar with stone walls and illuminated by smokeless torches not to damage the planks in the ceiling. Many torches fought a losing battle against the darkness of the underground hall over lines of griffons in their improvised beds. The fire itself seemed diminished, missing its fierceness as the griffons in there. They coughed, cried, or thrashed about in their sleep while volunteers helped take care of them. Among them was Gia, and next to her was a clueless, very young and cute orange and yellow griffoness, barely an adult, watching Gia look over an unconscious older griffon.

With Gilda approaching, Gia raised her eyes from the injured griffon and cleaned her paws with a water pitcher and a towel the younger one offered her. “Since you’re here, let me have a look at you.”

Gilda stopped immediately and sat before Gia, raising her head like a soldier for inspection. At a second thought, she chastised herself, but remained still while Gia touched, prodded, and poked. She did her best to not to grimace every time something hurt, though.

“Yeah. You have a couple of broken ribs and burned feathers on your wings and chest. They also stabbed you a few times. You’re only not bleeding to death somewhere because of the magical stuff you got. They skimmed the damage away from your organs and stopped the bleeding.” Gia said, before holding Gilda’s paw for her to see the dirty, bloody sores. “Magical burn on top of traditional burns. How did you manage this?”

Gilda shrugged. “I suppose it is from yanking a dagger from a unicorn. I then tried to hold Tempest Shadow by her armor, and it was searing hot. Sheesh.”

“You shouldn’t be walking around without proper bandaging unless you want to lose your paws to infection. Much less in this filthy place. Especially in this cursed place. Even the walls look diseased.” Gia chastised her before pulling up Gilda’s paws and looking down at her undercarriage. Despite Gilda’s complaint, Gia stared at her again. “A few bruises and cuts that your magical jewels kept under control. I will not be touching you there, so ask your girlfriend to tell you if she feels any bumps or nodules on you.”

Gilda covered herself with her wing and glared at Gia while she talked and cleaned the burns. The water and the soap burned, but it was nothing Gilda couldn’t withstand. “There is not much we can do, anyway. I suppose your fancy magical bling will have to help you against any infections.”

While she talked, Gia bandaged Gilda’s paws with a white-green balm smelling of citrus. It too stung for a while, but Gilda would not give the other the satisfaction of hearing her complain and Gia was giving her a list of instructions she paid no heed to. Then Gia turned her attention back to the griffon on the ground.

He looked like a veteran of an older campaign. He had settled down in the small farming town to take care of his little parcel of land while waiting for Mother Harpy to call him to the Stormy Eyrie. His stony gray brow shone with sweat and restless muscles kept clenching his paws. He mumbled gibberish words in his sleep and his eyes jittered restlessly behind his eyelids. The remains of a once glimmering chain mail and a nosed helmet stood by his side. Not only the fighting had ruined it, but the creeping cold rot had claimed it too. No shine remained, and the metal had become brittle. It was a rot, not unlike rust, but cold and seeping malevolence like a reek. The Windigo’s magic sickened the metal as much as it did the flesh. His chest and shoulders showed blackened bruises and a frost that clung to his feathers. The side of his stomach had a deep, bloody cut.

“Will he be alright?” Gilda sat by the griffon while Grunhilda kept staring at him with growing distress.

Gia murmured a non-committing response Gilda couldn’t quite understand while she kept her paw hovering by the gash on the griffon’s flank. It took Gilda an embarrassingly long time before she noticed the bloodied scalpel and shaving razor nearby and that Gia herself had opened the wound on his stomach. Before she could ask what the green loremaster was doing, a gush of blood leaped out of the wound. It was the only way Gilda’s tired mind could explain what she had seen. A blood-covered snake coiled around Gia’s arm, staring at her with beady eyes on a blunt head like a worm. Sharp teeth let slide a forked tongue when it talked.

“Multiple rib fractures, punctured and bruised left lung, severe blood loss, hemothorax, infected external wounds, and a dangerously intense infection of the blood. Ruptured intestines and external infections facilitated by the necromantic nature of his wounds.” The thing spoke to Gia, hissing through his words and with a surprisingly smooth voice. “Advanced age. There is a severe risk of death. His heart will fail under the septic shock and blood loss. The effect of the necromancy on his soul cannot be ascertained.”

“I know, genius.” Gia growled at the snake. “I need some insight on how to cure him!”

“The disease is heavily based on magic; however, it is also much more mundane. Sepsis quickly claims his body and abnormal clotting, cellular debris, and damage to the organ’s structure have diminished blood flow within his liver. He needs surgery as much as he needs powerful healing magic.”

