Feyspeak

by WritingSpirit

Larynx

Gryphon.

Griffin.

Griffon.

Never could the world agree on the spelling. He himself preferred the autochthonous 'gryphon', notwithstanding his fellow ponies' reference to them as 'griffons', for he found it somewhat derogatory. The variant of 'gryphon' provides them with a much-needed sophistication, acknowledging their long and proud history of being resilient warriors. There was an old saying that to fight a gryphon is to declare war on its flock, for the temper of the gryphon was infamous for its volatility. One can say with certainty that somewhere in this world, some fool had ruffled a gryphon's feathers merely because their eyes crossed paths. He pitied said fool for their belligerence.

That's not to say that they were any better.

Pillagers, barbarians, plunderers, looters, bandits, marauders, warmongers, vandals; all of them synonymous with the gryphon heritage. He'd ask himself over and over: how many towns had they razed and ruined? How many stallions had they lynched and beheaded? How many mares had they raped and butchered? How many colts and fillies had they scalped alive, with their innards stringed together and their abdomens flayed open as they were left out to dry? How many more savageries must they commit before the black sun can show mercy to the rest of the world and swallow them where they stand?

The gryphons were a fouler sort of beast, perhaps more than mercy should be allowed to handle.

Surely, this one was no different.

"Do you belong with the company that perished outside?"

The gryphoness remained silent.

"Did you come here alone? Well? I hope to hear an answer."

Still, she remained stubbornly silent.

"I advise against testing me, gryphon," he snarled. "You are to answer my questions or you would join your kin in rotting here."

Her sentience was evident, for she glowered at his words. Her intelligence irrefutable, for she raised her daggers higher, only to return them into their sheaths on her back instead. He held his stance nevertheless, even as she hopped onto the balcony and leaped down onto the marble ground, her gyrfalcon plumage riffling in a streaking white. Both firmly stood their ground, waiting for the other to strike, and for a long time, all one could hear was their breathing amid the cavern's draft. Their eyes were stern and steady, not daring to blink lest the other should seize the opportunity. Finally, the gryphoness's patience wore thin, as the magician expected it to, and she soon made the first move, albeit one he had not seen coming.

"Th'murgan,"

Some part of him shivered when that word ran up his spine. Try as he might, he could not suppress his gasp, which only served to widen the smirk beginning to form on her beak. His horn sparked and flickered, his gaze sharpening as he took his first careful step forward, only to halt when she spoke once again.

"I thought I recognized you. You have aged some."

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"No one you would know."

"And yet you claim to recognize me?"

"You've a reputation," so she claims. "I know fully well who you were, who you once answered to and what you had done in the final days before the coming of the black sun. I've heard of the endeavors you've committed in your expedition southbound. I've heard perhaps more than most would ever hear in their lifetime. You, the irredeemable, the irrefragable—"

"You know not that of which you speak—"

"The Last Thaumaturge."

The magician flinched, his breath warbling before that grin.

That insufferable, indomitable grin.

"I am no thaumaturge. I never was."

"Many would say otherwise."

"Those 'many' do not fathom the principles of thaumaturgy. They would appertain mere parlor tricks to the same standards of the most complex of arcane adage if it pleases them. They are mere gainsayers who would stand by their cockeyed comparisons despite the impugnments of the academe. They would exscind wisdom on behalf of their indiscernible mores. They are fools."

"These are not the fools that you speak of," the gryphoness contravened. "They have the insight most do not have, and they could and had unanimously agreed on who you are. You are the Last Thaumaturge: the only one remaining with a deft mind worthy of the most complex algorithms of Feyspeak. That is what they all believed."

"And what of it?" he fumed at all the nonsense. "What could you possibly extort from me?"

"I do not seek you, Th'murgan. I was merely acknowledging you."

He could only retch at that. How savage can the gryphon mind be? How dishonorably inferior are the practices of common courtesy within the apiary? That? To call that 'acknowledgment'? Oh, he could not even begin to fathom the extent of their ignominy were it to be the case! He wouldn't even dare to, lest his head burns up in rage! With a nicker, he waved the energies off his horn, his glare fixated on the gryphoness even as he trotted back to the altar.

"If you have nothing else to say, I suggest you leave me at peace. I have enough troubles as it is."

"The filly."

He turned back, before groaning out a sigh. "Yes, the filly."

