The Tale of the Hippogriff

by OleGrayMane

The Storyteller Arrives

He stood, hesitating to cast the simple spell that would open the oaken doors to the great hall of the Unicorn Kingdom. What awaited within gave him pause, but he knew he must press on. First a breath—held and exhaled—then the doors eased open, and he entered.

Boisterous courtiers dressed in all manners of finery filled the banquet tables lining both sides of the hall, laughter illuminating their faces as they feasted on dishes sweet and savory. All day and into the night they drank and sang, their cheer and good humor brightening the drab stone walls, driving back winter’s winds.

The great doors shut, and not a single reveler turned their head. Not a soul saw the storyteller enter. He made his way unobserved to the front of the gathering, for it was there, before the remains of the fire, that the royal couple sat. From behind the shelter of his hooded cloak, he cast wary glances at the members of his tribe. His eyes wandered over their joyous faces. While his temperament had always been sober, his manner austere, he never shunned celebration, yet neither could he share in the night’s merriment.

Over the years, such fêtes had become the vanity of their kingdom, each outshining the opulence of those that came before. On this night, as on those prior, to hear their laughter made him bristle. No more than manufactured comfort, he thought, designed to conceal a multitude of failings from the world—and themselves.

The Unicorn tribe thought themselves the most learned, the most noble and wisest of all. A dubious claim. What lurked beneath the polished exterior they felt compelled to cultivate? What did such extravagance seek to mollify? What insatiable void did pleasure vainly beg to fill?

At last he reached the royal table at the front of the hall, and even though he stood close to an iron basket brimming with orange embers, a chill rattled through him, one no fire could remedy, no cloak could hold at bay. Despite his misgivings, he stood proud and reverent, his ceremonial staff beside him, and waited to be recognized. Propriety demanded no less. Still, the merrymaking continued to tax him, for he was old and his joints ached.

At the table before him sat the royal couple, surrounded by dignitaries. His Majesty lay face down in the evening’s first course, having hours ago succumbed to his love of strong and bitter ales. On his left sat the Queen, chattering over his immobile form with apparent indifference. Her laughter at an unheard anecdote dwindled, and with a flourish, she drained the golden goblet with which she’d been making careless gestures. She raised herself unsteadily. A servant slipped in to replenish her drink only to disappear like smoke.

The court quieted.

The storyteller grasped the corner of his cloak and bowed until his nose hovered no more than the thickness of a leaf above the flagstones. This grand gesture made his knees creak.

“Ah, my old, old friend,” the Queen declared while pressing her hoof solidly upon the table. She swayed, her hopes of ceasing the room’s distressing motion dashed, but soldiered on. “How shall we be entertained tonight? Comedy perchance? A hero embarking on a grand adventure?”

“No, Your Highness,” he said after rising. He signaled a page for a stool to rest upon.

“Must it be tragedy then?” She plopped into her seat and pouted.

“Neither is it that.”

Her face became a dark cloud. “Do not mock me, storyteller, for I grow weary.” She grabbed her refilled goblet, and half its contents vanished in a single draught.

“If I wished to mock, I would choose satire.”

Nervous laughter danced amongst the courtiers. The Queen glowered.

“Neither is tonight’s tale satire, M’lady. It is a story of great antiquity—a myth most certainly—situated long before the collaboration of the tribes was arrived upon. A tale of youth and discovery, loss and brave hearts, loyalty and love’s many forms. There are those who say it contains meaning, yet if indeed it does hold wisdom, I leave it to the divination of Your Highness to enlighten us.”

Her Highness’ goblet was empty again. Scowling, she held it aloft and shrieked, “Merrimead!” Her servant, a plump earth mare, reappeared and stretched uncomfortably to refill it.

“Let it at least contain some distant and exotic lands to amuse us.” The Queen slumped upon the table.

“Ah! That it does.” And with those words, the royal countenance brightened. “Yet it does not begin there, for its origin lies in the most humble of places.”

The Queen rolled her eyes. “Begin before your allotted time has been wasted telling us what your story is and is not.” She held her goblet with both hooves and pressed it tight to her lips.

In the flickering light, only those with the keenest vision might have spied the storyteller’s grin. He bowed to her most royal majesty and, in accordance with the dictate of his craft, rapped his staff upon the floor three times. As the sharp echoes died, an uncertain stillness descended.

He sat and began his tale.

Author's Note:

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❖ For Meridian Prime ❖

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For you, my friend, in the hope that one day your family will be reunited.

— OGM