I

At dusk, the Gryphan Hawkeye would stretch his short wings and arms before asking us, “Well, what about it?”

Blitz and I would in turn say, “All right.”

The other Gryphan, Titus, who was considerably larger than his friend, would light a small lamp using a fire-augmented piece of magemicite (no doubt former ammunition) and brought out a pack of Equestrian playing cards, which by the looks of them, seemed to be vintage and very worn-out. He would set up the table, at which point Lieutenant Pezuña, our commanding officer, would always walk in.

The lieutenant was an earth-pony stallion ten years my elder. When he wasn’t actively playing cards with us, he would “supervise” the games like a referee. Often, he would get angry at Blitz and I for our lack of playing prowess, but it was Hawkeye's playing strategies that he seemed to have the most issue with. It was because of this that Pezuña would shout at the prisoner as if he was part of our unit: "Ah, ya’ winged devil! Why’d you play that hand?”

Blitz and I used to make fun of the lieutenant’s broad Appleloosan accent because we were both city dwellers, myself hailing from Canterlot and Blitz from Cloudsdale. That stopped soon as he proved more than capable of using his revolver.

Ordinarily, Pezuña was contented fellow, much like the big Gryphan. It was because of this that he was looked up to by the younger troops. That, and his experience. He’d served almost sixteen years in that wretched wall between Equestria and the Blackland marshes, and nearly fifteen before that as a sheriff in Appleloosa.

Pezuña still loved his home, which is probably why he wore a straw cowpony hat, a red neckerchief, and a plain crimson shell-coat jacket. The thing about Pezuña was that you seldom saw him without his hat and neckerchief, which doubled as a mouth cover when the weather got exceptionally cold. When you asked him about the rather moot nature of the neckerchief when more adequate mouth-covers could be requested from the commissary, he would grow flustered, almost as if you’d just insulted his honor. At the mention of his honor however, he would look down at his big hooves, almost as if ashamed of something.

As I gazed at the two Gryphans, I noted how they played their cards without much of a care. This reminded me of a rather pressing matter: how I couldn’t see the point of us “guarding” them at all. You could have literally planted that pair down anywhere from here to Canterlot and they'd have taken root like native weeds.

In truth, the pair had been passed down to us by a group of Gryphos loyalist working alongside our units as they quelled the rebellion. They had warned us that the Gryphan separatist were nothing more than “evil fanatics out to tear Gryphos apart.” Yet, just by speaking with Titus and Hawkeye, I could tell the warning was more propaganda than fact. It was because of this that Blitz and I, being by far the youngest and most “inexperienced” of the troops (I was eighteen, the next youngest was Blitz, who was nineteen) ”volunteered” to take the pair in the hopes of getting some of the real story from them.

It hadn’t been easy at first, as Hawkeye had made us look like fools by not only reciting the Equestrian Constitution, but also listing various obscure laws that made me reach for a law book. Once we got past that small hurdle, the two Gryphans opened up, and in the expanse of a month, became almost like comrades at arms.

“Hey, Bonaparte,” Hawkeye said to me. “I’ve heard fair bit about you from Pezuña here.” He points to Pezuña, who merely rolls his eyes. “He says you’re the best shot around these parts.”

“Ah’ said ‘e wuz a ‘good’ shot, not th’ ‘best’,” old Pezuña said, his tone growing somewhat annoyed. “Get yer facts straight there, Gryphan. Ahm th’ best shot ‘round these here parts.”

“Sorry old timer,” Hawkeye said as he put down his cards. “Full house.”

Pezuña looked on at the Gryphan’s hand, seemingly lost for words. He scoffed and put down his cards facing down. “Ah’ fold.” He turned to look at Blitz and myself with narrowed eyes, as if telling us to not lose to the griffon.

I looked down at my own hand; a single pair of kings. I shook my head and put down my cards. No need to say a word.

Blitz looked at his cards before groaning, his wings flaring slightly. “Dammit, no good!” he put his own cards down. “I fold too.”

Pezuña let out a deep sigh as he sat back on his chair, looking very much disappointed at us both.

Hawkeye looked around and found himself smiling quite broadly, only giving his fellow griffon an inquisitive look.

For his part, Titus remained very stoic, not a single hint on his face that could show just what his hand held.

Hawkeye gave a slight chuckle as he moved to claim his prize: a pile of cigarettes and a bottle of hard cider. Just then, Titus placed a hand over Hawkin’s and smiled rather wickedly. He then revealed his cards to be four aces. He never said a single word, but the message was very clear: ‘I’ve won the draw.’

Hawkeye’s face shifted, becoming quite upset. He put his cards down and seemed just about ready to stand up and walk away. Then, his frown slowly turned to a smile. He retreated, motioning Titus to claim his prizes.

Titus didn’t waste time. He reached into the pile and plucked out a small cigarette. He placed it on his beak and looked at me. Again, the message was clear: ‘Would you mind?’

I lit up my horn and created a small fireball, which I carefully floated near Titus’ cigar before I willed it out of existence.

After Titus took the first drag, he reached for the bottle of hard cider and tossed it to Hawkeye, who caught it with a smile. He popped the cork open with his beak and downed a rather big gulp.

“It’s not for anything,” he started, “but you Equestrians know how to make your Cider.” He laughed at this, one that Titus seemed just about ready to return, but instead opted to keep to himself.