"No, the filly," the gryphoness scowled. "She is the one I am seeking."

The magician stopped in his tracks. For the longest time, he stared at the gryphoness. He hoped to speak, but could find nothing to speak of. His horn was unconsciously lighting up again, though he quickly quelled it before the energies could swell. Cocking his head, all that met him was her firm gaze, akin to the gargoyles watching over them from the darkness above. Questions floated before him, though he could not comprehend an answer. All he could rely upon, unfortunately, was her.

"What do you gryphons need her for?"

Her wings ruffled for the first time.

"Your tone sickens me."

Laughter, boisterous and stunning, flew from his mouth.

"Do you wish to answer my question? Or do you perchance prefer I amend my mistake of allowing you to stand before me?"

"I'd much prefer you amend the mistake of letting a filly starve herself to such a sorry state."

The magician wrinkled his snout.

"She was already malnourished by the time I met her. She never spoke of it in the little time I was with her."

"And yet you never made any attempts to notice it." the gryphon stepped forward, her accusatory talon pointed right at him. "She may not have spoken about it because she knew it would trouble you. Your oversight only aided her suffering. You may have the acuity for the arcane vernacular, though you sorely lack it when it comes to keeping those around you alive."

Those words stung, and they stung deep in places he had believed should've been numb to such treatment by now. The words had shaken him, so much so that he couldn't even budge a hoof when the gryphoness strode past him and to the filly's side. By the time he could muster the confidence to turn around, she had set her blades down and was stroking the shivering filly's mane as she adorned her best smile.

"How frail you've become," she whispered into the filly's ear. "You have seen so much in so little time. You are a brave one, aren't you? They never said you would do this; they would never conceive it. For you to wander at such a young age, and to stumble upon the Last Thaumaturge, no less."

The winds hummed in place of his disgruntled silence, and they hummed for the longest time. The magician settled from across them, watching warily those sharp, glinting talons gently combing the filly's mane. Whatever the gryphons want from the filly was beyond his comprehension, though the prospect of it bore a great appeal. The filly would be better off under the stewardship of the gryphoness, suppose that said gryphoness genuinely cares about her. He would then be free to journey as he pleases.

And with all the hope swelling to his head, it came as no surprise to him that it ended abruptly when the gryphoness raised a question.

"Where are you two headed?"

Hesitance, albeit one easily corroded.

"Twinlight Glade."

"Too far," the gryphoness remarked coldly. "She would perish long before that."

"Then where do you suggest we head to? There is not a hamlet for miles."

"There is one."

The magician's frown twisted further.

"You don't mean to say..."

"Gloomshire."

"Gloomshire?" came his incensed hiss. "Gloomshire? That foul nest of savagery and miscreancy? That deranged settlement of collective barbarianism? Have you lost your mind? Do you know what they had done to the folks there? Do you not hear the stories arising from that dastardly place? Do you have any idea what bringing a filly like her into their midst would entail?"

"I know full well the dangers of Gloomshire as anyone else, perhaps more. However, I have a friend situated there, and he owes me a countless array of favors. More than most, he can help us with treating her ailments."

"Of course he can."

"He can," the gryphoness asserted strongly. "You need only trust me on this, I ask nothing more."

"And why should I trust you?" he questioned. "I know not of you and that which you seek from the filly. I know not of your intentions of keeping me alive. Goddesses beseech, I do not even know your name!"

"Gwendolyn. Gwendolyn's my name. I suppose common courtesy expects you to do the same, though I'd imagine you wouldn't nevertheless. Unless, of course, you're willing to prove me wrong."

Awe clamped his hanging jaw, for him to be bested by a gryphoness. With a most primal scowl, the magician huffed and turned away. Dust flew from around him as he set loose his nicker, his inaudible mumbles deliquescing from silence and cascading from his dry lips. How could this happen? Why would fate allow this to happen? Was there any end to his misfortune? As much as he'd like to implore whatever deities that linger among the darkness of this basilica, he knew better than to blabber on and on about the heretic beliefs of hope. He knew better, and so he faced her once again. Were he to turn around a little earlier, he would've spotted the gryphoness rolling her eyes; instead, he was treated to her talons roaming to and carefully stroking the filly sides, who seemed to be smiling and muttering from the depths of her slumber.