Gilda kept her shock at bay for long enough to remember the gift Madam Gelinda had given Gia, and kept her beak shut so as not to disturb them. Grunhilda seemed more amused than shocked, curiously.

“Wait. No parasite?” Gilda asked.

“He is from Frozenlake. I brought him down here because the smell from his wounds was disturbing the other griffons upstairs.”

“So?”

“What?”

“You’re not doing anything to help him.”

“I don’t think she knows how to,” the young griffoness assisting Gia complained like Gilda was the manager at a store.

“You’re not doing much either,” Gilda snapped back at her.

Gia groaned. “Fine! I don’t know what to do. I was never particularly good at the healing stuff. You better get Lady Geena here, or something. There are way too many griffons that are just too injured and way past my skills, even with help from the local healers. And that without the Windigos’ magic doing creepy things.”

“What? No! He is going to die!” Gilda held Gia by the gorget of her leather armor and pulled when she tried to stand. “You can’t just give up! There is no time to get Geena here, and this is your responsibility!”

“She is correct,” the blood snake added matter-of-factly.

Gia’s expression turned to her usual disinterested blank, but Gilda shook it out of her. A couple of griffons who were busy helping stopped working, drawn to the commotion, but said nothing. Gia’s assistant also said nothing, because the anger etched in Gilda’s face gave her pause. Even Grunhilda took a step back.

“This griffon needs help!” Finally, a dry slap to the face drew Gia out of her indifference. “You can tell me you can’t save a griffon because their injuries are too grievous. You can even tell me you don’t want to treat them because you don’t like them. But I’ll flatten your beak if you ever tell me again that you can’t be bothered to try!”

Gia refused to stare her in the eyes, much less show any response.

“The reason you’re traveling with me is that Lady Gwendolen summoned you back to Griffindell after the stunt you tried to pull back in Thunderpeak. Remember that? You are not in a good place right now and can’t just abandon your duty because it is too hard! And most certainly not while my griffons are involved in this mess! You are our Loremaster. You are working for me!”

“What are you even talking about?” Gia complained, pulling but failing to free herself.

“I don’t think you understand how bad your situation is.” Gilda pulled her closer and spoke in a more personal tone. “I don’t even know why I care so much, to be honest. But this griffon deserves that you try your best. Even if you fail. And not just because of him… I will not let you give up.”

How much of a clue did a griffon need? Madam Gelinda had already explained it thoroughly during the festival. Gilda’s voice turned grave.

“I would rather not find out what the Harpy does to bad griffons,” she finally said and shoved Gia back. “Griffons that betray her. You are a loremaster, and you can’t go back on that.”

A moment of silent awkwardness extended itself. Most griffons believed the Harpy lived in the Stormy Eyrie. It was a weird rationalization since the Windigos had destroyed the place, and that was common knowledge. Others believed she lived inside their hearts, or their heads. Gilda was a privileged one to understand Lady Gwendolen was the Harpy. Gia lived in an ignorant bliss where she didn’t believe the Harpy existed and was only a manipulation tool invented by Lady Gwendolen.

To be fair, that was exactly what the Harpy did to Celestia all those years ago, but that was not the point. If a griffon could be dense, Gia was denser still. And if a griffon could be dumb, Gia had also found a way to be dumber. Gilda waited to see her getting to work, just to be sure she would not let that guy die because it was easier or something. But most of all, because Mother Harpy would not forgive her if she did.

While Gia processed what Gilda had just told her, another griffoness trotted down the stairs and beelined toward Gilda. A northerner on the larger side, one of those that seemed made for the eternal winter, covered in shades of gray, quality ring mail and blue silks. The latter was torn, bloodied and muddy, and certainly not just for show. Neither was the battered shield on her back, along with the flanged mace showing a couple of dents. That thing looked vicious.

In true northerner fashion, she didn’t bother with formalities and just fixed her blue eyes on Gilda, despite her respectful tone. “Lady Gilda, you must see to the loot before someone has ideas.”

Gilda nodded at her, cast one last glare at Gia, and then turned to the junior assistant. “Call me if she tries to shirk her duty again.”

With those words, not bothering to see if the other had acknowledged her order, or dignifying Gia’s outraged gasp, Gilda followed the armored griffoness. She led Gilda up the stairs, out of the house, and across the street to another husk of a house. It used to be a store, judging by the wide hall and excess of shelves. What remained of the broken ones and a ruined counter were burning in a stone oven.

A congregation of some twenty griffons had gathered there, and in the middle of the lot was a paltry pile of loot under stern glares. It was not like they didn’t trust each other, but griffons were griffons and coming up on top was the point of the Game of Griffons. Gilda was the referee for that match.