Titus and Hawkeye were unique prisoners in many ways. While the pair were indeed rebels—and therefore traitors to both Gryphos and Equestria, guilty of various “war crimes” by default, and very much liable to be executed on sight should they cross any other soldier’s path—they were unnaturally lax. The pair had no desire to go back to the Separatists it seemed, and had no desire to cause anypony harm. They were very different from the other Gryphan separatists we had fought, who, while not quite reveling in carnage and warfare, seemed quite content to cause them.

After the first couple of weeks under our care, we gave up all pretense of keeping a critical eye on the pair. Even if they attempted to escape, the nearest town was almost fifty miles to the south, past a massive bog that could claim even the most prepared soul. The constant blizzards made flying all but impossible, not to mention getting past the barricades and patrols both on the ground and the clouds.

All of this proved moot however; as I quickly have come to believe that the pair had no idea of escaping, and were in fact quite content to be where they were. I noted this when Titus had opened up to the young mare whose house we were using as temporary quarters.

Her name was Rosovyy. She was a headstrong earth pony who had a no-nonsense attitude and was quite cranky to boot. I knew this from her first reaction to us “invading” her home.

It had been a rather cold day, and we’d just separated from the main group, who moved ahead to secure a small settlement. We had wandered in the cold snow for a few hours before we had come across the rather gloomy looking farm. There, on the frozen fields had been the young mare, her body covered in a rather warm looking coat of what looked like a bear pelt.

We approached her home cautiously, aware that the locals didn’t hold Equestrians and Gryphans in the best of lights. It was for that reason that her reaction to us had been to grab her hoof-axe and shout at us to leave or she would “crack our skulls open.”

Thankfully, before she even had a chance to carry out her rather macabre threat, Titus had made her his “Very Best Friend for Life” by first standing up to her, catching the axe swing she tossed his way, and then apologizing in a rather amicable tone that seemed to be unfitting of such a large griffon. After a few more words were exchanged, and our situation was revealed to her, she agreed to let us “borrow” her land, but not her home.

So, for the next five days, Titus, Hawkeye, Blitz, Pezuña, and myself all had slept in a flimsy tent. The cold of each night had forced all of us to forget about both ideologies and gender, and huddle up for warmth.

Our luck changed on the sixth day. This happened a little past noon. Rosovyy had been hacking at a few old dead trees in an attempt at getting rid of them with little success when Titus, who had been playing cards with us, had suddenly stood up, walked up to the young mare, and demonstrating chivalry most of the ponies outside of Canterlot’s elite circle had, offered his aid with a bow and a “tip” of his metaphorical hat. He had then cracked his knuckles and started to shred the dead foliage with his bare claws, ripping wood asunder as if it were butter. It had been a bit unnerving to see, obviously.

For her part, the young mare had been very surprised—shocked even—to speak at all. The gesture worked however, as soon after, she told us to get inside her home before we all became popsicles. After that day, Titus would be at Rosovyy’s heels, carrying buckets or baskets or cut-up logs anywhere she went. As Hawkeye told us later, Titus was the sort of griffon to go leaping before looking. This was clear by how it seemed like Titus was seeking outside companionship that didn’t involve claws or beaks. He was fortunate that Rosovyy seemed willing to accept the fact that he was both a griffon and an ex-separatists, seemingly taking a strong liking to him and his “strong silent ways.”

I actually got to thinking as I recalled how we got an abode. Just how long it would be before Titus settled to a new life with the young mare? It was a thought I found somewhat hard to believe, since for such a huge griffon, Titus had an uncommon lack of speech, Hawkeye literally being the one to speak on his behalf most of the time. It took us a little while to get used to him just walking in and out of the house like a ghost, never once saying a single word.

Hawkeye on the other hoof, talked enough for an entire platoon, and then some. This made it the more startling (scary almost) when Titus would come out with a solitary “excuse me,” or “that's right” whenever any of us would talk. It seemed like his passions were cards and Rosovyy; Cards, as proven by his many victories. Rosovyy because, well, that one was pretty self-explanatory.

Hawkeye and Blitz started to argue about ideologies again. Hawkeye always worried the life out of Blitz, who had a very strong set of beliefs about the princess and her role in keeping the world in balance. This wasn’t helped much by Hawkeye, who had a very deplorable tongue. Truth be told, I’ve never met anyone who could mix such a variety of cursing and bad language into any argument and still have it make sense. This actually went well with his personality, which was the polar opposite of Titus’.

Hawkeye was a terrible individual, and a fright to argue against. He never did a stroke of work around the house we currently occupied, and when he had no one else to argue with, he got stuck arguing with Rosovyy. He met his match in her, for when he tried to get her to complain profanely of the snowstorms, she gave him a great comedown by blaming it entirely on some obscure deity from the Age of Legend (a deity neither Hawkeye nor I had ever heard of, though Blitz said that among the Hyperborians, it was believed that he had something to do with the rain).

Another day, he was swearing at the Gryphans for starting the griffon-equestrian war some fifty years earlier when the young mare laid down her iron, puckered up her little rosy mouth and turned to face him, fire in her eyes.

“Mr. Hawkeye, you can say what you like about the war. You can think you'll deceive me because I'm only a simple country pony, and you can think I’ll just eat up whatever nonsense your separatists buddies push. But know that I know what started the war between ponies and griffons fifty years ago: It was the Count of Saddle Arabia, who stole the heathen divinity out of the temple of Neighpon, beating back dozens of trained Quilin honor guards in the process. Believe me, Mr. Hawkeye, nothing but sorrow and can follow anyone who disturbs the hidden powers.”

Of course, she might've had a point if any of that had actually happened.

She was a strange young mare, all right...    

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