"Your name, Th'murgan?" Gwendolyn paused her ministrations, looking up to him. "May I know it?"

Cold eyes stared into hers, only to sway to the side.

"I do not know it myself."

A grimace.

"You jest."

"I'm afraid not," the magician sighed, beginning his confessional. "I had forced it out of my memory. It would be a liability, you see. It would expose those around me to dangers no one should never face. To brand my name upon thee is to imbue a curse upon thyself. Seeing as you know my history, it would not be beyond me to assume you would understand my reasoning."

"Pitiful, for it to be the truth. However, I fondly believe curses can be broken, Th'murgan, like how you believe the black sun will one day fade to white." She bore a most melancholic gaze, drawing away from his and diving up into the night. "Your name is no curse, I know that much. It is, in fact, a blessing of hope."

"Hope is but a lie."

"We live in a word of liars. You know full well of that, as much as you knew what this lie would entail, especially since it was to be the greatest lie of the world."

"The greatest lie in the world?"

"It was your name, they said. The name you were bestowed. The name you held near and dear until the day you left it behind. Your name, should it come to memory, would be the greatest lie ever told on this face of the earth should it be spoken."

"And they know of it how?" he questioned.

"Conjectures. They know not of the absolute."

The magician sighed at that prospect, settling himself back onto the altar. For the longest time, there was no sound, with Gwendolyn stroking the filly's back as she slept in silence. Herein comes the gryphoness's lullaby, invoking memories from the days of yore. He had heard it before, for it was a melancholic hymn native to the eastern mountains, popularized by Griorgair the Gleeful in his striking expeditions across the peaks. He remembered how the melody always rooted itself in his head, how it brought up emotions he had never felt before. In fact, he could even recall its name.

"Gossamer for the Vigilant."

Her glance befell upon him.

"You know of this hymn?"

"Distant recollection, yes."

"You remember the words?"

"A verse or two, perhaps. Nothing more."

She bestowed a grin with a glint in her eyes, persisting with nary a care for the chagrin he had presented to her. With a grumble, the magician cleared his parched throat, before his gravelly voice graced the sleeping filly and all those aimless souls wandering outside the forgotten basilica, never once letting them slip from his paean's embrace.

"Autumn's passing, grace our farewell
With brine and bouquet; the tranquil knell
With wine to allay before the gilded stele
A passing soul's final fears
A massing skoal to drink our tears

Gossamer for the vigilant, cockleburs for the wise
Sun, moon, star, at glorious highs
With braised wrasse and spirits of rye
As we dance, united before the broken skies
Before the lonely rise
Behold, our demise."

Silence applauded him, as did the gryphoness.

"Grim, the libretto, for it to be so celebratory of death," Gwendolyn remarked. "My kind never really admired life in the same manner, one could surmise. The talk of glory, of bloodshed and warfare, of relishing their ill-gotten gains eludes me. Griorgair the Gleeful... as much as I admired his work, I'm afraid I could not extend such sympathies to his traditional beliefs of life."

"You question the work of your own kind?"

"What is there not to question? I cannot find the beauty in it, no matter how hard I try."

"I find in it a beauty in relevance. A beauty that came with time."

"Death should not be beautiful," she spoke with damning certainty. "Death should not be revered and celebrated. Death has no place for my admiration, nor should it find its place in anyone else's."

There was a gravity when she uttered those words; he could only surmise that death was profuse throughout her life. Considering the daggers she wielded earlier, he was inclined to believe that she frequented being a harbinger of such. How strange must it be to comprehend this walking contradiction. Where many others like her embraced death like a welcome friend, she was visibly repulsed, if her incessant ruffling of her feathers would say as much. Intrigued, he opened his mouth to speak, only to stop himself short before the pained frown on her face.

"We should depart before the black morn," he opted instead. "If your... friend—" he remained cautious apropos of that word "—truly can help us, then it would be best to see that the filly gets the help she needs at the nearest second."

"You should rest. I shall keep watch."

Cynical as he ever was, the magician mustered every ounce of trust he could to nod at Gwendolyn's proposal. Even as he fluffed his saddlebags and propped them next to the sleeping filly's head, his gaze upon the gryphoness remained a watchful one. She never turned back, striding down the nave with her pair of daggers gracefully sliding from their sheaths and into her talons before she stopped in her tracks. Gracefully, she settled onto the ground, twin blades placed on either side with head hanging low and eyes closed. For as long as he watched, she remained still, never wavering from even the haunting howls of the cavern winds.