Fair enough, it fit the ‘noble griffon lady’ job description and convinced her not to just wing it.

Someone had gracefully cleaned it all, and hopefully someone monitored them while they did. It was such a pathetic gathering of valuable weapons, armor and accessories, Gilda was sure whoever cleaned it all had walked away with something under their wings.

A young tom, about as young as Godwin, watched over the pile. They both took after the griffoness that had fetched Gilda, and the others kept a respectful distance—out of paw’s reach so they could not be accused of yoinking something out of the pile. Gavingkal’s shield and axe stood out, supported against the pile. The other items which stood out were the strangely shaped plates Gilda recognized as being loot from the ponies.

“Can this pony stuff be adapted?” Gilda asked the pile, expecting one of the present griffons to answer.

Surprisingly, it was Grunhilda who answered. “It can be. They forge their magical alloys differently from the Astrani steel. They can be reshaped, and their charms recast.”

No one said otherwise while Gilda examined the pile and tried to decide what to do with those things. A flash of torchlight caught her eyes among the steel. A dagger. To her eyes, the whole pile gleamed with magic. The petite selection of Astrani craft shone softly, but with the searing white of lightning and the pony-forged steel glowed like the afternoon sun. And among the latter, a dagger shone with the might of griffon magic.

It was what all daggers were: a sharp knife, double-edged and straight, with a handle of light tan leather. It lacked any particular characteristics, such as decoration, which added to the purely utilitarian make. Not even the pommel displayed the overplayed pony decorations. Not even gemstones, or a particular shape that even the griffons put on their weapons and tools. But it called to her, like something in it recognized Gilda among all those griffons, and only she could notice it.

The mechanics of how that worked escaped her, but she didn’t care. She reached and grabbed the weapon. It was her right, anyway. Someone had, indeed, cleaned it, but the leather still emanated a combination of coppery and sweet only to be found in the blood of ponies. A smile pulled her beak at the recognition, but she had nowhere to sheath it in or stash it away, so she gave it to Grunhilda and nobody complained.

“Well, any surplus was supposed to go to Lady Geena and her mate, but I don’t think there will be a lot,” she said. “Get the others that earned something to grab something from the hoard. Just get everyone to understand there was not a lot to begin with.”

A pause let her think for a couple of seconds and the last thing she needed was a bunch of angry griffons fighting over loot. The local jerks dealt with Windigo magic more than with decent weapons; even that was their fault. Regardless, telling griffons to share or not to be greedy was pointless.

“I’m going to tell Lady Geena that a financial compensation would be appreciated because of how little loot turned out. So, nobody needs to fight over this crap.” Then she grinned like the predator she was. “I will also put in a nice word or two about you cats with the Allmother.”

Her words waved the tension in the air and, as she turned to leave with Grunhilda, the griffoness who had fetched her spoke. “Ma’am, you killed Gavingkal. You’re entitled to the first pick of his shield, ax, and armor. They are of exceptional quality, even if the rest is acceptable at best.”

The only reason Gilda even knew how to use Mythical was that it was included in the Swordmaiden deal, but it put her above that stuff. The shield would just get in her way, and the armor was too heavy. She had her own cape and Gavingkal’s was just tacky. The pistol… Gilda’s experience at the festival taught her never to touch a gun again. The dagger was all she wanted, missing what remained of Tempest Shadow’s horn and a nice purple rug.

“I’m not interested”, Gilda said drily, before she remembered something. “Did anyone find Tempest Shadow?”

The only responses she got were frowns, twisted beaks, avoiding eyes, and a braindead ‘uuuh’ for half of a dozen seconds before an older tom walked forward from the group. He was a nightingale-blue, covered in rich shades of cerulean that went from the cyan in his head to a vivid sapphire in his chest. He didn’t wear any armor, but the bruised feathers and limp told Gilda he had taken part in the fight.

“I sent scouts out into the forest to find the ‘frostsworn’, Lady Gilda. One of my griffons glimpsed the mare escaping but could not catch up to her. She teleported away when she realized they had found her.”

“I want guards.” Gilda’s expression twisted with anger. “I don’t want to wake up next to my thrall and find out a sore loser grassbreath stabbed her.”

The griffon nodded and said he would take care of it, but Gilda waved his words away. “No. Get griffons to find any traitorous dweebs still hiding in this dump and locate the grassbreath if you can. I’ll get Gertha and Gevorg to deal with my security. I don’t even know you, dude.”