"Wh... who is she?"

The filly had stirred, if only for a moment. Her tired eyes had spotted Gwendolyn in the distance, though her frail voice seemingly failed to capture the gryphoness's attention. The magician could only cross his hooves, his brows furrowed in thought at the peculiarity before them. All he knew of Gwendolyn was her presence; he could feel it radiating and blossoming amid the darkness, entrenching into him a kind of gloom he had not seen before. With a grim sigh, he closed his eyes, providing to the filly the closest answer in which the lengths of his reason could perceive.

"A pariah."

---

"Brax'cem mer."

Once more, his hoof wrapped around its trembling form.

Once more, he was treated to the same deafening silence.

Once more, he ascertained he could remain content.

The shadow had wept prior to his arrival. It would never speak of it, though he certainly could not ignore the trail of dried tears branching down its cheeks. He knew not of how it came to be this way, but it whipped up a storm in his chest and ready to strike whomsoever foolish enough to commit this atrocity. Alas, there are times and places for such emotions, and he certainly would not want the shadow to be present before his tireless rage. No, this night, the shadow needs reprieve, and he was willing to carry its weight.

"I can't do this."

He turned upon hearing those words slip from her mouth.

"I can't do this."

Frailty before vitality.

"You need not panic," he offered his best assurances. "I know you will do fine."

"You don't know that."

"I don't, yet I do know you shall remain persistent, and you should remain as such. You'll find it eventually."

The shadow spoke no more, silenced perhaps by a moment of deep thought. He did the same, having been accustomed to serving silence whenever those moments arrive. His mouth may not move, but his head was gallivanting about, devising scenarios that he knew would never find themselves in the basis of this reality. He could formulate only a tight smile, viciously struggling to free himself from the fetters as his imagination tortured him with the looping of a simple phrase, playing over and over until he nearly sank to his knees and screamed it aloud to the skies.

"You could've found it in me!"

---

"Charming."

The magician had woken up a little earlier than expected, what with paranoia cramming itself in his head, not that it helped. Gwendolyn had long risen from where she knelt, as she was admiring the cracked frescoes on the crumbling walls that celebrated the antediluvian ideologies of unity and harmony, to which she provided the aforementioned remark in turn. He felt no need to respond, though he was certain his grimace spoke volumes on how he felt about the murals and how they were flaking, piece by piece falling with the passage of time.

"You seem to know this place."

"I do. It was an institute of learning as much as it was a place of worship." he sighed in fond rememberance. "It was grand in the days of yore, with polished marble and gilded doors. I recall my first visit was with my father when he had errands to run here and my mother thought it best for me to join him. I was a young colt then, and there were many young colts like me that lived here, eager to study the arcane arts, all yearning to learn the wonders of thaumaturgy. Oh, if they only knew how strict it would be."

"It must be a lively place."

"Yes, it certainly was."

And all that life, all the energy of a thousand colts running up and down this former haven, of laughter in abundance booming across the hallways— all of it was lost when the world began to burn. He could imagine the chaos that erupted here as it did everywhere else. He'd trust their teachers would uphold their responsibility as guardians and bring them back into the safe embrace of their kin, though the tales of their heroics were scarce. What he knew, however, was their method of escape.

"We shall move to the crypts," he urged. "There are a set of tunnels from there that lead back out into a nearby stone circle in a glade. I believe it will hasten our trip to Gloomshire, albeit not by a considerable margin."

"If it could save a life, I would do it."

The magician provided one of his firmer nods.

The shadows seemed to creep around them by the time they made their move. Gwendolyn had volunteered to carry the filly in her talons as he led the way, drifting between the pillars alongside him. She occasionally turned back at the sound of skittering and the scraping of wood, though the magician refused to bother, instead confidently striding down the hallways before stopping at a wall where an unlit torch sat in the center, alone within the darkness. Gently, he tugged on it with his magic, setting off a resounding groan of stone against stone, with dust showering the floor as the wall slid to the side. Before them rested a set of crumbling stairs, snaking down into a subterranean couloir.

With his whisper, there came another soft orb of light from his horn.

Wit that, came their first step forward.