The griffon took her comment with dignity and simply agreed while Gilda led Grunhilda outside. Speaking of Gertha, she was waiting outside, sitting on the porch. She was startled at seeing Gilda’s tempestuous expression walking out of the house and the sitting griffoness raised a paw from the wood.

Gilda restrained herself and took a small breath in. “What’s up?”

Gertha stared at the floor. “We’re ready. You know, for Gunner’s funeral.”

It was cold enough outside, but her words hit Gilda like a bucket of chilled water on top of that. All the fiery thoughts drowned and froze, her angry grimace undid itself. “Alright. Thanks. Let’s see this through.”

All the griffons in Gilda’s company and rallied citizens from Frozenlake joined around the funeral pyre before the longhouse. All the work stopped, and the only ones not present were those too injured. Many of the survivors from the hamlet joined too. All of them kept a respectful distance of about twenty cubits, except for Gilda, her closest friends, and the ‘other Gunner’. The one that had survived. Gia didn’t join them; she’d better be saving that griffon’s life.

Gunner approached the pyre and deposited his friend’s halberd, a war hammer, and a shield on top of his covered body. Like it signaled the beginning of the ritual, several other offerings followed. They deposited all manners of weapons and Gilda wondered just how many knew the two Gunners. She recognized a couple that were guards from her caravan, southerner griffons too, and even a couple of guards from Frozenlake. How many actually knew him, or just wanted to send a fellow griffon on his way, was not important. Only that they made the offerings and performed the rites correctly. It was his right as a Child of the Harpy.

Gertha gave Gunner a lit torch. It was a fancy one, with an iron holder and a bright, fiery flame. They had probably coated it with something, a pleasant touch for a painful goodbye that should not be happening. Once the flames touched the oil-coated linen covering the body, they took over in a burst of heat before he tossed the torch at the flaming pyre. The singing began right away, melancholic even if it was as solemn as it was back in the Astrani mine. An atmosphere of defeat within their victory sullied Gilda’s mood. This time there was no vision of a beautiful place, and whatever those ruins used to be was lost to time. It was probably better this way, given what had taken residence and drawn Gavingkal’s greed.

Gilda and Gertha sat next to Gunner, and the latter rested a paw on his shoulder. His eyes reflected the flames at Gilda like a dancing sprite making fun of her pyrrhic victory. And when the singing stopped, the sheets had undone themselves in the flames, and the body became indistinguishable from the flaming pyre. The pillar of smoke had joined the others into the clouds.

Gunner looked at Gilda. “You could have saved him.”

She looked away and at her feet while Gertha gasped. The first impulse was to snap at him. To tell him to shut up, but Gilda kept her beak shut. She wanted to tell him she could not, but she also refrained from that impulse. Finally, she opened her beak to say it was his own fault he got captured and got in that situation, but she shut it once again. She wanted to tell Mother Harpy to fix that, but She would not listen, and Ghadah’s memories, and those of a thousand Loremasters gave her no easy way to fix that.

“That was out of line, Gunner.” Gevorg told him. Not angrily, or threatening, but softly. “Uncalled for. It was not Gilda’s fault. If it was not for her, we would all be dead.”

“I’m sorry.” Gilda finally said. “It happened too fast. I didn’t even know I could break out of the unicorn’s spell. I am really sorry… If I could, I would have saved him. Now, this is the best I can do. Say that I’m sorry. And even I think it is not enough.”

“I apologize.” Gunner responded, looking at her, even if it looked like he didn’t. “I’m just sad. I’ll get over it.”

“Some work ought to do you good,” Gevorg offered. “There is a lot. But if you gotta be angry at someone, be angry at the ponies. They had no business being here other than hunting Gilda and Grunhilda. It should have ended with Gavingkal’s defeat.”

“Don’t worry.” Gunner spoke gravely. “I’m fine.”

He walked away. And one thing Gilda’s ancient memories could tell her was that ‘fine’ was not good enough. When griffons said they were fine, it meant everything sucked, and they were trying to cope. But how to follow that? How to fix that? Only time could. Gilda had no argument against that. Even if it was nothing new, death was still not so common to her. She felt lost in a limbo between understanding and ignorance.

Gertha had a panicked little distressed expression, letting her beak hang, looking back and forth between Gilda and Gunner before she grimaced at Gilda and stumbled on the words. “I’ll try to talk to him.”

She nervously held Gilda’s gaze for a couple of seconds, as though she wanted to say something, but did not. She hurried after Gunner and Gevorg, leaving Gilda with Godwin and Grunhilda, all three of them not knowing what to do, other than stare at the fire and wish it took it all away. But Gilda knew it was worse for her, because she could hear their laughter mocking her in the crackling of the fire.